Surrender Your Love
I was sitting at the bar, sipping on my second margarita. My knee-length pencil skirt brushed the empty stool next to mine, my fingers tapped on my thigh to the rhythm of a slow jazz song coming from the invisible sound system. This wasn’t the kind of establishment I usually frequented, but my boss had been adamant that I meet Mayfield in his preferred environment. And so I agreed, albeit with trepidation, at the outlook of entering an expensive gentlemen’s club where beautiful girls breezed around in classy lingerie, and the two drink minimum rule had already cost me more than my weekly grocery shopping.
Judging from the countless twinkling lights and polished marble floors, the place oozed style and money. Even though it was still empty, I had no doubt it would fill up soon and earn the owner a fortune. A racy girl that looked like she belonged on the cover of FHM magazine climbed twenty feet up a pole and dropped down into a split to ‘warm up’, as the DJ announced tonight’s program to the few punters in tailored suits. I sighed with impatience, and sank deeper into my slouch on the luxurious bar stool overlooking the soft leather couches and mirrored walls near the entrance.
Mayfield was late. In fact, very late. I didn’t appreciate lateness, and particularly not when I should’ve been home by now, unwinding with a glass of wine after a long day of sucking up to the big guys in real estate. The job was meant to be a filler until I could get my hands on a position with a company like Delaware & Ray, but as filler jobs go, they’re a dead end. And two years later I was twenty three, stuck and overworked with no promotion in sight.
Maybe it was the way the guy walked—full of confidence and cockiness—but the moment I saw him entering the bar I knew he was the kind that would bring me nothing but trouble. So I buried my gaze in my drink, avoiding the stranger’s curious look. The hairs on the nape of my neck prickled. I turned slowly, realizing he was standing behind me. His hot breath grazed the sensitive skin of my cheek as he leaned over my shoulder to whisper in my ear.
“You stick out like a sore thumb. I’m not sure whether that’s a good or a bad thing.”
His voice was low and hoarse. Scorching.
Bedroom voice… the words echoed somewhere in the back of my mind.
My heart jumped into my mouth, which I attributed to the fact that I didn’t like strangers leaning over me. And particularly not those with a deep, sexy rumble of a voice that had just a hint of a Southern accent. Fighting the urge to jump up from the bar stool and put some much needed distance between us, I straightened my back and turned to face him, ready to hit back with a biting remark.
He was dazzlingly gorgeous. Forget gorgeous. He was beautiful. Utterly, totally, mind-blowingly stunning. On a scale from one to ten, he was a hundred.
For a few seconds I just stared at him as my abdomen twisted into knots and my pulse quickened. The guy was hot and, judging from his wicked grin, definitely not the kind of man you bring home to meet your parents. He was tall, at least a head taller than me. Maybe six feet two. His wet, dark hair was a tad too long and disheveled—like he had run his hands through it. His coat, now damp from the rain that had been cascading on