Michel/Striker

by Alexandra Ivy

  My sex clenches in memory as those eyes hit mine full force. They’re dark, and I don’t mean in hue. They’re tortured. I know that look well. I saw it every day, on many a face, for many years.

  “This isn’t something I talk about,” he says. “Shit, it’s not something I think about. I pretty much act like it doesn’t exist. I believe that’s worked fairly well. But then…you were given to me—” He stops, shakes his head. “I don’t mean it like that…”

  “I know,” I say. But why do I wish you did?

  He leans in. “Listen, I was mated, Twelve. Up until about seven years ago.”

  My heart stutters. Not at all what I was expecting. “What happened?”

  “She decided she wanted to be mated to someone else.”

  The set of his jaw, the way his eyes refuse to connect with mine. My breath holds fast in my throat, because I feel this is the crux of everything with him. The very reason why he doesn’t want to bond with me or anyone. This is the head-fucker I was trying to get him to tell me about at the border.

  “Who was it?” I ask. “The Pantera she…went to. Did you know him?”

  “Very well.” He laughs softly. Such a bitter sound. “My twin brother, Lynx.”

  My mouth drops open. Oh Goddesss…

  “We were close. He was it. All the family I had. Until her.”

  “Was?” I say, my breath stalled. Was the male dead? Had Striker been so angry—

  “No, no. He’s very much alive, Twelve. The female too. They’re both Suits. They live here in the Wildlands, but are constantly traveling. I haven’t seen them in about a year.” He sniffs. “It’s been a decent year.”

  “I’m so sorry,” I say. “I can’t imagine that kind of betrayal.”

  His eyes pin me. “Can’t you?”

  A soft, sad smile touches my mouth. “It’s something different when blood, when family, is involved. He crossed a line that is hard to come back from.”

  Striker nods. “It tore me apart for a long time. But I survived it. The pain, the betrayal, all of it. And you will too.”

  My eyes move over his handsome face, and those melancholy eyes. Yes. I will survive it. But not like this. Like him. Closed and untrusting, his fear of being hurt again driving every decision he makes. Especially the ones regarding his heart. As I sit on my big bed, the iPad on my lap, the moon full and bright outside my window, I’m grateful to my soul or my heart or whatever brought me through that hell and didn’t leave me completely jaded. I want happiness. I want love. I deserve it so much. Striker does too. I hope someday he can see that.

  “I wanted you to know this so you understand where I’m coming from,” he says. “What I’m coming from. I can’t mate again. Even if the urge is there.” He releases a breath, shakes his head. “I don’t want you to think I’m not hungry for you, Twelve. You’re the most beautiful female I’ve ever seen. You make my insides liquefy. And the shit on the outside go marble-hard.” His eyes run down my body. What he can see of it, anyway. “I’d love to pull back these covers right now and take you again. Get back inside you again. But, fuck me, Female, sex leads to feelings of mating. Not just for the female, but the male as well. This male, anyway. It’s how I’m built.”

  My skin is vibrating at his words. In the lab, I needed sex. I needed a male’s semen to make me clear and whole and momentarily comfortable. But as I sit here, what I need—what I want—is sex for reasons that have nothing to do with survival, or memories retrieved. I want this male inside me to bond.

  Just like he said.

  I swallow the saliva that’s pooled in my mouth. “I understand.”

  “Twelve—”

  “No,” I say. “I really do.” I force my eyes up, make myself look at him. Show him my strength. “I know that wasn’t easy for you. I’m glad you told me.”

  He doesn’t say anything. He looks miserable. I wish I could help. But he’s made his choice. “Goodnight, Striker.”

  He looks stunned for a second, then pulls it back. “Sure,” he says in a forced voice. “Night.”

  I watch as he stands up and heads for the door, the muscles in his back making the muscles between my legs clench. I force my attention back to the iPad. With a tap, my show resumes, and I’m overwhelmingly grateful for the sound, the distraction.

  “That ‘Scandal’?”

  His voice. Again. A little lighter now. I look up. He only made it halfway across the room before turning around to face me again. I laugh. “How’d you know?”

