Page 71 of Striker

Everything is too soon. I don’t think any of us know what we’re doing. Lately, when I’m around them, there’s this chaotic thundering in my head and chest, and I know, just know, they feel it too. I can’t seem to be more than a few feet from one of them at any given moment. I’m as bad as Reaper, obsessing over them. We all need distance. We’re trapped in this house with two defiant, beautiful women we want to fuck, but every day we grow closer and closer to getting what we want is another day we lose sight of our original plan.

We took them, Delilah specifically because the best way to get to Rune was through the only thing he ever loved. The second thing that is. He loved his wife to the point of madness. When she died, when she was shot? He went insane and has never come back.

Even when he tried to rip apart the person responsible for taking her, it didn’t heal that place inside him. Instead, it’s now just more people with gaping wounds that can never be healed.

Hurting Rune won’t make us feel better. Hurting his daughter makes us no better than him.

But turning her against him? Turning Cora? Making them ours?

That will completely ruin him.

Delilah bends down and picks up a red flower, and my heart skips a beat. Sleek black hair falls around her face. Itreminds me of Reaper. I can imagine them together again. Hair tangling as she rides him. My hands on her ass, spreading her for me. Viper in her mouth. Or maybe Cora laid out, a perfect picture of Aphrodite in the flesh, taking Breaker as Reaper kisses her pink mouth. But then I remember that possessive flash Princess displayed that night and wonder if she’d even allow him to touch Cora. That’s if he even wants to. Something in me thinks maybe he finds her appealing, but not quite like he does our Princess.

My hand slips down and I grip my hard cock, fully aware that I’m falling to pieces as the day’s progress. We all are. If this morning is any indication, we’re all struggling with their proximity. With waiting until the time is right to show Delilah the truth about her father. But we’ve been careless. Too soft.

But Reaper seems to think she’s ready.

Cora is already there. Breaker was right. She needed a softer hand. She already trusts us enough to know we’d never hurt her. Just the thought of her being harmed makes my stomach sink. Pretty little flower. She comes across so delicate. Like the poppies that grew in the fields by the school. But just like them, her frailty is deceiving. She’s intoxicating and capable of bringing a man to his knees.

They both are.

As I watch Delilah now, I think Reaper was right in his tactic. She was there that night. I don’t know how much she remembers. I doubt much. She was only ten. But trauma has a way of sticking to your memories like an extra layer of skin. It hardens over time, making it difficult to penetrate until no one can slip past and you’re just a hard shell. Trusting no one. Not allowing anyone too close. Until you’re nothing but concrete skin and bones made of rebar.

Rune has made her into a stone version of himself. And we have yet to crack her open.

When I shift, my movement catches her eye, and she stands upright, holding the flower to her nose. My feet move before I have time to think, boots crunching on the hard packed dirt of the driveway, then whispering across the lawn. As I step under the stone arch of the entrance to the garden, she drops the flower and backs away.

Maybe I shouldn’t have been so stern with her this morning. Maybe she needs a softer hand too sometimes.

“Come to manhandle me again?” she asks as I stop in front of her, blue eyes darting to my hard cock, then to my masked face. If she only knew. “Tossing women around seems to be your kink.”

“Never,” I spit out before I can think. God. My mind is a mess. How can wanting to spank her ass raw and simultaneously want to protect her be normal? Then again, I’m not normal. None of us are. We were made to be brutal. Even the way we care is harsh.

“Or do you need the others before you can—” her words cut off as I grip the back of her neck and pull her forward. She crashes into me, her hands landing on my biceps as I lean down and press my nose to her neck and breathe her in. She smells like spice and sin and everything I shouldn’t crave.

Giving in to the primal need, I jerk the row of buttons securing her dress and rip them apart. Theplinkof the little metal buttons hitting the gravel starts a gnawing in my chest. Her gasp sends an electric jolt through me. I turn my head, resting my forehead on her frail collarbone and watch my fingers trail under the torn fabric, over her pale skin down to her bra. Right now, I’m grateful for Viper’s fetish with cotton undergarments. It’s so thin, I can see the hard rosy nipple straining against the fabric. When my hand catches on the material, I skim over it and cup one breast, pinching her nipple between my thumb and forefinger through the cotton.

The guttural groan she releases reminds me of the night in the woods when she begged us to please her.

I know I need to stop. I know it, but all logic flees as my senses flood with her. Her scent, her warm body pressed to mine. I can almost taste her, like she’s imprinted on my mind. Gripping her jaw, I turn her head to the side, giving me better access. She breathes out, hands sliding down to my forearms. I expect her to push me away, but her fingers dig into my shirt and I groan at the feeling as she presses her body to mine.

She’s killing me.

“Striker,” she whimpers.

I hate my name, but every time she says it, it sounds like a praise.

She presses her face to the side of my mask, whispering my name again, and I feel the single word through the fabric as I pinch her nipple harder. A shuddering moan slips out against my temple.

My mind screams to slam her down and take her. Lift her dress and sink into her wet heat. Right here on the hard stones. So she’s marked, skin raw and red, not just by me but by the marble chips at her back and the entire fucking situation we’re in.

With my free hand, I skim over her waist and cup her ass. She groans, melting against me. I can’t seem to stop myself. Every little sound she makes drives me higher and higher. I tilt my hips, grinding my hard cock into her belly, growing harder when she gasps. I press my face to her neck, hating the mask. I just want to press my skin to hers. Feel her everywhere. Strip our clothes and feel every inch of her flesh against mine. Press my lips to her cheeks. Her nose. Take her mouth and suck on her pouty bottom lip.

“Fuck,” I grate out, aware I’m out of control and not caring. I want her so desperately don’t think even the world ending right now would stop me from tasting her skin.

I suck in a breath, filling my lungs with her scent all over again. I want to drown in it. Bathe in it. Fuck her until I’m drenched in her sweet flavor.

Pressing my mouth to her ear, I say through the mask, “Close your eyes.”

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