Dare to Surrender Read online

  “You’re so different, Joy. Different from any girl I’ve been with.”

  She lifted her chin. “Is that good or bad?”

  “Good.” He kissed her. “Really good.”

  He kicked off his boots and pulled his shirt over his head. Her gaze landed on his chest. He was all muscle. So unlike her own curvaceous body.

  In any other circumstance she would have probably run away, her insecurities taking over as she looked at a man so hard, lean, and powerful. But she was too turned on; her body needed him, and as he pulled off his jeans and boxers, she could see he needed her, too.

  His hands on her thighs were rough as he lifted her and pushed her against the wall. She couldn’t help but notice that he picked her up with no visible effort….

  He carried her to the top floor, walking straight to his bedroom and resting her on the bed.

  Then he kissed her and smiled down at her. “I want you to stay here tonight.”

  Praise for Lilli Feisty and Bound to Please

  “Terrific… Fans of realistic erotica will enjoy Bound to Please.”

  — HarrietKlausner.wwwi.com

  “Sexy… Don’t let this one pass you by!”

  — TheRomanceReadersConnection.com

  ALSO BY LILLI FEISTY

  Bound to Please

  Copyright

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Copyright © 2010 by Lilli Feisty

  All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  Forever

  Hachette Book Group

  237 Park Avenue

  New York, NY 10017

  Visit our website at www.HachetteBrookGroup.com.

  www.twitter.com/foreverromance

  Forever is an imprint of Grand Central Publishing. The Forever name and logo is a trademark of Hachette Book Group, Inc.

  First eBook Edition: February 2010

  ISBN: 978-0-446-55842-6

  Contents

  Copyright

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Epilogue

  For Jay.

  Acknowledgments

  I would like to thank my wonderful editors, Amy Pierpont and Alex Logan. Also, my agent, Roberta Brown, deserves a big hug. My Smutketeers, my family, and all of my friends—thank you for helping me write during a very difficult year. And Dana, thank you for always picking up the phone.

  Chapter One

  Half of being successful was luck, right? So, as she entered the elegant surroundings of the museum fund-raiser, Joy Montgomery prayed she was about to get lucky.

  Scanning the crowded, oversized room, she searched for a blond man with green eyes to die for and a long, lean body she would never forget.

  There, in the corner! Her gaze landed on him and her breath caught. He was more gorgeous than she remembered. He held himself away from the crowd, which seemed to fade away when he caught her eye for just a second before a group of guests blocked her view.

  A petite brunette came toward her. “Joy! I’m so glad you made it!” she said, and gave Joy a hug.

  “Wow.” Joy looked around the third floor of the San Francisco Art Museum, the atrium of which had been reborn into a reception hall for the year’s biggest fund-raiser. The walls were adorned with the museum’s best pieces from their collection, and the high ceiling opened to the night sky. The large space echoed with conversation, making it difficult to hear.

  “So, I see he came.” Joy eyed the tall, lanky photographer, trying to ignore the way her heartbeat seemed to speed up whenever she looked at him.

  Ruby Scott, event planner and the neighbor Joy had come to know and love, looked in Ash’s direction and frowned. “Yeah, I have to say I’m shocked. He quit his photography, despite the fact that this museum wanted to do a show for him.” She shrugged her petite shoulders. “He just seems lost somehow.” She brought her attention back to Joy. “And it’s such a shame he’s not taking photographs now. He was really on the brink of something amazing.”

  Joy blinked. “Pardon me? What do you mean he’s not taking pictures anymore? I don’t understand.”

  “Who really knows? Artists can be so unpredictable.”

  Shit shit shit! Joy had banked on Ash’s being here, and he was. But if he wasn’t taking photographs anymore, how was she supposed to lure him to the gallery she worked for? Her boss had told her to find an up-and-coming artist, someone edgy. There was nothing edgier than Ash Hunter’s sexy photographs.

  “If he’s not taking photographs, what’s he doing?”

  “Not teaching anymore, I know that. He used to be in the Navy. I’m wondering if he’s considering returning to security.”

  “He doesn’t look like security.” Joy took in his faded jeans, T-shirt, leather jacket, and black boots. His dirty blond hair was too long, and he looked like he hadn’t shaved in a day or two. He looked like… an artist.

  Ruby shook her head in his direction. “I know. But I think it’s in his blood. He’s not happy unless he’s on the go, and he’s been in town ever since…”

  Joy turned back to Ruby. “Since what?”

  Smiling, Ruby shook her head. “Never mind. Anyway, apparently he was quite the hero in his day. Not that he’d ever admit it.”

  Ash could stop speeding trains and scale tall buildings—it still wouldn’t help Joy keep her job.

  Conveniently, a waiter happened to be passing by with a tray of champagne glasses. Joy plucked off two flutes and downed one, then looked up to find Ruby staring at her, her face tilted, her blue eyes questioning.

  “Everything okay, honey?” Ruby asked.

