Page 7 of The Surrender
“Jesus,” he yells as I go at his mouth like it’s a meal I’ve been starving for. His hips buck, his grip of my hair meeting the ferocity of mine on his, my temples throbbing with the force of his hold. “I’m going to come,” he blurts out in a panicked gasp, sitting up straight. “Shit, Amelia, I can’t hold it.”
My pace increases, my own release on the horizon, my urgency fierce.
“Amelia!”
“Shut up,” I bite back, rocking the moving car with my momentum. “Just shut the fuck up.”
He hisses and yanks his mouth off mine, pushing into my chest so he forces me back. I don’t let it upset my flow, my hand reaching for the window and splattering against the misty glass. Our eyes lock. And they remain that way as I ride him, chasing my release, his eyes wild, his breathing shot.
The moment my orgasm hits, every internal muscle tightens and holds on for dear life as lightning bolts shoot through me, my body rigid, my hand moving from the window to the ceiling of the car. I come so fucking hard, my scream suppressed when Jude slaps his handover my mouth, taking my other hand and putting it over his to prevent his own bellow.
Eyes glued.
We come together.
Hard.
Long.
Intense.
The sensations of his dick inside pulsating, pushing against my walls, extends my pleasure, my body rolling to cope with the intensity as I reach for his hand over my mouth and knock it away, needing air, heaving. The way he’s looking at me now, his eyes on the greener side of what I know and love ... I can’t take it.
He slips a hand around my nape and tries to encourage me forward, but I remain steadfast in my position, not allowing him to pull me close for what I know will be a tender kiss.
And only when he relents and releases me, his frown fixed, do I move in, getting my face close to his for a brief few moments before taking my mouth to his ear. I breathe into it, feeling his body roll in anticipation. “I dare you to try and contact me again,” I whisper. “I fucking dare you, Jude.”
“What the fuck?”
I ease off his lap on a held breath and get my skirt into place before lifting my top up. And as soon as the car stops, I get out.
“Amelia!” he yells, lunging across the seat to stop me.
I slam the door in his face.
Take a breath.
And immediately hate myself for caving in to the power of Jude Harrison. I see an opening into Hyde Park and hurry through the crowds, glancing back over my shoulder when I hear him bellowing my name. He’s scanning the masses of people, his hands working to fasten the fly of his trousers.
I disappear into the park and fall against a wall, breathless, sore, and angry again. “Fuck!” I yell, burying my face in my hands, hating myselffor surrendering. For lowering myself to his fucked-up level. Tears pinch the backs of my eyes, and I roughly and angrily wipe them away.
I need a drink.
I need to regroup.
I need to forget I ever met Jude Harrison.
Trying to figure out where I am exactly, I soon conclude it’s too far to walk back to the hotel, especially in these heels. So I walk until I reach the other side of the park and flag down a cab.
Chapter 3
After cleaning myself up in the bathroom, I arrive at the ballroom, and I have to stop on the threshold and take a moment to listen, wondering if I’m hearing what I think I’m hearing. It takes only a few seconds—and beats of the track—to confirm it.
The band is performing “Hey Jude,” and everyone is on the dance floor.
I do an about-turn, planning to get straight back out of there.
“Amelia!”
