Page 138 of Surrender to Me
Lyra
Three weeks later
I wake slowly.
There’s no jolt of fear. No scanning corners for threats. No adrenaline. No metallic, hollow dread that used to live in my ribs.
Just the sweet sensation of warmth and safety, a slow, golden glow that starts in my toes and spreads upward like sunlight. This peace—something I’ve never known my entire life—stretches along my spine, then settles low in my belly.
I stretch, languid, catlike, and the sheets glide over my bare skin with a whisper that makes me shiver in the best way.
Then I register him.
I open my eyes and smile.
Stryker is propped on one elbow beside me, head resting in his big palm, and he’s watching me with the kind of quiet intensity that turns me on.
His hair is still damp from the shower. Dark strands curl against his forehead and the strong column of his neck. A single droplet of water clings to the edge of his jaw before it falls, landing cool on my collarbone.
He smells like cedar soap and fresh air and a darker scent of danger that belongs only to him.
A white towel rides low on his hips, barely clinging, and the sight of all that bare, sculpted chest makes my mouth dry.
At first, he doesn’t speak. He simply looks, eyes heavy lidded, lips curved in a half-smile that promises ruin and salvation in the same breath.
I blink up at him, still half dreaming. My voice comes out husky, rough with sleep. “You’re staring.”
“Have been for a while.” His voice is morning low, that same gravel dragged across velvet tone that unravels me. “You make these little sounds when you dream. Tiny sighs. Like you’re surprised someone is still here when you open your eyes.”
My heart does something complicated inside my chest. Three weeks of waking up to this man and it still undoes me.
He shifts closer, the mattress dipping under his weight, and the towel slips another fraction. I feel the heat rolling off his skin. “I’m hungry, Lyra.”
The way he says my name, my real name, makes my thighs press together under the sheet.
“We have eggs,” I manage. “And that artisan bread you like.”
His smile widens, slow and wicked. “That’s not what I mean. And you know it.”
His gaze drops deliberately to where the sheet has twisted low across my breasts, then lower, to the shadow between my legs. The air thickens. I feel it on my skin like a touch.
“Stryker.” I mean it as protest, but it comes out breathless. “I haven’t showered. I’m all?—”
“Perfect.” He cuts me off, voice rougher now. He leans in, mouth brushing the shell of my ear, breath hot. “You took that long bath last night. I sat on the counter and watched you soak until your cheeks went pink. I know exactly how you smell right now, and it’s been making me hard since I got out of the shower.”
Heat floods me, sharp and immediate. My nipples tighten against the sheet.
He pulls back just enough to meet my eyes. “Spread your legs for me, Lyra.”
It is not a question.
My breath catches. For one heartbeat, I consider teasing him, making him work for it, because God knows I love watching that control fray. But the look on his face, reverent and ravenous, steals every clever comeback.
I let my knees fall open.
Approval flares in his eyes, dark and molten. He peels the sheet down slowly, exposing me inch by inch to the cool morning air and his burning gaze. My skin prickles everywhere he looks.
When the fabric pools at my feet, he exhales, long and shaky, like a man who has been starving for years and is finally allowed to feast.