  “No,” Joy said, waving her now-empty flute in Ash’s direction. “My boss wants him—his art, I mean—as an exclusive for the Cartwright Gallery. If I don’t come back with some sort of agreement, I’ll probably be fired.”

  “They can’t fire you for that!” Ruby said. Though her slight frame appeared relaxed, Joy saw that the woman’s gaze never rested anywhere for long. She was constantly taking in the environment, watching for any possible detail that might be less than perfect.

  But everything was flawless. From the display of a light show on the far wall to the smoked salmon canapés being passed by a waitstaff that seemed to be made up of supermodels, every last detail had been immaculately attended to.

  Ruby Scott was the epitome of detail-oriented. Joy Montgomery was, in
a word, not.

  “Listen, sweetie. I have to get to work, but we’ll talk about this later—I promise we’ll think of something! Right now, don’t worry about it. Just enjoy yourself.” Ruby took Joy’s empty glass and flitted off to consult with the caterer.

  Joy watched her go, her slim body fitted into an impeccably tailored dress. She wondered how one became detail-oriented, a perfectionist. Joy was a lot of things, but none of those traits were on the list. She could have finished off another degree with the cumulative time she’d spent looking for her keys, she never remembered any of her three brothers’ birthdays, and she was always late to work.

  And she never seemed to be able to put together an outfit with the flair that some women, like Ruby, naturally seemed to possess.

  Like tonight. The flowery dress had seemed an appropriate choice when Joy had pulled it out of her closet earlier that evening, but now, in a sea of black fashion, she shifted awkwardly on her flats, feeling very out of place in the bright fabric. Also, unlike most of the other women at the event holding tiny clutches, Joy had her ever-present oversized bag slung over her shoulder. But she had a panic attack if she went anywhere without it. The bad thing was, she tended to collect random miscellanea along the way. Every few weeks, she dumped the contents of the bag onto her bed and was always surprised at how much crap she’d managed to shove in there.

  Sighing, she turned her gaze to the paintings on the wall. The gala was a reception for a big museum fund-raiser, but no one except Joy seemed to be appreciating the wonderful collection displayed around them. Like that piece on the far wall. Her gaze fell on a vivid abstract and she found herself moving forward, drawn to it. The dazzling colors calmed her; the flowing composition soothed her. Stopping a few feet from the piece, she uncurled hands she hadn’t even realized had been clenched and stared.

  “You like this?”

  Joy snapped herself into the present. She’d been so lost in the art that the room had faded, and she hadn’t noticed Ash approaching. Now he stood next to her, but he wasn’t looking at the painting. He was looking at her, his eyes intense, unblinking, and the most beautiful shade of green she’d ever seen—tinted emerald as if laid directly from an artist’s palette—

  Shit. Every time she started describing a man in art terms, she knew she was in trouble. What had she said about Cartwright? Oh, that the shadows of the sharp features of his face were like a study in chiaroscuro.

  Big mistake.

  She pulled her bag tighter and nodded. “Yes. It’s, um, very moving.” Really intelligent, Miss Art History Major. And it was then that she remembered Ash was an artist himself and was probably thinking she was incredibly dull.

  Then she remembered the type of artist he was. She pictured one of the bondage photographs she’d seen at Ruby’s place, and a tiny erotic awareness tingled over her. Because Ash Hunter didn’t do landscapes or still lifes or abstract art. Ash Hunter tied women up in ropes and photographed them.

  Ash Hunter was considered to be a master of bondage. A tall, sexy, kinky man who actually made erotic art artistic.

  At least, he used to be that man. Now it seemed he was just tall and sexy, and she had no idea about the kinky.

  She experienced an urge to find out.

  “Joy, right?” he said, and she discovered his voice was still scratchy and deep, just as she’d remembered from the one time she’d met him outside her building. She’d been late for work and had burst outside, slamming the door right into Ash’s shoulder.

  “Yes, that’s right; I’m Joy. Montgomery.” She brushed a stray lock of hair behind her ear. “And you’re Ash. Ash Hunter. Oh! How’s your shoulder?” Her face heated as she remembered their last meeting.

  Ash frowned slightly. “Yeah, it took awhile, but I recovered from the incident. Had to have minor surgery, but it’s all good now. Just a few twinges every now and then.” He rubbed his right shoulder as if massaging a sore muscle.

  She jerked back. “What? Oh my God! I’m so sorry; you should have told me! My insurance could have covered it. Though I don’t have any insurance, well, just a basic plan that probably wouldn’t have helped. Either way, I am so sorry.”

  But he was smiling now, the little lines near his eyes crinkling, and she had the unfounded thought that they didn’t crinkle often.

  “Joy. I’m messing with you.”

  Relief flooded her and she bit back a smile. “You asshole.”

  He quirked a brow.

  Crap. First she couldn’t shut up, and now she’d just called him a bad name.

  “I’m sorry; I didn’t mean that,” she said. “About you being an asshole.”

