Scorched Surrender

By Mary Nova

Nicoletta Clark is feeling optimistic. Over-coming relationship insecurities that’ve held her back, she’s bursting with new confidence. It’s even showing in her work; her photography is making a splash in the art world. She has everything she wants or needs...except for Zavier, her sexy, billionaire boyfriend.

She tells herself she’s better off without him. The nerve of the guy... She’d given Zavier everything she had to give, openly, unreservedly, and he’d reciprocated by closing himself off, and withholding from her at every turn. And the worst part about it was she’d settled for his stingy love!

She’s so over it. She’s kicked Zavier to the curb.

Done with gorgeous bad boys who want to keep things casual, Nicoletta knows she deserves something real now, a love that will last. And no matter how much she misses Zavier she isn’t going to waste time with someone who has commitment issues.

Now, if only her heart would get the memo.

Zavier Soto is in a bad mood. He lost the woman of his dreams, his Nico. And he has no one to blame but himself. He pushed her away, arrogantly assuming Nicoletta would accept his boundaries as he kept her at a comfortable distance. But his dismissive behavior worked a little too well.

He pushed Nico right out of his life.

Now, Zavier needs to prove to Nicoletta that he understands what he’s lost. But she won’t take his calls. She won’t answer his texts. She sends back his gifts. And Zavier realizes it’s going to take more than lazy clichés to win her back. He has to delve into what caused him to treat his true love, his person, so thoughtlessly.

He just hopes it’s not too late.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mary Nova
• Release date: Aug 1, 2016
• ISBN: 9781310879180

Mary Nova

Welcome to Mary Nova's Author page!MARY NOVA writes in a variety of genres.Romance: The Scorched Series.Women's Lit: Polly Ticks.Fantasy: The Bag: Believe. It wants to belong to you...Mary is a native Mid-Westerner, currently ensconced in Rochester, MN. She’s a die-hard, bleed-purple Vikings fan, and spends the untenable Minnesota winters watching football and playing Texas Hold ‘em...when she’s not writing.​But what really roots Mary in Minnesota are friends, family, and lively conversations with lots of laughter and a nice glass of wine.​Mary invites you to write her at [e-mail] because it’s you, whether a one-time-reader or a superfan, who keeps her going. It also warms her frigid winters!

Book preview

Other novels by

Mary Nova

Keep in touch and see what’s COMING SOON:

https://www.instagram.com/authormarynova/

https://www.facebook.com/marynova.author/

https://twitter.com/marynova17

Scorched Surrender is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, products, corporations, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Copyright 2014 by Mary Nova

Smashwords Edition

All rights reserved.

All rights reserved. In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading, and electronic sharing of any part of this book without the permission of the author and/or publisher constitute unlawful piracy and theft of the author’s intellectual property.

This ebook is licensed and may not be re-sold or given to others.

Cover Design: Mary Nova

To my patrons, and biggest fans:

my parents, Gerald and Joan. Thank you for your belief in me. I never would have published without your prompting.

Thank you to Tony, Supertony102, for putting up with me during multiple cover design consultations, website construction, Facebook tutoring, and a hilarious photo shoot.

Lastly, to good neighbors, but great friends, Shauna, Keith, and Ruby. When I got Shauna, to my great, good fortune, I also got Keith and Ruby.

One additional shout out to Keith.

He knows why.

SCORCHED SURRENDER

CHAPTER ONE

I never could hold a grudge.

When someone hurts me, it takes me no time at all to overlook the bad things and reminisce about the good. I always thought that was a good quality, but now I’m not so sure. A grudge can be a handy crutch on which to lean.

Especially when it comes to break-ups.

Due to my forgiving nature, I didn’t have that crutch. And, to be honest, I needed more than a crutch. My break-up with Zavier Soto was so crippling, I needed a wheelchair.

Zavier.

Just the thought of his name carried associations that could bring me to my knees.

His gorgeous face, his sculpted body, the way he smelled, the way he tasted.

Zavier.

I was having a very hard time remembering why I broke up with such a perfect man. He was billionaire rich, generous, gorgeous, funny, intelligent, and the most thrilling lover imaginable.

Forget that he was toying with my heart.

I mostly forgot about the uncertainties, and insecurities Zavier caused me to feel. I didn’t dwell on the fact that Zavier didn’t want a future with me. He wanted to keep it casual, have a good time, no commitments.

But, I had fallen in love with him, and I strove for a deeper connection. I offered him my heart, and even though he professed to love me, he wasn’t ready for a serious relationship. He asked me to be patient.

