Coming Home (The Surrender Trilogy 3)

was impossible to deny. His fingers reached for her chin and tipped up her face until she met his gaze.

There was no apology in those stern eyes that played between crystal blue and tinsel gray. She was

stubborn as a foothill, and he needed to see her bend in some manner to satisfy his wilted confidence.

No other woman had ever made him second-guess his actions the way she did.

He reached between them and gripped the sagging front of her cotton shirt, bunching it within his

fist and yanking her across the last gap that separated them. No space.

“I spent nearly a month without you. I won’t do it again, Evelyn. Not in word or action will I

tolerate such distance between us. I want you, in my life, in my days, in my bed, and I don’t intend to acquiesce all that much. You want your independence? That’s fine . . . for now. But there’s only so

much a man can take.”

The soft pink curve of her lower lip trembled as she processed his words. His thumb dragged over

the fleshy pillow just before his mouth lowered and took what he needed. Breath audibly drew in as

she permitted his kiss. So much had changed, somehow tilting the axis of everything he was

accustomed to and tipping the balls until they all came crashing down into her court. Enough.

She could hold on to her individuality and massage her pride, because he recognized that was

something she needed, but he wouldn’t give into her every whim like some docile, dickless yes-man.

The need to assert some force of authority raked at him until he was nearly clawing at his flesh.

Ripping his mouth from hers, he breathed heavily as he stared into those eyes, darker now, dilated

with lust. “I want you naked.” She hesitated and before she could answer, he mumbled, “And

tomorrow we’re getting you curtains. Anyone could see in here if they took the time to look.”

The side of her mouth kicked up. “Not feeling your inner exhibitionist?”

“There’s a difference between fucking you on my terms at the risk of being witnessed and

displaying your beauty where I’m not welcome to stay and keep onlookers at bay. You’re by yourself

here. You need curtains.”

All humor faded from her teasing expression, as she understood the danger of accidently tempting a

stranger with a window show. She went to her bed and removed the coverlet. After a minute the

window was blocked with the makeshift drape.

Turning, she said, “The value of submission is in the will to surrender, Lucian.” She removed her

sweatshirt, a glint of challenge in her eye. No bra. Goddamn it. There had been another man here.

Drawing in a calming breath, he said, “And your pants.”

Her fingers toyed with the snap and zipper. “I think we both understand you own my body and my

heart.” Denim met the floor and she wedged the jeans and panties off her feet with her heels. “You can

take what I freely offer and accept that this is the most I can give at this time, or you can go.”

His cock pulsed at the image of her so beautifully naked before him. He wasn’t going anywhere. His

smart little woman had discovered the power of surrender. He wasn’t surprised. “I’m not leaving.”

“It’s a two-way street. I refuse to give what you won’t. Compromise. Accept that this is who I am

and respect my need for independence, and I will tolerate your need for control in other things.”

Well, wasn’t she just full of conditions tonight? So stubborn. So headstrong. So much like him. She

made him proud and her stick-to-itiveness made her surrender all the more sweet. “You’re pushing

me.”

She smiled. “And you’re pushing me. I’d say we’re well matched. If we can agree on the rules, we

can play.”

She knew him so well, understood the logic he approached life with every day, and could bend him

the way no one else could. She was treading on a fine line, playing with his need for control and

demanding her own.

She bowed her head, her body a display of everything he wanted to possess, yet he also wanted her

secrets. He wanted her mind. She made it . . . interesting. “Show me.”

When she gazed up at him, there was acceptance dappled in anticipation showing beneath her full

lashes. “What do you want, Lucian?” Her soft whisper glided over his flesh like a caress. In the face of such driven self-reliance, her submission disarmed him. His need was so potent, beyond wanting,

beyond simple lust. His desire to possess her was tattooed upon his bones.

She’d stripped his dominant side raw with those simple words. She laid him out, taking all

distractions off the table and surrendering herself purely for him. In this manner, they always

complemented each other.

So many women believed submissiveness was a weakness, mindless subservience enacted to inflate

a male’s ego. They were wrong. It was strength. Her strength was the trigger. The strength to let go,