Chapter 38
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Lyra
Three weeks later
I wake slowly.
There’s no jolt of fear. No scanning corners for threats. No adrenaline. No metallic, hollow dread that used to live in my ribs.
Just the sweet sensation of warmth and safety, a slow, golden glow that starts in my toes and spreads upward like sunlight. This peace—something I’ve never known my entire life—stretches along my spine, then settles low in my belly.
I stretch, languid, catlike, and the sheets glide over my bare skin with a whisper that makes me shiver in the best way.
Then I register him.
I open my eyes and smile.
Stryker is propped on one elbow beside me, head resting in his big palm, and he’s watching me with the kind of quiet intensity that turns me on.
His hair is still damp from the shower. Dark strands curl against his forehead and the strong column of his neck. A single droplet of water clings to the edge of his jaw before it falls, landing cool on my collarbone.
He smells like cedar soap and fresh air and a darker scent of danger that belongs only to him.
A white towel rides low on his hips, barely clinging, and the sight of all that bare, sculpted chest makes my mouth dry.
At first, he doesn’t speak. He simply looks, eyes heavy lidded, lips curved in a half-smile that promises ruin and salvation in the same breath.
I blink up at him, still half dreaming. My voice comes out husky, rough with sleep. “You’re staring.”
“Have been for a while.” His voice is morning low, that same gravel dragged across velvet tone that unravels me. “You make these little sounds when you dream. Tiny sighs. Like you’re surprised someone is still here when you open your eyes.”
My heart does something complicated inside my chest. Three weeks of waking up to this man and it still undoes me.
He shifts closer, the mattress dipping under his weight, and the towel slips another fraction. I feel the heat rolling off his skin. “I’m hungry, Lyra.”
The way he says my name, my real name, makes my thighs press together under the sheet.
“We have eggs,” I manage. “And that artisan bread you like.”
His smile widens, slow and wicked. “That’s not what I mean. And you know it.”
His gaze drops deliberately to where the sheet has twisted low across my breasts, then lower, to the shadow between my legs. The air thickens. I feel it on my skin like a touch.
“Stryker.” I mean it as protest, but it comes out breathless. “I haven’t showered. I’m all—”
“Perfect.” He cuts me off, voice rougher now.
He leans in, mouth brushing the shell of my ear, breath hot.
“You took that long bath last night. I sat on the counter and watched you soak until your cheeks went pink. I know exactly how you smell right now, and it’s been making me hard since I got out of the shower. ”
Heat floods me, sharp and immediate. My nipples tighten against the sheet.
He pulls back just enough to meet my eyes. “Spread your legs for me, Lyra.”
It is not a question.
My breath catches. For one heartbeat, I consider teasing him, making him work for it, because God knows I love watching that control fray. But the look on his face, reverent and ravenous, steals every clever comeback.
I let my knees fall open.
Approval flares in his eyes, dark and molten. He peels the sheet down slowly, exposing me inch by inch to the cool morning air and his burning gaze. My skin prickles everywhere he looks.
When the fabric pools at my feet, he exhales, long and shaky, like a man who has been starving for years and is finally allowed to feast.
He moves down the bed with deliberate grace, settling between my thighs. His shoulders force them wider, and the stretch feels decadent, filthy, cherished all at once.
He slides his big, protective hands beneath my ass, lifting me slightly, angling me exactly where he wants. Then he traces the crease where my thigh meets my body, back and forth, back and forth, until I am trembling.
“I can’t stop thinking about this,” he murmurs against the inside of my knee.
His lips brush higher, open-mouthed kisses that leave wet trails cooling in the air. “Waking up with your taste on my tongue. Starting the day buried in the sweetest pussy I’ve ever had.”
I whimper. Actually whimper.
He chuckles, the sound vibrating against my skin. “Love that noise. Make it again.”
Then his mouth is on me.
There’s no hesitation. No gentle buildup.
He licks one long, flat stripe from my entrance to my clit and groans like a man who has found water in the desert. The vibration shoots straight through me, making my back arch off the bed.
Slower, he does it again, taking his time, savoring.
His tongue circles my clit with devastating precision, then dips lower, pushing inside me, fucking me with slow, deliberate strokes.
I fist my hands in the sheets. My hips try to chase his mouth, but his grip on my ass is iron. In a relentless, Dominant way, he controls my every movement.
Moments later, he pulls back just enough to speak, lips glistening. “You taste better than I remembered. Sweeter. Like you’ve been saving it all night for me.”