So, I was patient, letting him string me along until I realized I deserved more. When I presented him with my desire to move forward, he made it clear. He wasn’t ever going to be ready…so I walked away.

But that didn’t mean I didn’t still yearn for him. I did yearn, achingly, remembering vividly how good it felt to be with him, while blurring the memory of his ultimate rejection.

Yes, it would be a good skill to learn: holding a grudge.

Nights are hard during a break-up. Trying to sleep is bad enough, but the middle of the night is the worst. I wake out of fitful dreams, and in my most vulnerable, drowsy state, when all my defenses are down, I feel complete and agonizing sorrow for the love I let go.

My heart seizes. I can’t feel it beating at all. It feels like a solid, heavy lump of searing, clenching pain. I press my fists tightly against my chest, and I fight back the howling, uncontrollable tears that would have me gulping for breath.

The agony is so intense, I’m unable to stay prone, and I scramble out of bed, splashing water on my face. I prowl around my loft like a wounded animal, trapped by its confines, the walls too close to contain the enormity of my pain.

When I exhaust myself, I return to my fitful sleep only to awaken in the morning with a stabbing ache in my heart as I flash on Zavier’s beautiful smile, or his gold-flecked brown eyes. Some mornings, I dreamily feel his hands caressing my body.

I shake my head, halting my painful reminiscing, and drag myself out of bed to face the routine of every day life. I go through the motions, flashing back to thoughts of Zavier a thousand times, the visions of him clear as crystal, while my life is like a blurry dream.

After mooning around in this half-life for over a week, without a grudge-crutch, I realize I need to employ some coping skills.

Women have varied ways of dealing with a break-up. Some women cut their hair. Some women decide to grow it out. Women lose weight, gain weight, drink more, or get clean and sober. Some women shut down, while others obliterate themselves in a flurry of social cramming. Some women just obliterate themselves.

Me? I bake.

I buried myself in the making of sweet treats, and after almost two full weeks of baking, I could’ve opened a shop. I thought to myself, if my photography thing falls through, I have a back-up.

That thought shook me up. I hadn’t taken a photo in three weeks. Before the break-up, my career as a gallery-exhibited photographer had been taking off, and now, here I was, holed up in my loft, baking. Get it together, Nic, I told myself. Get back to work.

And, moving on to the next coping mechanism, I did.

I inhale bracing cold air, thinking: my model is a trouper. It’s mid-October in Minnesota and I’m taking pictures of frigid river water washing over her bare feet. These are going to be pictures for my continuing Liquid series, a series of highly sensual photographs with liquid as a key element. I hope some of my patrons have a foot fetish.

Come on out of there, Gemma, I tell the model as I notice her feet changing from red with white stippling to purply-blue.

I’m fine, she says, gamely.

You’re not. Let’s get some color back.

She looks at her purple-blue feet and says, I don’t suppose the pictures are going to do you much good if my feet look like they’re on a cadaver.

Not very sexy, I agree. Danny, pour some hot thermos water into the pan, I say, turning to my new assistant.

Sure, Ms. Clark, he says, grabbing the thermos, and pouring.

Danny, I told you not to call me that. I’m Nicoletta. Or Nicky, or Nic.

I know. It’s just habit.

Danny is one of the talented kids I had mentored through an arts charity for which I volunteer. Now grown, and a recent graduate from the local arts college, he’s a talented photographer in his own right, and I’m lucky to have scooped him up.

Well, get over it, I say. We work together now. You can’t be calling me Ms. Clark. It’s positively… I struggle for the word.

Feudal, Gemma says.

I cringe. That’s not how I would’ve put it.

See? I turn to Danny. You’re making me feudal.

Sorry…Nicky, Danny says.

Was that so hard? I ask.

My feet are a sexy blushing pink, now. I’m ready, Gemma says, lifting her feet out of the pan.

Okay. Let’s get some last shots. I want to reposition you so the water gushes between the toes.

Gemma makes her way to the partially submerged rock we’ve been shooting on and turns her feet up stream.

Aye-eeeee, she yelps, as the water rushes through her toes.

Are you okay?

Shoot, shoot! she encourages.

I don’t hesitate; I lift my camera and frame her feet, holding the shutter button down while I move quickly, grabbing different angles and distances. I get what I need quickly, seeing through the lens a strangely sensual sight. Yes. These will be good.

All done, I say.

Are you sure? Gemma asks. I’m really okay.

Yep, she’s a trooper.

Positive, I say.

Let me help you out of there, Danny says, hopping across the rocks to Gemma.

