Chapter 22
Chapter Twenty-Two
Lyra
Stryker glides his fingers through my slickness, and he parts my folds with deliberate slowness. I’m already swollen, and the first brush of his thumb over my clit makes me gasp into his mouth. He circles once, twice, then presses harder, sending a jolt straight through me.
“Tell me what you want, Allie.” He pulls back just enough to watch my face, his eyes dark with intent. “Be clear about it.”
“I…” I draw a steadying breath. “I want an orgasm.”
A slow smile saunters across his lips. “Tell me how you want me to go about it.”
The words seem to stick in my throat as embarrassment wars with the incessant throb between my legs. I’ve never said anything like this out loud, never let the need spill over without shame. But the way he’s looking at me—with that infinite patience of his—chisels past my reserve.
“I want…” My voice cracks, and I swallow hard. “I want your fingers inside me. Fucking me. Hard. I want to come on your hand, Stryker. Please.”
The plea tumbles out, raw and unfiltered, my cheeks burning even as my hips rock forward, chasing his touch. It’s terrifying, exhilarating, to hear myself beg like this.
His grin is slow, wicked. “Louder.”
“I need you to make me come.” My words seem to echo off the cabin walls, though truthfully they’re probably not much more than a whisper. “Need your fingers deep, your thumb on my clit—Fuck, please, Stryker. I’m begging you.”
“You’re so damn beautiful. Perfect for me.” He growls, low and approvingly, and drives two fingers inside my slick channel without warning.
The stretch is perfect, overwhelming, making me moan.
He changes his angle so that he effortlessly finds my G-spot. Then he presses his thumb against my clit and begins moving in tight, ruthless circles.
Pleasure slams into me, coiling tight and fast. My pussy clenches around him, slick and greedy, every thrust pushing me higher.
Overwhelmed, I cry his name and grip his shoulders.
“Talk to me, Allie.”
My whimpers are incoherent—his name, pleas, broken curses—as the orgasm builds, fierce and unstoppable. “I…”
“Tell me.”
“Please let me orgasm?” My insides are tied in such knots that I’m sure I’ll die if he refuses me yet again. “I’m begging you, Stryker.
“That’s it. Yes. Come for me, Allie.” His tone is all gravel and Dominant command. “Let me hear every moment.”
I shatter.
The climax rips through me, white-hot and endless, my body convulsing as waves of ecstasy pulse from my core.
As he draws it out, making me come again, I cry out, my pussy clenching around him, drenching his hand.
“Give me everything you’ve got.”
He’s relentless, leaving me shattered, trembling, oversensitive, with tears streaking down my cheeks.
Eventually, when I can’t even draw a full breath, he slows. But he doesn’t stop right away. Instead, he eases me down from the incredible high with gentle strokes, a little at a time.
Minutes later, I sag against him, no longer able to find the strength to hold myself up.
As he cradles me, overwhelming emotion crashes into my pleasure.
The physical relief was sweet and so sharp that it aches. The vulnerability he’d required of me has left me exposed in ways I’ve never imagined.
I’ve never opened myself like that, never let anyone hear the despair in my voice. The trust it took shakes me to my core.
His lips brush my temple. “You are my very good girl.”
I bury my face in his neck, hiding my flush of pleasure, the tears. “I didn’t know I could…say those things.”
“You can with me.” He cups my cheek, turning me to face forward so he can thumb aside a tear. “Always. In fact, that’s my preference. The openness. The honesty. The trust.”
Sexually, I give him all that.
And an unfamiliar part of my heart aches that I have to hold back at all.
He strokes my hair, holding me close until my breathing returns to normal.
Stryker’s arms are a fortress around me, his heartbeat a steady anchor beneath my cheek.
While we were playing, the fire burned down to embers. A shiver ripples through me—part from my postclimax haze, part from the chill that’s creeping into the room.
Of course Stryker instantly notices and pulls the blanket more tightly around us. Does he live in a hyperstate of awareness?
“You’re still trembling.”
Heaven help me. What his gravely, tender voice does to my insides…
“Let me warm you up properly.”
My legs are jelly when he helps me stand. I’m such a wobbly mess that I laugh at myself.
With a hand on my waist, he steadies me.
Then he helps me to dress again. His motions are tender, as if I’m something precious.
As he slides the pants up my legs, his fingers graze my thighs. Then he helps me into the shirt.
The chain from my locket snags on the fabric, making me freeze. The cool metal presses against my skin, heavier than it should be, like it’s carrying the weight of every secret I can’t tell him. Not yet. I push the thought away, in favor of reality. Not yet?
Not ever.
He frees the fabric, then brushes back my hair with a tenderness that makes my heart twist.
If only this moment could last forever…
With a nod, he crouches to bring the dying fire back to life.
God, he’s a vision. The flex of his back muscles as he shifts a log, the focus in his dark eyes, like he could command the flames themselves.
Even doing something as simple as tending a fire, he’s all power and grace, a man who owns every inch of the space around him.
My pulse stutters, and I don’t look away.
The room warms, and Stryker stands to face me. Embarrassingly he’s caught me staring at him.
“I’m going to go outside and shovel.”
