Page 41 of The Surrender (Arlington Hall #2)

“Amelia.” Nick comes towards me, prompting Jude to step in his way, and all I can do is stand like a useless idiot, my mind twisting, trying to figure out what the hell is going on here. “He’s not—”

“Move,” Jude snaps, shoving Nick aside and pulling me along behind him.

I hiss, feeling his squeeze of my hand, at the mercy of his strength and determination. “Jude, you’re hurting me.”

He immediately eases his hold but not his pace, and when we make it outside, I’m guided to his Ferrari, my cautious attention on his profile. He looks like he could burst. “Jude, will you tell me what the hell just happened?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?”

He opens the door, puts me in the seat, slams it, and I release a disbelieving puff of air.

I don’t know why I let him just remove me from the pub.

Maybe because I needed to escape the god-awful tension.

Except I’ve not escaped. In fact, I feel like I’ve stepped out of the pan and into the fire.

Or maybe I hoped leaving would get me answers faster. Do they know each other?

Jude gets in and starts the car, pulling away fast. I frown at my lap when Yeah But No’s “Run Run Run” plays, frowning harder when Jude turns the volume up, making it impossible to talk and be heard.

His driving is a little manic, his persona fraught.

I constantly glance across to him, getting more worried each time I note his ticking jaw and eyes like lasers on the road.

Does he think there’s nothing to talk about?

Reaching for the controls, I turn the music down. “What did he mean?”

“What?” he snaps, his knuckles around the wheel turning white.

“What Nick didn’t get to finish because you dragged me away. What did he mean?”

“I didn’t hear what he said. Where’s your phone?”

“What?”

“Your phone, Amelia. Where is it?”

“In my bag.”

“Give it to me.”

“Why?”

He slams the ball of his palm into the wheel. “Just give me your damn phone!”

“Not until you tell me why, Jude!”

He huffs and reaches across for my bag, and I watch in astonishment as he helps himself, rummaging through and pulling it out. “What’s your code?”

“I’m not telling you my fucking code, Jude.” I try to swipe it back, but he’s too fast for me. “Tell me what the hell you’re doing. What are you trying to prove?”

“There are nearly ten million people in London, Amelia. Thousands of pubs. I find it really fucking hard to believe your ex would just happen to turn up in the pub we’re having dinner in.” He turns dark eyes my way as I push back in my seat, not liking what he’s suggesting. “What’s your code?”

“My birthday,” I say quietly.

Jude opens my phone and splits his attention between the road and his working thumbs, and when I see his jaw tighten further, I know what’s coming. “He’s fucking tracking you.”

I stare at Jude’s profile, speechless, my head bending, my stomach turning.

“Does Nick know your PIN?”

I swallow and nod when Jude looks at me for an answer, my reality falling heavily.

“And when might he have had the opportunity to access your phone?”

I sink into my seat, dread cloaking me. “Today.” I can feel Jude’s questioning eyes turn onto me as he pulls up at a red light.

It can’t have been before today; otherwise Nick would have undoubtedly turned up at Arlington Hall any of the times I was there.

“I left my phone on my desk when I went to get a coffee. Nick was in my office when I got back.” I can’t look at Jude, can’t face the rage I know is there. And there will be more to come.

“What was he doing at your work?”

“He was interviewing for a position.” I sound as nervous as I feel.

Jude laughs, and it is full of disbelief. “And you didn’t think to mention that?”

“No, actually, I didn’t.” I brave facing him. “Are you going to tell me what the fuck happened back there?”

Jude’s jaw twitches with the force of his gritted teeth.

“I’ll take that as a no.” I unclip my seat belt and take the handle to get out but get precisely nowhere.

“Forget it.” Jude reaches across me, yanks the door closed, and reclips my belt before pulling away from the lights fast. He places my phone in my lap. “You need to stop sharing your location.”

My fingers are already working the screen before he’s finished, and I throw the phone back into my bag, propping my elbow on the window and staring out, the atmosphere excruciating. My question unanswered.

When Jude pulls up outside Arlington Hall, he gets out and rounds the car, opening the door for me. How very gentlemanly of him. And ridiculous. He still looks fucking livid, and I know I feel it.

I am not going into Arlington Hall until he talks. “What happened in the pub?” I demand, my voice strong.

“What happened?” Jude laughs with no amusement whatsoever.

“You couldn’t have gotten me out of there faster.”

“Your ex showed up. Of course I left. I can think of a million things I want to do with you, Amelia, and dining with your ex isn’t one of them. I left because I was afraid of what I’d do if I didn’t.”

“What, like hit him?” Why am I asking that? This is Jude Harrison. Of course he wants to hit Nick.

“He tracked you to a bar, Amelia. He hijacked my dinner with my girlfriend, and you’re wondering why I’m fucking fuming?”

“That was a lot of possessive determiners,” I snap like an absolute idiot, snatching my bag from his hand and stomping into Arlington Hall.

Am I being paranoid? Overthinking? After all, Nick’s the fucking snake in this situation.

I can’t believe he intended on tracking me.

What the hell is with that? And what was Nick going to say?

“Oh, well, there’s a surprise,” Jude murmurs as he follows me, forcing my feet to a stop halfway up the stairs. “She’s not trying to leave.”

Swinging around, I nail him with an incensed glare. “That can be arranged.”

Two palms rise in surrender, his inhale long. “I’m sorry.”