  A wicked grin spreads across his features. His first real smile since we got back to the cottage. It spreads through my chest and pings my heart. “Parish and Doc Julia are obsessed with that fucking show. They’ve got everyone watching it.” He snorts. “The president’s a dick.”

  I immediately race to defend Fitz. “Well, Olivia’s not doing all that much to resist him, now is she?”

  He gives a casual and incredibly sexy shrug. “I suppose I guess when you’re… What do the books say? Hardcore into each other? Made for each other?”

  Is that what the books say? “I don’t know about all that. I’m only on the third episode, so this could be just a short-lived affair.”

  “Doubtful.” He pauses and just sort of stares at me.

  I sorta stare back.

  “That’s where I stopped,” he says. “On the third episode. I had work. Lot of shit going on right now. I can’t believe Parish is on the second season with what’s happening outside our borders. Inside too, for that matter.”

  He’s killing me. I can tell he wants to stay, but won’t allow himself to ask. What do I do? I mean, of course I want him here, next to me, hanging out. Hanging in. But he just came in here to tell me he can’t do things that bind himself to me—or any female.

  And yet, I very easily say, “You can watch it with me, if you want.”

  His eyes flicker with heat.

  “On top of the covers,” I clarify. “And these clothes”—I point at my pajamas, which consist of a dark blue tank and fuzzy blue and white pajama bottoms—“will stay on, I promise.”

  He laughs and heads back over to me. When he lies down, stretches out on the king bed, I’m surprised by how much room he takes. He has such a long, big body. Like a tree you want to climb.

  But of course, I don’t.

  I turn back to the iPad.

  “What part are you at?” he asks me.

  “I’m only five minutes in,” I lie. “So why don’t I start from the top?”

  “You’re too fucking good to me, Twelve.”

  My heart flickers with tension and heat, but I don’t say anything to that. Not when I hit Play. Not when the opening photography clicks erupt. And not when Striker leans in and rests his chin on my shoulder.

  ***

  Striker

  Three hours of watching TV in bed and I’m hungry. Not for food, mind you. Or for Olivia Pope—who incidentally is the object of many a Pantera’s wet dreams lately. Thank you, Parish and Doc Julia. No, my hunger is for the female beside me. It’s been like torture. The sweetest torture. Sitting here, hearing her laugh when shit gets funny, gasp when shit gets scary, then going very quiet as the Prez takes Olivia again on something solid, somewhere secret.

  That last bit is where the true pain lies. Her silent yearning. The scent of her arousal pushing into my nostrils. Female likes to watch. Oh, the things I could show her if I wasn’t such a closed-off pus—

  “Sorry,” she says, glancing over at me. “I can’t help it. It’s pretty potent normally, but this is probably making you crazy. Feel free to go.”

  My voice has an edge to it when I scold her. “Female, you have nothing to be sorry for. Ever.”

  “It doesn’t bother you?”

  “Course it bothers me. I want to fuck the shit out of you right now.”

  She gasps.

  I laugh at her stunned expression. “But when don’t I want to fuck the shit out of you?”

  I expect her to laugh too—hell, I’m try
ing to keep things light—but she doesn’t. Her expression is a little strangled. As if she’s not sure how to feel.

  “You know, this is almost over,” she says. “We can pick up tomorrow.”

  “Not a chance,” I say. Then, desperate to bring back the mood of the past three hours, I growl at her playfully. “I have to see what’s going to happen. I’m fucking hooked on this shit now.”

  Her mouth twitches and her eyes sparkle.

  And my dick goes hard.

  “Why don’t I hold this for awhile,” I suggest, taking the iPad from her and placing it right on top of my growing tent. “You know, I have to say, it pisses me off…”

  “What?”

  “Well, Liv is great and all. She’s smoking hot, for sure—”

  “Okay, okay,” Twelve cuts me off with a quick yet good-natured glare.

  “Not as hot as you, of course.”

  “Point, Striker.”

  “He’s married.”

  She goes quiet, her eyes probing mine.

  I shrug. “Yeah, I know it’s fiction.”

  “That’s not why I’m staring at you.”

