Chapter 11
Chapter Eleven
Lyra
“You.” I’ll die if I don’t have him inside me. I need you to fuck me.
The raw word seem to snap something in him. His eyes go dark, predatory.
He moves up my body, his weight settling over me, and I feel the hard length of him against my thigh, thick and heavy and hot, pressing against my hip. He reaches for something on the nightstand—a condom. Always prepared. Always cautious.
The sound of the foil tearing seems unnaturally loud, and I watch as he sheathes himself with practiced efficiency. My mouth goes dry at the sight of him—long and thick, the head already glistening. When he settles back between my legs, the head of his cock brushes against me, and I whimper.
“Fuck, you’re still so wet,” he growls, sliding back and forth through my slickness. “So ready for me.”
“Keep looking at me,” he says, positioning himself at my entrance. “I want to watch you take me.”
I do, meeting his gaze as he pushes into me slowly. The stretch is exquisite torture—it’s been a long time since I’ve been with anyone, and never with someone like him. Someone who fills me so completely, stretching me wide, claiming every inch of me.
“Christ, you’re tight.” His voice is hoarse. “So fucking perfect.”
He pauses, giving me time to adjust, his jaw clenched with the effort of holding back. I can feel him throbbing inside me, hot and hard and barely restrained.
“You okay?”
“Yes.” The word comes out breathless. “More. I can take it. I want all of you.”
“Greedy girl.” His murmur is filled with appreciation.
He gives me what I ask for, sliding deeper until he’s seated fully inside me.
I feel split open, possessed, completely owned by this man and his thickness.
We stay like that for a moment, connected in the most intimate way possible, and something shifts between us.
Something deeper than desire. More dangerous than want.
“Look how perfectly you take me,” he says, his voice rough with awe. “Like you were made for my cock.”
Then he starts to move, and coherent thought becomes impossible. Each thrust is deep and deliberate, hitting spots inside me that make me see stars. The wet sounds of our bodies joining fill the room, obscene and perfect.
“You feel so good wrapped around me,” he pants against my neck. “So hot and tight. I could fuck you all night.”
Each thrust builds the pressure inside me higher, pushing me toward a precipice I’m not sure I’ll survive falling from.
“That’s it,” he murmurs against my ear. “Let go. Let me feel you come on my cock.”
But I can’t. Even as my body responds to his, even as he drives me higher and higher, some part of me holds back. Some self-protective instinct that refuses to surrender completely.
He seems to sense my struggle because he slows his rhythm, his hand cupping my cheek.
“What is it? What are you afraid of?”
Everything. I’m afraid of losing myself in him. Of forgetting who I am and why I can’t have this. Of the inevitable moment when this ends and I’m left with nothing but the memory of what it felt like to be touched by someone who sees me as more than just another job or another lie.
But I can’t tell him that. Can’t explain why I’m holding back without revealing everything I’ve worked so hard to hide.
Instead, I pull him down for a kiss, pouring all my want and need and desperate longing into the contact. He responds immediately, his control slipping as he kisses me back with matching hunger.
The rhythm changes, becomes more urgent. He pounds into me now, each thrust harder and deeper than the last, the headboard hitting the wall with our desperation. His hand slides between us, finding that sensitive bundle of nerves, and he circles my clit with rough, demanding strokes.
“Come for me,” he commands, his voice dark with authority. “Come on my cock, Allie. Let me feel you fall apart.”
The combination of his thick length hitting that perfect spot inside me and his fingers working my clit is my undoing. I’m flying apart. The orgasm hits me like a tidal wave, stealing my breath and making the room spin around me.
I scream his name, my pussy clenching around him like a vise, milking him as waves of pleasure crash through me.
“Fuck, yes.” He groans, and his rhythm becomes erratic. “That’s it, squeeze my dick. You feel so good when you come.”
He follows me over, his body going rigid as he finds his own release, driving deep one final time as he spills himself inside the condom, my name on his lips like a prayer.
We stay tangled together afterward, both breathing hard, and I can feel his heartbeat against my chest. Strong and steady, like the man himself.
After a few moments, he shifts, disposing of the condom before pulling me against his side. I should pull away. Should put some distance between us before we get any more entangled.
But I don’t. Instead, I let myself have this moment. This illusion of safety and connection and something that feels dangerously close to love.
“You’re thinking too hard,” he murmurs, his fingers tracing lazy patterns on my shoulder.
“Am I?”
“Mmm. I can practically hear the wheels turning.”
I don’t respond, and he tilts my face up to look at him.
“Talk to me, Allie. What’s going on in that head of yours?”
For a wild moment, I almost tell him. Almost spill everything—about my father, about the locket, about the reason I can never really let anyone in. The urge is so strong; it nearly overwhelms me.