I stow my camera and pour more hot water to warm Gemma’s indomitable feet.

When I return to my Minneapolis loft, I grab the photographic equipment out of my forest-green Jaguar. Entering the apartment, I immediately turn on the gas fireplace, warming from the chilly afternoon in the park.

The luxurious downtown loft is welcoming with rope lighting glowing off the brownish-red walls and gauzy matching curtains. I decorated my sanctuary lovingly, with textured cream-colored couches arranged around the marble fireplace and my collection of elephants, a cherry wood, granite, and stainless steel gourmet kitchen, and polished maple floors throughout.

Thanks to two healthy trust funds, one from my grandmother, and one from my parents, I live quite well on a fraction of my allowance despite the cost of the trendy downtown loft.

I hook up my digital camera to the computer, downloading the photos I took of Gemma. I click through photo after photo, happy with the images. The last bunch, with the water streaming between her toes, is especially captivating. Something about the water gushing through her small, pink feet is very erotic and evocative.

I begin working on one of these shots first, and lose myself in the editing. By the time I’m satisfied with the picture, it’s gotten dark and I work in the soft glow of the rope lighting.

I sigh with satisfaction. The dainty feet in the gushing water is going to sell quickly. I’m excited to work on the rest of the photos.

I wish I could send this to Zavier.

He was instrumental in getting me started on my Liquid series. The sizzling sexual chemistry between us had me craving a sensual photographic series. And sending him the resulting photos often jump-started sexual fireworks between us.

My mind wanders to the photo I sent him of Gina, one of the models, in my shower, water cascading off her sleek body.

Zavier came over almost immediately, dragged me to my shower, and undressed me, positioning me under the warm spray. He watched the water streaming off my body as he stripped. He joined me in the shower, sudsing up my shower scrunchy, turning me to face the wall while he rubbed against my backside, his hard penis poking my buttocks.

Zavier massaged the front of my body, my throat, my breasts, my stomach with my scrunchy. When his hand reached between my legs, he tapped the sponge against my throbbing button while his stiff penis entered my vagina from behind.

His thick, hardness slammed into me, the tight wetness of our fit thrilling me. My vagina throbbed as he thrust in and out…

Sitting at my computer, alone, I realize I’m breathing heavily, panting. I shake my head.

Stop it, I tell myself. It’s over.

I save my work and shut off the computer. My exhilaration at the new photos has soured into lonely sadness, and I wonder if I can continue with the Liquid series. It’s selling well, but the toll these sexy photos take…I no longer have an outlet for the feelings they stir up.

It makes me think of Zavier too much. And thoughts of him are debilitating.

Before I can wallow too much, the phone rings. It’s my best friend, Cassie.

Hey, Cassie, I answer. You saved me.

From what?

Thinking.

Oh. That’s deadly.

Cassie and I have known each other since childhood, and our connection is almost supernatural. Since my break-up, she’s been sort of a helicopter friend, hovering over me like a concerned mother. Sometimes, it’s a little smothering, but right now, it’s most welcome.

Yeah. I got some great shots today, and it got me thinking…

Zavier-the-commitment-phobe?

Yep.

She has nicknames for all my exes. Eric-the-cheater, Rob-the-gold-digger. I haven’t had the best luck with men.

You want to talk?

Nah, I say. Just hearing your voice jolted me out of my doldrums. Hang out tomorrow, though?

Yeah. I can do that. Want to do lunch, or later?

Let’s make it later. I want to edit more of these photos.

Okay. I’ll come four-ish and bring wine.

Okay. See you then.

I hang up the phone, feeling better. It’s getting easier to cope.

After the next day’s get-together with Cassie, I keep my head down, spending a week editing the Gemma photos. I bring them to the gallery that exhibits my work, showing them to Sonja, the owner.

Nicoletta, these are great, she says. I’ve been meaning to talk to you about your work. I’d like to propose a solo show for your Liquid photos.

I’m elated, and my face must show my stunned pleasure because Sonja laughs and hugs me.

Oh, Sonja. This is… I’m lost for words.

Sonja laughs, releasing me.

You deserve your own show, Nicoletta. You’ve built quite a reputation, and a good following.

Sonja, this means so much to me. You can’t know what your support has meant to me. My own show… I say, musing out loud.

Leave the details to me, and get busy. I think we have enough pieces to exhibit, but the way your work is selling, it can’t hurt to have a few more things in the pipeline.

Okay. I have some more ideas.

Two weeks from this weekend.

Wow. Okay. I’ll get to work.

I leave the gallery on cloud nine. My first instinct is to call