Page 55 of Surrender to Me
Lyra
The scent of bacon, crisp and smoky, tugs me from sleep, curling through the haze of my dreams like a thief in the night.
My body aches, a delicious soreness from Stryker’s relentless claiming, his rough thrusts still echoing in my muscles, my bones, my heart. I blink against the soft morning light filtering through the cabin’s curtains, the sheets tangled around my legs, warm with his lingering heat.
For a moment, I let myself lie here, cocooned in this bed that smells of him: male power, sex, and temptation. It’s as feral as it is grounding…enough to make me forget the world outside these walls.
Then it hits me, scaring the hell out of me. I’m comfortable and safe. Two things I daren’t allow myself to think about.
My heart pounding, I flip over.
This warmth, this time together, is a fantasy, nothing more. And I know better than to trust it.
Desperate to bring myself back to reality, I grab hold of the locket that rests heavy against my chest, its weight a reminder of who I am and why I’m running.
But God, I don’t want to move. Not yet.
Then I smell coffee. Even though I don’t like the stuff and won’t touch it, the scent is always tantalizing.
I roll out of bed, pulling on one of Stryker’s shirts that’s sitting on top of his go bag. The flannel swallows my frame, brushing my thighs as I pad barefoot to the kitchen.
The breathtaking sight of him stops me cold. He’s shirtless, gray sweatpants slung low on his lean hips, the muscles in his back shifting with every move.
When he turns just enough, I catch the shadowed lines of his abdomen—hard ridges cut deep enough to make my pulse stumble.
He’s flipping bacon, the pan hissing, the coffee maker gurgling, a mug of chai steaming on the counter just for me. It’s so domestic, so normal; it hurts—a glimpse of a life I can’t have, not with hunters on my trail and secrets I can’t share.
He must sense me, because he glances over his shoulder. That slow grin appears, the kind that feels like a touch before he even crosses the room.
“Morning, sweetheart. Sleep well?”
My cheeks heat, memories of last night flooding back—his cock driving into me, my screams, the way he held me after, like I was his to protect. “Good enough.” My voice trembles, thin as silk stretched too tight. His eyes darken, smoke replacing gray, and I know that look—it means trouble.
He crooks a finger in sensual invitation. “C’mere, Allie.”
It’s not a command, but my body treats it like one. I shouldn’t—God, I shouldn’t—but my feet move anyway.
He meets me halfway, pinning me gently against the counter, not dominating but playful, his arms looping around my waist, pulling me close, and I breathe him in, all spice and strength.
“You were wonderful last night.” His gruff, resonant tone is low and warm, but with a hungry edge that sends a shiver down my spine.
Before I’m ready, his lips crash onto mine, deep and devouring. I can’t help but respond desperately, my hands sliding up his chest, fingers digging into the hard planes of muscle.
He tastes like coffee and sin—dark, bitter, addictive. His tongue strokes mine in slow, claiming passes, a rhythm that feels more like possession than a kiss. His hands slide down my back, finding bare skin beneath the hem of the flannel, fingertips tracing fire up my spine until I melt against him, lost in the heat and the memory of his body driving into mine.
I ache, needing more, wanting to give everything.
Then suddenly the acrid scent of burning bacon cuts through the haze, and I pull back, gasping.
Stryker curses under his breath. “Shit.” But instead of getting mad, he laughs, a rough, carefree sound, and slides the pan off the heat.
The smoke alarm gives a full-blast alert, and I wave a dish towel beneath it.
“You distract me, Allie.”
My heart is pounding with desire and need. I’ve never had this kind of reaction to a man before.
“The taste of you is worth not having a full breakfast.”
