Page 29 of The Surrender (Arlington Hall #2)

Pure white with the Arlington Hall crest on the breast, the robe skims my ankles, and the sleeves reach my knuckles. I feel like I’m wrapped in fluffy clouds.

Jude’s tossing something in a pan when I walk into the kitchen towel-drying my hair, and the waft of something delicious—not Jude—invades my senses. He’s in grey sweatpants. Bare-chested. His wet hair is a mess of waves falling around his ears. I’ve never had a type. I do now.

Him.

“Smells good,” I say, perching on a stool and flicking my head down, wrapping my hair in the towel and making a turban. When I lift my head again, Jude’s serving up two plates.

“Spaghetti à la Jude,” he says, sprinkling some basil leaves over the top before sliding my plate across to me.

My mouth waters as I collect my fork, and Jude sets a glass of wine by my plate. “I could get used to this.”

“Do,” he says, joining me, kicking his foot up on the footrest of his stool. “It’s not going anywhere.” He nods at my damp dressing. “That needs changing.”

I smile as I spin my fork in the pile of spaghetti and pop it in my mouth, humming my approval. “You’re good at this.”

“Better than Nonna’s?” he asks coyly, digging into his own plate. I don’t answer, not because it isn’t. “Casey’s the master chef of the family.”

“Where does he chef?”

“On yachts, mainly. Private dining. It’s insane how much people pay for him to feed them.”

“Sounds like an incredible job.”

“He loves it. He was named in an article in The Times when he was twenty-two. Things to do before you die: Have Casey Harrison cook for you. Since then, he’s travelled the world, cooked for the rich and famous.”

“Wow.”

“It’s made him a millionaire.”

“Double wow.”

Jude nods. “I asked him to take charge of the Orangery here when we opened, but he has far more fun on superyachts.” He quirks a brow as he takes a mouthful and chews. “It was probably wise. We’d clash.”

Interested, I turn into him more, taking a break from the spaghetti for some wine. “Why would you clash?”

“We’re different. We all are. Apparently, I’m sensible and strategic.”

“Yes.” I laugh. “You were very strategic when you pursued me.”

Jude’s fork falters as he plunges it into his pasta, a wave of something passing across his face. Then he smiles. “ Casey is more manana manana . He’s irritatingly laid-back.”

“And Rhys?”

He blows his cheeks out. “Rhys is a bit of a loose cannon, as you’ve probably gathered.”

“You worry about him.”

“He’s successful, good-looking, charming, but he’s always had a problem with restraint.”

“The sex tape.”

“He’s a sportsman.” He tilts a wry smile my way. “Gets lots of attention, if you know what I mean.”

I scoff. And Jude doesn’t? They are three very handsome, successful, charming brothers. “I know what you mean.”

“You look good in the robe.” His voice has dropped a few octaves. “Very good.”

I purse my lips around another bite, seeing the intent in his gaze. “This pasta is too good to abandon.”

“You think?” He turns farther towards me and drops his fork, plucking out a piece of spaghetti and popping one end past his lips.

My swallow is lumpy, my pulse picking up, as he leans towards me and pops the other end into my mouth.

Then he slowly creeps forward, doing all the sucking, his eyes shining and stuck to mine.

I drop my fork, brace myself, and when our lips meet, I groan, slipping off the stool and putting myself between his open thighs, deepening our kiss.

“Think I’ve found something tastier,” he mumbles, pulling the robe open and having a thorough inspection.

It hits the floor, and his hands rest on my hips, sending a flurry of shudders through me.

My head drops back, the towel falling away, my wet hair tumbling all over my back and shoulders.

Every inch of me calls for him, my breasts aching, my nipples hardening, a deep, intense throb hitting me between my thighs.

“Come here.” He pulls my head up and reclaims my mouth, lifting me from my feet and sitting me on the counter.

Plates clatter across the wood, being knocked aside.

Tearing his mouth off mine briefly, Jude moves the wine, then pushes me down to my back, bending over me, returning to my mouth and kissing me hungrily.

He shoves his sweatpants down, then hooks his arms under my knees and pulls me farther to the edge, his hips at the perfect height to enter me.

My spine bends, my eyes close, and I exhale as he slides in, his hands shaking where they rest on my thighs.

He doesn’t hang around—I’m more than wet enough.

He starts to pump, the penetration deep and oh-so-mind-bendingly high.

I moan, writhe on the wood, reaching for his hand on my leg and gripping it.

“God damn.” He hisses, increasing his momentum, the sounds of his gratification in my darkness forcing me to open my eyes and watch him unravel. The strain on his face is one of my favourite expressions on him. The pleasure. The greed.

