Page 53 of Striker’s Rebel

“That answer you?”

“Yeah.”

“Then move.”

His mouth crashes onto mine.

The first thrust makes me gasp into the kiss.

The next feels better.

By the third, I’m starting to understand.

“Oh.”

His forehead drops against mine.

“There she is.”

“Don’t start.”

He thrusts again and hits something deep inside me that turns the rest of the sentence into a moan.

His mouth curves.

“Lost your train of thought?”

“Shut up.”

“Make me.”

I kiss him because that’s becoming my solution to everything.

His rhythm builds, each thrust harder than the last. The ache disappears beneath heat and friction until I’m wrapping my legs around him and pulling him closer instead of wondering how he could possibly fit.

“Striker.”

“Yeah.”

“Again.”

Something feral flashes across his face.

He gives me exactly what I ask for.

His hips drive into mine, and suddenly there is nothing careful about him except the way one hand stays cradled behind my head, protecting me from the floor while the rest of him comes apart over me.

The contrast makes my head spin.

My nails bite into his shoulders.

“God. Right there.”

“Feel good?”

“Yes.”

“Tell me.”