I can’t form words. Only broken syllables that don’t even sound like me.
He seals his mouth over my clit and sucks, gently at first, then harder, flicking his tongue in quick, ruthless pulses that make my thighs shake against his shoulders.
Two thick fingers slide into me without warning, curling, stroking that spot that turns my spine liquid.
My head thrashes on the pillow. “Stryker, please—”
He hums against me, the vibration brutal, and adds a third finger, stretching me open while his tongue works my clit without mercy.
The wet sounds are obscene and perfect.
I’m getting wetter, slick coating his chin, his fingers, dripping down to where his thumb presses teasingly against my ass.
He remembers. Of course he remembers how sensitive I am there, how insane it makes me when he plays with that tight ring of muscle while he eats me like he’s starving.
His thumb circles, presses, breaches just enough to make me gasp and clench around his fingers.
“That’s it.” His voice is a low growl against my pussy. “Come on my tongue, Lyra. Let me feel it.”
The orgasm hits me like a wave I never saw coming.
I cry out, hips bucking hard against his mouth, inner walls pulsing around his fingers as pleasure explodes outward in white-hot bursts.
Stryker doesn’t stop, just gentles his tongue, licking me through it, drawing it out until I am shaking and oversensitive and trying to twist away.
Only then does he lift his head.
His lips are swollen, shiny with me. His eyes are nearly black.
Slowly he makes his way up my body, towel long gone, cock heavy and leaking against my thigh.
I reach for him blindly, needing him inside me more than I need my next breath.
“We need a condom.” As he speaks, he’s already reaching toward the nightstand.
His hands waver slightly as he rolls it on, and the small loss of control makes my chest ache with tenderness.
Then he is back, settling between my thighs, the broad head of his cock nudging my entrance. He braces above me on one forearm. With his other hand, he cups my face, stroking his thumb over my cheekbone like I am something priceless.
“Look at me,” he says softly.
I do.
He pushes in, slow and relentless, eyes locked on mine the entire time. The stretch is exquisite, perfect, overwhelming.
When he bottoms out, we both exhale like we have been holding our breath for years.
He starts to move, deep, measured strokes that drag over every sensitive spot inside me.
I wrap my legs high around his waist, heels digging into the small of his back, urging him deeper.
“Fuck. Yes.” He drops his forehead onto mine.
Our breaths mingle and sweat starts to bead along his spine where my fingers clutch.
I feel my second climax building already, coiling low and tight.
He shifts the angle, grinding against my clit with every thrust, and I shatter again, clenching hard around him, crying his name into his mouth as he kisses me through it.
Only when I am limp and gasping does he let himself go.
His rhythm stutters, hips snapping hard, once, twice, and then he buries himself deep and comes with a guttural sound that vibrates through my entire body.
For a long moment, we stay locked together, hearts hammering against each other, breath ragged.
Then he presses soft kisses to my temple, my cheek, the corner of my mouth, like he cannot stop tasting me even now.
Eventually he eases out, disposes of the condom, then collapses beside me, pulling me into the cradle of his body, my back to his front, his arm a heavy band across my waist.
I am boneless. Ruined. Gloriously, perfectly ruined.
We both doze, drifting in and out, until I finally stretch.
“How about a bath?” He nuzzles into my hair. “I’ll draw it for you.”
“Sounds perfect. Thanks.” I’ve been taking at least one a day with Epsom salts to soak away the ache in my muscles from the constant attention he gives me.
“While you relax, I’ll make your chai.”
I turn in his arms, press my face to his chest, and breathe him in. Safety smells like cedar and sex and Stryker.
For the first time in my entire life, I do not brace myself for the moment to end.
I simply let myself have it.
Let myself have him.
And when he carries me to the tub a few minutes later, sets me gently into water, so hot it stings in the best way, and kneels beside the tub to wash my back with the same hands that just took me apart, I close my eyes.
This is what peace feels like.
This is what home feels like.
The last three weeks have been amazing.
We’ve spent our days cooking together, taking long walks, watching movies, and bingeing crime dramas. For endless hours, we’ve curled up in front of the fireplace sipping cocoa and talking, revealing all the secrets we’ve both carried so deeply.
I’ve seen Stryker teasing and lighthearted, serious during discussions with Hawkeye, and furious that my father repeatedly betrayed me.
On several occasions, Stryker mentioned having a child. Or two.