  “Yes, you did.” But his green eyes were softer than before. Like the artist had added a touch of yellow…

  She tossed the thought aside. “Fine, but you have to admit it wasn’t nice of you to keep me going like that.”

  “You’re right. It was very, very wrong.”

  “Now you’re just humoring me,” she said.

  “Maybe.”

  Silence stretched between them, until she finally had to say something before she exploded. “Actually, I wanted to talk to you about something. Professionally. Do you have a minute?”

  He looked at her a second too long and then nodded. “Yeah. But it’s so loud in here I can barely think. Come with me.”

  Leaving no room for argument, he turned and walked to a metal door. Punching a code into a box, he turned the handle and opened the door, pausing to hold it with one of his long, lean arms so she could head through first. As she passed him, she barely brushed his shoulder and the heat from his body jolted through her like electricity.

  Great. She was hot for the bondage-artist-turned-securityspecialist whom she was supposed to be wooing to the Cartwright Gallery so she could keep her job.

  Crap. That was abso-fucking-lutely the last thing she needed.

  As she passed beneath him, Ash caught a whiff of vanilla and his balls tightened. And as he watched the redhead take a few steps in front of him, her flowery dress swirling around her knees, he nearly went hard. Joy Montgomery. She wasn’t his type, and yet something about her made his blood run hot. It had that day he’d met her in front of Ruby’s building, and it still did.

  Stopping, she turned and looked at him, not noticing the lock of wild red hair that fell out of the bun she had piled high on her head. He decided not to tell her; for some reason he found her dishevelment endearing, which confused him. Everything in its place, that was his credo. And everything about Joy seemed slightly out of place.

  He shouldn’t like that, especially not now.

  “Why do you have the security code?” she asked.

  “Because I have some art here, and I’m too paranoid to let anyone touch it except me.” He moved past her and led the way down the hall to the last door on the right. Then he pushed inside and flipped on the light.

  Clearing his throat, he crossed his arms across his chest. “So, Joy. What did you want to talk to me about?”

  But she didn’t seem to hear him. Silently, she stared at a marble sculpture as if it were Jesus.

  She took a step closer to the three-foot piece. “My God,” she whispered, releasing her huge gray bag and letting it fall to the floor with a thud. “This is… beautiful.”

  He got compliments on his art all the time, so why did his face heat from her words? “You think so?”

  “I think it’s amazing.” She moved her hand as if to touch it but floated her palm a few inches from the piece. “It’s so…”

  “Indecent?” He laughed wryly.

  “Sensual.”

  “I guess that’s one way of putting it.” It was a sculpture of a man and a woman, their elongated limbs entwined, wrapped around each other. Rope bound them, wrapping and dipping between the forms, appearing and disappearing in the crevices of the sculpted marble.

  “So you’re going to show these here?”

  He kicked the tip of his boot against the desk. “Um, no.” />
  Her eyes widened. “What? Why?”

  Why did she seem so concerned? He shrugged. “Because I’m taking a break from all this. Besides, they’re not very good. I’m just an amateur.”

  “No. These are modern and yet… there’s something classic about them. The woman is bound, yet still iconic somehow. Power, beauty. Reminds me of ancient Roman work.” She bit her lip as she grinned, impish. “They were naughty, too.”

  He just shook his head. She had no idea what she was talking about.

  “I know what I’m talking about. Stanford art school and all that.” She began digging through her giant purse and finally pulled out a card. Handing it to him, she said, “I work for the Cartwright Gallery. I would love to show these.”

  “So that’s what this is about? You’re trying to get me to show at your gallery?”

  “Yes. We’d be delighted to represent you. Both your photography and your sculpture.”

  He stepped back. “No way. I’m done.” He had way too much going on, too many people depending on him to waste time taking pictures and tinkering with marble.

  “I’m having a really hard time believing that.” She turned her head slowly, releasing his gaze at the last minute, to stare at the marble piece again. “I can’t tell if they’re making love, or bound against their will… or both.” Her voice was soft and pensive, as if she was thinking aloud and had forgotten he was even there. She walked around the sculpture, her eyes taking in the naked forms, and he saw her breathing go a bit shallow, saw her eyes darken. She bit her fingernail, and he saw her hand was trembling slightly.

  “Oh, Lord,” he said, walking to her, and she inhaled sharply when he closed in. He could smell her arousal. “You’re getting turned on by a sculpture.”

  “I am?”

  “Are you?”

  “Maybe,” she said softly, her gaze darting over his face. “I like art.”

  Just like that, a vision hit him, of Joy, bound. Restrained. His. Desire flooded him and he could not resist drawing closer, felt his body tighten with awakening. “Tell me what else you like.” It seemed insane to be talking to her this way, but he couldn’t stop, and he took one of her wrists in his hand and encircled her. Despite her full breasts and hips, she had a small frame, and he took a moment to feel the elegant bones beneath her soft skin. “You have such delicate hands, Joy.”