“Yes,” I whisper, releasing his hand when he flexes it, taking my feet to his shoulders, holding them there, his tempo never faltering. Every advance has me crying out, every withdrawal makes me moan. “Yes, yes, yes,” I breathe, floating away, feeling the pressure build.

Jude’s head drops back, his eyes close, his hands lying over the tops of my feet. Ripples roll across his torso, the skin of his stomach taut. “Fuck, Amelia,” he yells at the ceiling.

My arms reach out above my head, frantically searching for something to hang on to, because I feel like I could take off, the power of the pleasure gushing through me so strong. “Jude,” I say in warning, feeling it steaming forward. “Jude!”

His hands clamp down over my feet harder, his head drops, and I watch in rapt fascination as his eyes turn wild, his neck veins bulging.

Then his body folds in, he hisses, and a palm slams into the wooden counter to hold himself up.

I feel the wet heat of his release fill me, and with that, my body releases too, the power of it locking me in position, before I start to convulse.

He gasps, I yell, and he collapses over me, both of us breathless, our bodies vibrating violently.

“Fucking ... hell.” His forearms rest on the wood either side of me, his head hanging low.

Beads of sweat drip from his face onto my boobs.

“I could be inside you twenty-four seven.” Exhausted, I look up at the ceiling, recovering, as Jude takes a nipple into his mouth and sucks and licks softly for a while.

“Definitely tastier,” he whispers, kissing in between my breasts and licking his way up my body to my neck, onto my chin.

My lips.

Content.

I’m so fucking content. And for the first time, in every aspect of my life.

I let him kiss the daylights out of me, my hands on a mission through his hair. “Watch your hand,” he says, gruff.

“It’s fine.”

“Still hungry?” He rests his head on my chest, feeding his fingers through mine.

“Not really,” I say with effort, wincing as he slips out of me. After getting his sweatpants in place, he pulls me up, smiling at my mess of wet hair. He looks so content too. No stormy clouds hanging over him, his temper tamed.

“How were your brothers when you lost your parents?” I ask, the question falling out without warning, surprising us both. I wonder for a moment if he’ll answer. I’m sure he thinks he’s talked enough about his parents today, but he finally smiles a little and drags a light fingertip down my cheek.

“They dealt with it in their own way. Casey escaped into a kitchen, Rhys escaped in women, booze, and rugby.” He pushes his lips to my forehead. “Never be at odds with your parents, Amelia. You never know when will be the last time you see them.”

I want to cry for him. Could cry for him. Nodding, I let him get me down. He helps me into my robe and puts me on my stool, before sorting himself.

“Need a tissue?” he asks as I have some wine, what he just said about parents sitting heavy on my mind.

“Yeah, give me a second.”

“Of course,” he says, starting to collect the plates.

I leave the room and go to his bathroom, cleaning myself up before calling Dad.

“Darling?” he answers, sounding worried. “Are you okay?”

“Yes, why?”

“You’re calling me when you’re not talking to me. This isn’t how we do it. You come round for dinner, make me a cuppa, I give you a hug, and that’s that.”

I sit on the edge of the bed and fall to my back. “Aren’t you fed up with doing that?”

“No, I like it when we make peace.”

“That’s not making peace, Dad. That’s me letting things slide because I hate being at odds with you.”

“I just want what’s best for you.”

“What is best for me?”

“Well, security. A decent, strong man who can look after you.”

“Any decent, strong man? Or just Nick?” And I don’t need looking after, but I won’t get into that.

“He fits in,” Dad grumbles.

“Yes, with you, Dad. He fits in with you. He didn’t fit in with me, and since you’re talking about what’s best for me, I think I’m qualified to let you know, it isn’t Nick.”

“Oh.” If I could see him, I know he’d be pouting. “And this new man, might he fit in with you?”

I suck my bottom lip in, daring myself to say it. “I think he could,” I whisper, almost reluctantly. “I really think he could.”

“Then I should meet him.”

I snort. “You’ll meet him when I decide you’ve had a suitable amount of time to control your urges to stick your nose into my business.”

“You’re my little girl!” he huffs, outraged. “It’s my business to be in your business.”

“I’m a woman.”

“You’ll always be my little girl.”

I sigh, but I smile. “I love you, Dad. Even though you’re trapped in the Middle Ages.”

“And I love you, darling, even though you’re a headstrong pain in my backside who swore at me.” He pauses a beat. Sighs too. “But I wouldn’t have you any other way. Keeps me on my toes. I hope this new guy knows what he’s signing up for.”