Page 149 of Surrender to Me
He takes my left hand, his fingers trembling just enough that I feel it in my bones. “I have spent my life running toward danger because it was the only thing that ever felt like home. Then I walked into a coffee shop and saw you watching the door like you expected the world to end, and I knew I had been running in the wrong direction.”
Tears sting my eyes.
“I love you.” The words fall between us, absolute. “I love the way you fight. The way you trust me even when every instinct screams not to. The way you taste when you come apart under my mouth. I love the life we haven’t built yet and every single day we are going to wake up and choose each other.”
His eyes search mine, dark and fierce and stripped bare.
“Marry me, Lyra. Be my home. Let me be yours.”
“Yes.” The word rips out of me before thought catches up. “I love you.” My confession spills out, fierce and trembling. “God, Stryker, I love you so much it terrifies me. Yes. Always yes.”
He slides the ring up my finger, slow, deliberate, the cool metal warming instantly against my skin.
Grinning like a fool, he surges up, cups my face in both hands, and kisses me like a man claiming a country he intends to rule with absolute devotion.
The taste of him—wine and chocolate and forever—floods my mouth.
His mouth leaves mine only long enough to trail fire down my throat, teeth scraping the pulse hammering there.
One of his big hands slides from my jaw to the back of my neck, fingers threading into my hair, tilting my head exactly where he wants it.
The other hand drops to my thigh, and he pushes the hem of my dress higher, knuckles brushing the bare skin, deliberate, possessive. Heat coils low in my belly, sharp and immediate.
He stands without warning, hauling me up with him, my body pressed flush to his from chest to knee.
The chair scrapes back, forgotten.
His hands grip my hips, lift me effortlessly, and set me on the edge of the table. The linen is cool beneath my thighs, a shock against the fever of my skin.
Plates and glasses shift with a soft clink as he steps between my legs, forcing them wider, the fabric of my dress riding higher until cool air kisses the damp lace between my thighs.
He slides his palms up my legs, slow, reverent, owning.
He leans in, mouth at my ear, breath hot.
I look up at him, deep into his eyes. “Can we skip the condom?”
“Are you sure?”
My pulse spikes so hard I feel it in my throat, between my legs, everywhere. His eyes lock on mine, almost black with hunger, waiting. I’ve never been surer of anything.
I swallow, the word scraping out raw. “Yes.”
His groan is low, guttural, the sound of a man who has just been handed the world.
Once more, he crushes his mouth to mine again, swallowing my gasp as one hand slips between us, fingers hooking the edge of my lace panties and dragging them down my thighs in one smooth motion.
The fabric catches on his watch, tears slightly, and neither of us cares. He shoves his belt open with impatient jerks, the metallic clink loud in the quiet room, zipper rasping down.
I feel him, hot, hard, velvet over steel, nudging against me.
As he grips my waist and moves me into the position he wants, I clutch his shoulders.
He takes his time, making sure I’m ready. And I am, panting, desperate, needy.
Finally, with one slow, deliberate push, he slides into me bare for the first time, skin to skin, nothing between us but heat and want and the future we just promised each other.
The stretch is exquisite, overwhelming, perfect.