His apology lacks any sincerity, pissing me off more. “Maybe I should go.” I take one step back down the stairs and meet his chest, and I’m over his shoulder before I can even think to protest.

“We need to let off some steam,” he mutters, making me laugh dementedly as he carries me up the stairs.

“You want to have sex?”

“No, I want to fuck you.”

“Why?” I hiss. “Feeling threatened?”

His growl is deep and deadly as he carts me up to his apartment, dumping me on my feet just inside the double doors of his private lobby. He steps back, putting a metre of space between us. “Take your clothes off,” he orders.

My mouth drops open, my disgust rampant, but will my feet move? No. They’re cemented to the carpet, Jude’s blazing gaze keeping me in place. Lust mixes with my outrage, and I watch his chest expand as he shoves his jacket off.

“Do it.” He unfastens the buttons of his shirt one by one, revealing his gorgeous chest, sending me further into bedlam.

“No.”

His working hands stop, his shirt hanging open.

And he takes another step away.

Bullets of energy come at me, my feet shifting, desire at risk of dominating me.

“Go then,” he whispers, pulling a hand through his hair. “If you really want to leave, fucking go, Amelia.”

“Fuck you,” I hiss, stepping forward, grabbing his shirt, and yanking his mouth onto mine, needing an outlet for my frustration. I kiss him like I hate him, hard, forcefully, biting his lip, his tongue.

And he takes it all, hissing when I fist his hair, sucking in air when I bite him. We stagger around the small lobby until his back slams into a wall. I eat him alive, and he spins us, thrusting his hips into mine, trapping me with his body.

The weight of my thoughts leaves me.

Fire.

Fighting.

And now, we make up.

Jude bends me over the circular table between the two sets of double doors and shoves my dress up. My laboured, desperate breathing drenches the space, my head craning to see him behind me yanking his trousers open. He sneers at me, bringing his palm down on my bare cheek, the sting real.

“Fuck you,” I grate through my teeth, earning myself another whack on the other cheek. “Fuck you!” I smack the wood with both palms, my teeth clenching to sustain the pain I’m causing myself.

“And fuck you, Amelia.” He pounds into me on a loud bellow.

Bang. “Fuck you for fucking up my plans.” Bang.

“Fuck you for stamping all over my fucking heart.” Bang.

“Fuck you for taking up every tiny part of my mind.” Bang.

“Fuck you for showing me peace.” Bang. “And fuck you for making me fall in love with you.”

I scream, hitting the wood as Jude hammers into me, fucking me without mercy, and I’m here for it. The relief is needed, my head empty, my body accepting.

“Tell me you fucking love me,” he yells, pounding on, his skin slapping against my arse, jolting me forward every time. “Tell me!”

I can’t talk, can only focus on keeping my legs steady. He’s lost it, and for some fucked-up reason, I’m happy to sustain his brute force. I’m glad I’m his outlet.

The strength in my arms fails me, and I lower to my front, my cheek on the wood, and close my eyes, drifting away, listening to him yelling his pleasure as I quietly enjoy mine.

Every advance pushes us a little bit closer, the buildup a crawl to release.

The points on my hips where his fingers are hooked are numb, my calves stretching, every muscle screaming at me.

“Tell me,” Jude repeats, over and over. “Tell me, Amelia. Fucking tell me.”

“I love you,” I whisper into my darkness, opening my eyes and staring at the picture on the wall, a beautiful landscape painting of Arlington Hall.

The colours are wishy-washy. The detail sketchy.

Maybe because of my foggy vision, or maybe because of the artist’s style.

I can’t tell. “I love you,” I breathe, jolting, a tidal wave of pleasure ripping through me, forcing me to push myself up by my palms and tense harder, the intensity almost unbearable.

“Fucking hell, Jude,” I yell, my voice shaky.

Looking over my shoulder, I just catch the smoke of his eyes, the strain in his jaw, the twitch of his torso, before he smashes home one last time and gasps, holding himself deep, reviving my orgasm, the swelling of him inside me pushing against all my walls, taking off the sensitive edge.

Sweat trails from his temples, his hair darkening as a result, and wet patches litter his white shirt.

Spent.

He’s still shaking. I’m breathless.

Exhausted, I lower my front to the wood again, my body rolling as Jude peels his fingertips from my hips, letting blood flow there. I wince.

“Sorry,” he whispers, reaching for my zip and pulling it down, exposing my back. His lips meet my nape and kiss their way down my spine. “I love you, Amelia,” he says quietly. “It’s as hard for me to deal with as it is for you.”

I don’t reply; I’m unable to muster the words.

And not because I’m out of breath.

So I reach back and slip my hand in his hair as he kisses my ear.

“Let’s go away tomorrow.”

I shake my head. I have my meeting with Tilda Spector, he knows this.

“Please,” he says, nuzzling my face. “We need some time to ourselves.”

Is he saying all these triggers will be eliminated if we leave England? “I can’t just up and leave.”

“It’s important.”

“So’s my career.”

“I’m not saying it isn’t,” he whispers in my ear. “Wednesday, then. I’m just asking for a few days. We can leave after your meeting.”

Something isn’t right. Jude isn’t right. Every word he roared as he fucked me in ownership is circling my mind on a loop.

My unease is rapidly growing.

And the question remains: What was Nick going to say before Jude hauled me out of that pub?

He’s not . . .

What?

And why the urgency to get me out of the country?