Page 22 of The Southern Submission

“I don't trust your stamina. It looked like you were getting tired. I can do this for days. You’re so little it’s nothing.”

I scoff. “I know how to swim. I’m a grown woman.”

“You sure are,” he growls against my wet hair and I shake my head at him for being impossible.

“Don’t you dare do anything…” I begin, not sure what I’m threatening.

“Anything what, exactly?” he challenges. “Anything that makes you feel something more than you want to?”

“No,” I snap, pushing at his arm again with more force, but it just causes my legs to drop, our bodies aligning, andI feel him.His body is hard everywhere—chest against my shoulders, abs against my back, and finally, my ass presses directly into what I was trying to avoid, and oh my God, of course he’s hard there, too. And big.

I stop fighting and go rigid, which forces me tight to him. I want the water to swallow me now that I know what he feels like against me. I wish I never let him talk to me in the first place, never let the intrigue of knowing him lure me in at all. I bite my lip to keep the pitiful sound of failure from falling from my throat, sounding an awful lot like a moan. Because I want to feel even more of him now.

“Your heart is beating so fast. Are you excited or scared?” His words are soft against my ear, while his arm is tight where he still holds me against him.

“I’m angry.” We both know I’m lying by the breathiness of the words.

He easily turns me in his arms so we’re facing each other, and I’m blessedly released from his body. He lets me swim on my own again.

“Why do you want to hate me so much?” It’s a rare serious moment where he’s not smiling or poking fun at me. He seems to truly want to know.

I look away from the openness that wants to slip under my defenses again, to get in and seeme. It makes me want to lash out, and my sharp tongue fights the battle for me where my body fails.

“I hate men like you on principle. You’re a bored, rich man who’s decided I’m some sort of game because it’s fun to conquer everything that presents a challenge to you. I’m not a game and I don’t want to be conquered.”

The words spill out with certainty and venom. It hides the very real sting of having lived through it before and gained the experience. I hope. It might sound bitter and jaded, which is also fine. As long as it doesn’t sound needy.

“I don’t think of you as a game and I’m not trying to conquer you, Ainsley. I just want to be your boyfriend,” he says, sincerity in his eyes when I meet them.

“Fake boyfriend. And if only I believed that. Every conversation with you leaves me with whiplash and debating if I should be running for the hills. You don’t take no for an answer. You slip sex into every word you say. You touch me like you have a right to. You look at me like you want to fuck me. You act on some misguided instinct that I need you to save me. You have to stop this! You, Payton Olsen, have a God complex, and I’m not having it.”

His lips turn up at the corners as he listens to me. “And you, Ainsley Montgomery, are lying to yourself. You deny yourself the truth of what you need because you’re afraid to want it. You wear hostility and anger because you feel vulnerable with softer emotions that leave you exposed. You don't want to admit you need connection because somewhere along the line, you were hurt, and that fucker never paid for his mistakes. You don't even want to be playful or explore a friendship with me because it puts you too close to wanting something you refuse yourself. But sure, I’ll respect your boundaries if you really want them.”

And just like that, Payton Olsen has stripped me bare and knows half my secrets already.

Twelve

Payton

Ainsley’s ignoring me.

She swam for the dock and I let her, knowing I’d read her too well and been too honest when she wasn’t ready to hear it. It’s a fucking curse to see what people try to hide behind; the insecurities, what they don't even understand about themselves. That’s where Ainsley’s at. She’s trying to be something she’s not, wearing hard emotions—her control, anger, hostility, hate, and venom—to keep everything good at bay because she knows how easily it can be taken away, or used against her. It’s so fucking heartbreaking knowing someone did that to her, made her that way, because no one is hardwired to think like that—they’re programmed.

She took her things up to the pool and plopped onto a lounge chair, sunglasses firmly in place, hat back on, not sparing me a glance as she stares at her phone. I followed her sweet little ass calling her name, and now I’m stopped in front of her chair, casting a shadow over her.

“Hungry? Thirsty? Need some sunscreen so you don’t burn that pretty skin?”

She doesn’t answer me, thumbs flying over her phone screen, messaging someone, probably. She may be telling them she’s frustrated or upset at the lake with some guy who’s being an unreasonable asshole to her. She'll have to keep details about who it is and what we’re doing to a minimum after signing the NDA. I’m confident in her ability to follow the rules, given her profession and how thoroughly she read through the document before signing it. Or maybe she’s taking notes for the story I’ve agreed to and starting off strong with how much of a jerk I am.

Getting no response, I turn and head inside. Maybe some time alone is what she needs. Perhaps I should’ve waited more than twenty-four hours after meeting her to pull that nugget of information out and throw it in her face. I may have just lost my opportunity at a friendship with Ainsley by pushing her boundaries and my luck.

It’s not often my meddling tendencies come back to bite me in the ass, but when they do, it’s pretty spectacular, and this feels like it could be one of those instances. I lean against the wall of windows overlooking the pool and watch Ainsley on her phone below. She’s beautiful, young, cranky as hell, driven, and lonely. I recognized that part of her so quickly, seeing a reflection of myself in her workaholic tendencies and thinking I’d found a kindred spirit that maybe I could beat back the loneliness with if she’ll ever let me close enough.

When I return to the pool, I’m armed with a peace offering. The tray loaded with food and drinks catches Ainsley’s attention and she actually looks at me as I walk past to an umbrella-covered double lounger with a table between the cushions perfect for a picnic. I set the tray down and begin to arrange the food without acknowledgment. I can feel her irritation despite being ten feet away.

I pour a chilled sparkling wine into two stemless glasses and set them next to a charcuterie spread full of meats and cheeses, sliced fruit, vegetables, bowls of pasta salad, baguette slices, and a plate of assorted chocolate truffles I hope don’t melt in the Georgia heat. Satisfied my picnic is presented to the best of my abilities, I turn to the sapphire pool and dive in smoothly. I swim the length and return to where I started before pulling myself onto the deck, sufficiently cooled off.

Ainsley is sitting up now, looking between the spread and me. I nod at the food as I push wet hair out of my face before collapsing onto one side of the lounger and grabbing a glass of wine.

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