Page 96 of Striker

Striker must see the fear in my expression because he grips my hips, pulling me forward. His face, his beautiful, perfect face, presses to my belly and my hands fall to his hair. I curl my fingers into the soft strands, marveling at how silky it feels, raking it back from his forehead as he looks up at me.

I don’t know what they did to me, but the thought of something happening to him, of my father taking Striker, any of them, somewhere and hurting them, of him ever getting his hands on Cora again sends fire and anger and terror crashing through me until I feel like I can’t breathe.

Striker lowers his face and presses his forehead to my belly. He pulls me to him tighter, turning his face, rubbing his cheek on the front of my dress. I’m reminded of that day in the garden. How he seemed so hungry to feel his skin next to mine and I can’t help but wonder what made him this way. So starved for touch. What life he lived that he seems so desperate to feel every inch of my skin. I think of all of them. How they all seem so hard and soft at the same time.

And god. I want all those soft edges and cutting hard lines. From all of them.

From Striker right now.

I want the too rough touch of Viper that forces me to give him parts of myself, the man who armed me when he knew I was scared, simply because he wanted me to feel safe. And that single act made me feel secure. That one gesture of trust on his part, that I wouldn’t use it against him, gave us our own little secret that I’ve carried around, reminding me they may keep me here, but I had the roughest, loudest one at my back.

My body craves the silent man who forced me to be close to him, touching me so gently that I felt secure, even though the world around me was uncertain.

My mind, parts of my heart, wants that darkness that lives in the man who even though his body tenses with some old need to seek revenge on Rune, he can’t help but crave me the same way I crave him.

I crave that softness from the man who could barely contain himself that day in the garden. Who wanted me so badlyhe couldn’t keep his hands off me. Not because of my father’s name. My father’s name made them all hate me.

It is me they want. Me, they desire.

Me, Striker’s showing his face to right now.

Like he can sense my need climbing, his grip turns harder, edged with desperation and then suddenly his hands aren’t gripping my hips, they’re sliding down my legs, gathering my dress and pushing it up. His nose digs into the underwear over me, and my back hits the cold glass. Shoving my dress up higher, he breathes in. The guttural groan he emits makes me throb. My fingers tighten in his hair as his hot breath fans over me, and I grip it at the roots, nails clawing into his scalp. Striker makes another sound, like a gravelly moan, and with one hand, he grips my underwear and drags them down my thighs. I step out of them.

Striker grips my thigh and hooks it over his shoulder, and I groan in anticipation. Before I can tilt my hips to meet him, before I can even think, his mouth is on me. His tongue swirls over my clit, then lower to my opening. My head falls back to the glass and I move my hips in little circles as he devours me, completely mindless, the scrape of stubble on my skin sending me higher and higher. I’m still so keyed up, every nerve cracking with desire from last night, that it doesn’t take me long to crash over. I cry out at the sudden orgasm crashing through me, faintly aware of his moans against my flesh, and how my hands hold him tightly to me.

Still coming down, my eyes barely focused, I let out a gasp as his tongue travels up higher, over my stomach, then even higher as he stands, pushing my dress up. When the material catches under my breasts, he takes his free hand and grips the little row of buttons over my chest and rips it open. I gasp, my back thudding against the window. An animalistic desire pours through me, and I reach for his belt, the same belt that I got justlast night, as he leans down and tugs my cotton bra aside and takes my nipple into his mouth.

The sound of the metal clanking sends a weird shiver through me, remembering the cutting pain as he cracked it over my ass. Striker grips my thighs and lifts me up, sliding my body up on the glass, the wood of the panes digging into my back as his mouth drags up my neck to my jaw. I turn my head, feeling the heated trail he leaves as he moves to my mouth. We crash together, so desperate that I moan, parting my lips for him to sweep his tongue past my lips. I taste myself, my desire, on his tongue and it sends me higher.

My fingers weave into his soft hair, and I use it to tug his mouth to me harder. He breaks the kiss long enough to free himself, and then the heat of his dick is pressing into me. Even though I’m ready, already wet and needy, when he pushes into me barely an inch, I bite my lip at the sting.

Nothing he’s doing to me right now is gentle. There’s a carnal, starved edge to his movements, and as he pulls back, I suck in a breath, waiting for it. He slams forward so hard I cry out, squeezing my eyes shut, the burning pain mixing with the blinding sensation of being so full.

“Oh, fuck,” he hisses, pressing his open mouth to mine, holding still deep between my thighs. He adjusts his grip, bringing me up higher on the window, giving me a second to adjust to him, but then he pulls back and does it again. I whimper, my hands falling to his shoulders. “You feel so good.”

I nod, my head hitting the window, watching his face as he slips out. My eyes flutter when he drives in again and his brows furrow like he’s in pain. Then he drives in again and again, and all I can do is hold on as he fucks me. Feel him moving in and out. Feel his desperation mixing with my own. The intense way he’s watching me, thrusting in so deeply, placing hungry kisseson my parted lips, makes me crave more. Harder. Faster. Until this cutting desire is released.

The force of his movements feels like the window should be shattering behind me. And there’s a part of me that wants to break through, shards of glass cutting me, stripping everything away. Tearing into my skin, bleeding me dry until I’m no longer me. Until I’m no longer Rune’s daughter. Until all that’s left of me are the pieces they’ve created and formed into this new woman. The feral woman who spreads her legs on the forest floor. Who arched into the belt.

Right at this moment, I don’t mind being his. Theirs. I want them all here. Touching me again. Claiming me again. Like they did last night. Like they did in the woods. Like they did in the club.

Teeth scrape over my collar bone hard enough that I cry out, but it just adds to the intense swirling fire burning through me, building low in my belly.

“Come for me, Princess,” he grates. “I want my name spilling from your lips as I fill you up.”

I nod, ready to obey. Ready to please him. To let him have me.

“Come on, beautiful,” he grates out. “Give me another one.”

Like his words bring it forth, I cry out as another orgasm crashes through me, my walls clenching down on him. Striker’s groan scrapes out of his throat, and his movements become jerky as heat floods between my thighs and he’s fucking his cum deep into me with sloppy, desperate sounds, as curses and praises tumble from his lips.

So perfect.

So beautiful when you fall apart.

And then it’s just silence except for our heavy breathing and the distant sound of crashing waves. He buries his face inmy neck, and we stay like that, breathing, his face hidden as the world comes back around.

When it does, my mind flies in a million different directions and he must feel me tense, because he lets me go, sliding out, his cum slipping down my thigh, making my fingers tighten on his shoulders. My feet hit the floor, and he whispers, “It’s okay,” and then his mouth covers mine again. But it’s softer this time, that feral edge gone with our release.

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