Page 150 of Surrender to Me
As I arch my back, my head falls back as he bottoms out with a hiss of breath against my neck.
Stryker stills for one heartbeat, two, letting me feel every thick inch of him buried deep, letting the reality sink in.
“Fuck, Lyra. You were made for me.”
Then he moves.
Slow, deep strokes that drag over every sensitive spot inside me, his mouth on my throat, my collarbone, the swell of my breast above the neckline. I wrap my legs high around his waist, heels digging into the small of his back, urging him deeper. The table creaks beneath us, linen bunching under my shoulders as he drives into me again and again, the ring on my finger catching every flicker of flame with every thrust.
Home.
We’re home.
Finally, completely, irrevocably home.
And together, we’ve already started on our future.
Epilogue
Lyra
Spring
Styker’s cabin is different in spring.
Sunlight pours through the pines in thick golden shafts, turning the dust motes into slow-dancing sparks that drift across the wide plank floors. The air smells of warm sap and the faint sweetness of the wildflowers I picked yesterday.
I stand barefoot on the porch, toes curling against the sun-warmed wood, the boards smooth from years of feet that never belonged to me until now.
The screen door creaks behind me. I don’t turn. Don’t need to.
The shift in the air is enough—the sudden warmth at my back, the faint scent of coffee and cedar and the particular heat that belongs only to him.
Stryker slides his hand around my waist, palm flat against the bare strip of skin where my tank top has ridden up, fingers splaying wide like he is measuring the exact size of the space he now owns.
His mouth finds the curve where my shoulder meets my neck, open and slow, teeth grazing just enough to make my breath hitch.
“You’re brooding.” The vibration of his voice against my skin travels through me to settle low in my belly.
I lean back into him, letting his chest take my weight, letting the solid wall of him remind every cell in my body that I am held. “I’m thinking.”
“Same thing.” His voice curves with amusement, rough and warm and familiar, in a way that still steals the air from my lungs some mornings.
He brings his free hand up to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear, knuckles brushing the shell, lingering.
I feel the calluses he earned on ranges and ropes and missions I will never fully know the details of, and the rasp of them against my skin makes me shiver despite the heat of the day.
What did I ever do right in my life to deserve being loved by a man like him?
I remember every sunrise he has been there when I opened my eyes. Every nightmare he has pulled me through with hands that never shake. Every ordinary Tuesday he has made my chai exactly the way I like it and kissed the top of my head like I’m the most treasured gift in the universe.
His thumb traces the edge of my ribcage, slow circles that make my skin prickle and my thighs press together under the thin cotton of my shorts. “You okay?” The question is quieter now, the teasing gone, replaced by that low note he only uses when he is bracing for impact, when he is preparing to catch whatever I throw.
I turn in the circle of his arms, palms sliding up the hard planes of his chest, fingers curling into the soft cotton of his T-shirt. The fabric is warm from his body, and his heart beats steady under my touch, strong and sure and mine.
“I am.” The words come out softer than I expect, thick with everything I still struggle to name. “I really am.”
His eyes search mine, dark and fathomless, the way they always do when he is cataloguing every flicker across my face. The tension in his jaw eases by slow degrees, the microscopic shift only someone who has memorized the terrain of him would notice. His forehead drops to rest against mine, breath mingling warm between us.