“Seriously?” I blink. Right now, nothing could entice me to leave the comfort of the cabin. “Have you seen the weather?”
“That’s exactly why it needs to be done. Need to be sure I have access to the shed and dry wood. Check the generator in case we lose power. Ensure cameras are clear.”
He absolutely never stops being a protector.
“While you do that, I’ll go ahead and get the stew started.”
“Good call.”
Having something to do while I process everything we’ve shared is a necessity.
Stryker’s already pulling on his coat, the heavy fabric swallowing his broad frame. Boots, hat, gloves—He’s a fortress of preparation, every movement deliberate.
I’m still half-dazed from his touch, my body humming, but the promise of stew grounds me. Something normal. Something I can give him.
“Be careful out there,” I call, my voice softer than I mean it to be.
He flashes that half smile, the one that makes my tummy somersault. “Always am, sweetheart.” The door shuts behind him, and the cabin feels emptier without his presence.
As I head across the cabin, the chill of the floor seeps through my socks, making me rush back and put on a pair of shoes.
The temperatures are much harsher at this altitude than I’m used to.
In the kitchen, I take out all the ingredients I need. Then I roll up my sleeves and start peeling the potatoes.
The knife’s rhythm is meditative, each slice a small reclaiming of control.
I’m not sure how Stryker’s coping with the wind. It’s howling like it’s got a grudge, and snow seems to be smacking the windows.
There’s a scraping sound, and I can barely make out Stryker’s dark silhouette against the white, shoveling a path to the shed with relentless focus.
I can’t help but feel slightly guilty.
If he hadn’t escaped the city with me in tow, he’d still be in Denver, sipping his nasty coffee in the Wash Park café.
Instead, he’s doing everything in his power to keep us—me—safe.
With a sigh, I brown the beef in a heavy pot, the sizzle filling the cabin with savory warmth.
When I look outside again, he’s in the shed. Maybe to put away the shovel?
Guessing he’ll be chilled when he returns, I make a pot of hot chocolate.
Minutes later, the door bangs open with a gust of wind, snow swirling in like an uninvited guest. Stryker’s back, a winter god carved from ice and determination.
Snowflakes cling to his dark hair, melting on his lashes, his cheeks flushed from the cold. His eyes find mine, bright with that unshakeable confidence, and my pulse stutters. How does he make freezing his ass off look so damn irresistible?
I’m at his side in an instant, brushing snow from his shoulders, my hands lingering on the hard planes of his chest. “You’re insane.” Even though I’m shaking my head, I’m smiling.
“Miss me?” His voice is low, teasing, as he pulls me into a cold-but-warm hug, his gloved hands steady on my waist.
“Terribly.” The word slips out before I can stop it. Why did I admit that?
Needing physical and emotional space, I take a step back. “I made you some hot chocolate. Figured you’d appreciate it with as nasty as the weather is.”
His grin is slow, genuine. “Appreciate it.”
Wanting to be sure the milk doesn’t scald, I hurry back into the kitchen.
After stripping off his snow-covered outer garments and placing his boots on a plastic tray near the door, he joins me.
“You’re spoiling me, Allie.” He accepts the offering and takes a sip. “I could get used to this.” He studies me. “To us.”
I touch my pendant to remind myself of reality as I quickly turn back to the stove.
Drawing a deep, ragged breath, I add veggies to the stew pot, trying to ignore the way my heart’s racing. His words hit me in a way that no one else’s ever have.
“Smells incredible already.” He comes closer to peer over my shoulder. “Anything I can do to help?”
“Thanks. No. It just needs to simmer for a few hours.”
He nods. “In that case, I’m going to take a quick shower.” He brushes a knuckle along my jaw. “Get out of these wet clothes before they get too much colder.”
He disappears down the hall, and I hear the water turn on.
I’m left with the stew’s low bubble and the storm’s roar, my mind spinning, my heart racing.
Ten minutes later, he heads into his office, and I take the opportunity to check my phone.
No updates. But with the weather, I’m not surprised.
It’s a reprieve. Nothing more.
When Stryker eventually joins me, he’s in fresh sweatpants and a thermal shirt. His dark hair is damp and tousled, and he smells of soap and that clean, masculine scent that’s all him. My stomach flips again. Does he have to make everything so damn sexy?
With him also in the kitchen, the space is somewhat crowded.
Apparently unconcerned, he grabs the coffee grounds to make a fresh pot.
“You could mainline the stuff. Might be easier.”
He sweeps his gaze over my face and down my body, slowly, intentionally. “I need to stay sharp for what I have in mind later.”
Heat seeps into my face, and I distract myself with stirring the pot.
A few minutes later—him with a fresh mug in hand—we move to the living room. Then he brings the sofa closer to the fire, which he stokes.
“Everything checks out?”
Quirking an eyebrow, he sits next to me.
“Outside, I mean. And, uhm…” How do I act subtle, when I’m desperate for information about the outside world. “I mean, with whatever you do in your office.”
“No news.”
For now, that’s a relief.
“Nowhere to go, Allie. Nowhere for you to hide.”
I gulp.
“Where do you suggest we start?”