  “Why are you?”

  “What’s her name?”

  My brows come together.

  Her expression softens. Her voice too. “The female who left you? Your mate?”

  I inhale sharply. Oh, shit…I wasn’t expecting… Twelve is constantly surprising. “Farrah,” I tell her.

  “Well, she’s an asshole.”

  My eyes widen. And when I replay what she has just said, my lips twitch.

  “And a fool.” Her chin tilts up. “I kinda want to kick her ass.”

  Oh, fuck, and I kinda want to kiss your lips. For hours. No one has ever championed me before. Not even after Farrah left. Or maybe they did, tried to, and I didn’t let them. Maybe this female is just different. Special.

  She’s turned away, looking at the computer in my lap again. She reaches over to push Play.

  “What do you think, Striker?” she says, pointing at the President’s wife on the screen. “Team Mellie?”

  I grin. “Absolutely.”

  But when she drops her head on my shoulder this time, I can’t help but think I’m Team Twelve. All the way.

  CHAPTER 6

  Twelve

  I wake up in the worst-best way possible. In Striker’s arms. He’s lying on his back in the middle of the king, sunlight streaming in from the windows to the right, making his skin glow. And just as I’d imagined it last night, I’m practically scaling him like a tree. I’m flush against his hard, hot side, one leg draped across his groin, one arm stretched over his chest.

  And I’m wet.

  Hot and tight and wet.

  He’s supposed to be in his own bed. I mean, I’m trying to respect his boundaries, desires. But they’re really screwing with my own.

  I move, just a little, slide my leg down a couple of inches so I can see the rock-hard sex that’s been pressing against my inner thigh.

  My breasts tingle against the blue cotton of my tank as I spy the head of Striker’s impressive cock peeking out from the confines of his pajama bottoms. He’s pink and stretched, and I can’t help myself. I reach for him and brush my thumb over the smooth head. Instantly, I feel it twitch, pulse. And as I watch, a drop of semen leaks from the small slit. I lick my lips. At this incredible organ that feels so familiar to me. I know it’s been inside me…but have I—my lips curve upward—tasted it?

  Again, I brush my thumb over the head. Silk over marble. But this time, Striker groans in his sleep and presses himself into my hand. My core clenches. And tucked inside the lips of my pussy, my clit swells. My heart is beating so fast with desire that my mind is starting to shut down. Not only do I want to go down on this male, wrap my lips around him and go to town, but I think my sanity is starting to slip. Nothing huge or significant yet. But it’s there. Ready and waiting.

  Not yet.

  It’s not until that moment that I realize I’ve eased down the waistband of his pajama bottoms and have his cock in my hand. I fist him and release a breath. My fingers can barely contain him. I stroke him once, twice, just to see how he reacts. And when he groans, growls softly and once again drives his hips up and pumps himself in my hand, I start making my way down his body.

  Inches of tan, taut skin meet my gaze, but the only stop I make is his left hipbone. I’m captivated by it. I kiss it, lap at it, then on a soft growl of my own, I bite it.

  A sharp intake of breath meets my ears. I give his hip one last kiss, then drop my head and take his cock into my mouth. My insides melt. Goddess, he’s perfection. Soft, hard and tastes so fine.

  “Twelve,” Striker rasps.

  I glance up, release him only to the tip, and say against the wet, pulsing head, “Do you want me to stop?”

  His green eyes are open and hotter than I’ve ever seen them. He glares at me and snarls, “Fuck no. I want you to take me deeper.”

  I smile, then suck him in. All the way to the back of my throat. He groans and jacks his hips up gently, trying not to hurt me, I’m sure. But it might just be a pain I would enjoy. Gripping him possessively, I guide him in and out, then swirl my tongue over the head and inside the slit.

  He curses, groans. “Faster, beautiful,” he growls. “And grip my cock tight. Fist me while your mouth fucks me.”

  His words fuel the already out-of-control fire inside me. Squeezing him, I bob my head, taking him deep and out again in quick, wet movements. As my pussy clenches, I feel him expand. Then pulse. He curses again and grabs the back of my head. He’s coming. And though I want to taste him, drink him down, I wish this incredible cock was inside my sex right now.