But then reality crashes back in, cold and unforgiving. He’s Hawkeye Security. And his bosses are looking for me.
What would he do if he knew the truth? Would he still look at me the same way? Would he still hold me like I’m something precious, or would I become just another case file?
The thought is like ice water in my veins.
“It’s nothing.” I force the lie and a smile. “Just… This is new for me.”
It’s not entirely untrue. The only other time I’d been with someone was years ago, after a job in Prague.
A man who worked with my father—older, experienced, someone who understood the adrenaline rush that came after a successful heist. It had been inevitable, in a way.
All that excitement had to go somewhere.
But it hadn’t been like this. Hadn’t left me feeling raw and exposed and desperate for more. Hadn’t made me want things I couldn’t have.
“New how?” Stryker’s thumb brushes across my cheek, and I have to fight not to lean into the touch.
God he’s relentless. Persistent.
“I don’t usually… I mean, I don’t make a habit of this.”
“Good.” There’s possession in his tone that sends heat spiraling through me all over again. “I don’t like the idea of sharing you.”
The words should set off alarm bells. Should remind me that I can’t belong to anyone, no matter how much I might want to. But instead, they make something warm and dangerous unfurl in my chest.
“Stryker…”
“I know.” His arm tightens around me. “I know this complicates things. I know you have walls I can’t see past. But I meant what I said before—I don’t give up on the things that matter.”
“And I matter?”
The question slips out before I can stop it, revealing more vulnerability than I intend.
“Yeah. You do,” he says simply. “More than you know.”
The confession hits me like a physical blow. For so long, I’ve been nobody. A ghost. A collection of fake names and carefully constructed lies. The idea that I could matter to someone—really matter—is almost too much to bear.
Tears prick at my eyes, and I blink them back furiously. I can’t afford to cry. Can’t afford to let him see how deeply his words affect me.
But he sees anyway. He always sees too much.
“Hey.” He catches a tear with his thumb before it can fall. “What’s wrong?”
Everything. My whole life is wrong. This moment, as perfect as it is, is built on a foundation of lies. And no matter how much I want this—want him—it can’t last. It was never meant to last.
“I should go,” I whisper, even as my body rebels against the idea of leaving his warmth.
“Go where? It’s the middle of the night, and we’re in the middle of nowhere.”
“I just… I need some air.”
I try to sit up, but his arm tightens around me.
“Don’t run from this, Allie. Don’t run from me.”
“I’m not running.” The lie tastes bitter on my tongue.
“Yes, you are. And I want to know why.”
His eyes search mine, and I see the exact moment he makes a decision. The moment he decides to push.
“Who are you really?”
The question hangs in the air between us, and my blood turns to ice.
“I told you—”
“You told me your name is Allie Johnson. You told me you’re a graphic designer. You told me a lot of things.” His thumb traces the chain of my locket, and I go rigid. “But you didn’t tell me why you carry a gun. Why you fight like you’ve had training. Why you constantly look over your shoulder.”
My heart hammers against my ribs so hard I’m sure he can feel it. This is it. The moment everything falls apart.
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“Don’t.” The single word is sharp as a blade. “Don’t lie to me. Not after what just happened between us.”
I want to tell him. God help me, I want to tell him everything. But I can’t. Not without destroying everything I’ve worked so hard to build. Not without putting him in danger too.
“Some things are better left alone, Stryker.”
“Not this. Not when it’s between us.”
I close my eyes, trying to block out the hurt I hear in his voice. When I open them again, his expression has changed. Gone cold. Professional.
“Who’s after you?”
The question is quietly asked, but I hear the steel underneath. This isn’t my lover asking anymore. This is the operative. The protector.
And somehow that hurts more than anything else.
“I can’t do this.” I pull away from him, grabbing my clothes from the floor. “I’m sorry, but I can’t.”
“Allie, wait—”
But I’m already moving, desperate to put distance between us before I do something stupid. Like tell him the truth. Like trust him with secrets that could get us both killed.
I dress quickly, my hands shaking as I pull on my sweatpants. When I reach for the door, he’s suddenly there, blocking my path. Still naked, still beautiful, still everything I can’t have.
“Don’t do this,” he says quietly. “Don’t shut me out.”
“I have to.”
“Why?”
Because I’m not who you think I am. Because my father was a thief. Because the locket around my neck means something, and I have no idea what it is. But obviously he died because of it. And so might I.
And mostly because telling you any of this would be the most selfish thing I’ve ever done.
But I can’t say any of that. Instead, I reach up and touch his face, memorizing the feel of his skin under my fingers. “Walls exist for a reason.”
Then I slip past him and out the door, leaving him standing there in the lamplight, and I don’t look back.
Even though every step away from him feels like dying…