Page 78 of Surrender to Me
Lyra
“Start?” I repeat. “With what?” Though with the smoldering look in his dark eyes, I have an idea of what he’s talking about.
Is the man insatiable?
“I’ll give you a reprieve.” He pauses for an intentional beat. “For now.”
I exhale.
“Give your anticipation a chance to grow as you think about what I’m planning for you. Am I going to push you past your comfort level again?”
Squirming, I grab hold of a throw and drag it across my lap.
“What kind of requests am I going to have of you?”
Beneath the blanket, I twist my hands together. “Is this your version of foreplay, Stryker?”
Slow enough that I could pull away, Stryker leans in.
His mouth finds mine, soft at first, just a brush that makes my breath catch. Then he deepens it, sliding one of his big hands to the back of my neck, holding me exactly where he wants me.
He tastes like the richest dark chocolate melted into warm cream, the ghost of coffee lingering underneath, bitter and addictive.
With deliberation, his tongue strokes mine once, twice, coaxing, until my lips feel full and tingling, a little bruised in the best way.
Heat floods me, pooling low in my belly, spreading outward until my thighs press together under the throw and I have to fight the urge to climb into his lap right here on the couch.
Finally he eases back.
My mouth is swollen, pulsing with every heartbeat, and I’m so turned on; the air itself feels like a caress.
My nipples are tight against my bra, my skin flushed and oversensitive. I’m wet—embarrassingly, instantly wet—and the ache between my legs is almost painful.
“But in this case…” He brushes his thumb across my lower lip, as if he’s savoring the damage he just did. “I thought you might want to talk. Or play a game. Share secrets.”
I should be relieved that he’s giving me a short break, but after that, his teasing question feels like a cold splash of water.
“Which do you prefer, Allie.”
“Uhm… Talking, maybe. Yeah. Talking is great. Definitely not secrets.”
“No truth or dare for you?”
“That’s a hard limit.”
“Fair enough.” He holds up a hand. “I respect that.”
Relieved, I sink a little deeper into the cushions.
He turns toward me fully, one arm along the back of the couch, his attention settling on me with that slow, deliberate intensity he uses when he’s reading a room—or reading me.
“The mirroring technique?” he says. “It’s not just for negotiations or interviews. It’s great for survival.”
My breath catches. “Survival?”
He nods once. “If you ever end up in a situation where someone’s evaluating you—deciding what to do with you—you mirror them.”
I frown a little. “Why?”