  “Shit,” he grinds out, stiffening as I continue to suck him off.

  And then he’s coming. Hot and delicious down my throat. I’ve never known such hunger. I swallow and swallow, and stroke him. I’ve never felt so powerful. So sexy.

  So desperate for a male to take me.

  And for a brief second, I think he’s going to. The moment I ease my mouth away, he’s up and reaching for me, his eyes the color of the bayou at night. It’s the closest I’ve seen this male look like his cat. It’s hot, and a little scary. And I brace myself for impact.

  But then it’s over. His attention diverted, his shift taking place even as he’s leaping off the bed. I track him as he rushes to the window, goes paws up. He’s heard something. He scans the landscape, growls.

  “What’s wrong?” I ask.

  In seconds, he’s pushing away from the window and shifting back to his male form. Tall, broad, tan, still half erect and irritated. “We have company.”

  My heart lurches. “Not males.” I would’ve sensed that.

  “No. Females. And too damn many of them.” He stares at me on the bed. I’m clothed this time. He’s not. His jaw tightens. “Stay where you are. I’ll take care of them.”

  ***

  Twelve

  Striker’s ‘taking care of them’ was basically demanding to know what they wanted, telling them they couldn’t have it, and storming back into the cottage and getting on his cell with the leader of the Pantera.

  Not that it did any good. The four females, including Dr. Julia, are determined to engage with me. They brought a picnic breakfast, and an attitude that Striker could take a hike, or a run, or a shower, and leave the ladies to it. And I have to say, I appreciate their tenacity, even if my mind, and maybe my heart, are back in bed with the sexy Hunter.

  “More, Twelve?” Genevieve Burel asks me, holding up a lovely platter of scrambled eggs with cheese sprinkled on the top. The blond female is definitely the most interested in my well-being. Which I guess makes sense since she’s a Suit. According to the leader himself, the Diplomats are determined to find, recover and protect all rats.

  “I’m fine, thanks,” I reply with a genuine smile. “They were delicious.”

  “We have another new cook,” she says, setting the platter down on the massive blanket. �
��He studied in New Orleans. Makes everything a little spicier than usual, but delicious.”

  “I think I love spicy,” I say. “If my very full stomach is an indication. I may need a food-coma nap later.”

  Genevieve laughs.

  “You’ll tell us if you really do get tired, though, right? Or just want to head back inside…?” Ashe Pascal trails off. The mate of Raphael, the leader of the Pantera, gives me a gentle, understanding smile before turning to check on her sweet baby who’s fast asleep in her carrier.

  “Of course,” I say, sipping some juice. “But I think I’m good. I love being outside.”

  “Nothing like sunshine and fresh bayou air,” Keira puts in, tossing another bit of bacon into her mouth. The gold-eyed Hunter is beautiful and strong and mated to another Hunter called Bayon. “Can’t imagine you had much outside time in the labs.”

  She’s also blunt.

  And I like it.

  I prefer it to tiptoeing around the subject, or pretending I’ve been away on some vacation—where my memory was strangely stolen from me, and I smell like sex walking to any male within spitting distance.

  But Ashe isn’t cool with the Hunter’s frankness, and she shoots her a very exasperated look. “She doesn’t have to talk about that, Keira.”

  Dr. Julia nods, a cup of coffee in her hand. “We didn’t come here to pry.”

  Keira gives me a sheepish smile. “Sorry.”

  “It’s okay,” I say. “Really. The truth is we were never let out. Never had fresh air or sunshine. It was like prison. And most of the time, I was all by myself in my cell, or cage, whatever you want to call it. It was hard. Lonely.”

  “That’s what he said, too,” Keira tells me. “The first word he used…” There are a couple of throat-clearings, and her voice trails off. She looks at the other women, confused.

  Both Genevieve and Ashe shake their heads and sigh.

  “Who are you talking about?” I ask.

  Cheeks pink, the Hunter picks up a silver bowl and offers it to me. “More strawberries?”

  I catch her eye. “Keira.”