Michel/Striker (14 page)

“That was…” she breathes. “Goddess, that was amazing. But…”

Our eyes meet again, and a flash of ire moves through me. Why? Fuck me. Why? I don’t want to hear the
but
. Because I know what it is. What she wants. And my cock is screaming for me to give it to her. It’s all I can do not to unzip, lift her up and drop her down on the thing. Hell, it’s already straining against my fly like a goddamned monument, wanting to get out.

But she says it anyway.

“It’s not enough.”

Gut tight, everything tight, I ease my fingers from her and pull away, come to my feet. While my back is turned, so she can’t see me, I slide both digits in my mouth and just taste. I stifle a groan because she’s so fucking sweet. And because I hate how I’ve allowed my brother and my ex-female to steal the pleasure and desire I want to feel in this moment—that I want to take.

“Time to go home,” I say, though as soon as the word is out of my mouth I want to steal it back. That cottage is no home. It’s a temporary hiding place. For us both.

As I turn back to face her, Twelve is already shifting into her cat. But I don’t miss the look in her eyes. Those pale blue orbs are hazy with climax, but it’s there. The ugliness. The frustration. The regret. And it bites at my insides.

She wastes no time in doing exactly as I’ve suggested. Leaving me, dashing across the marshland, heading for the cottage. And this time, it’s me who follows her.

CHAPTER 5

Twelve

Sleeping in a bed—an actual bed, after years of a hard, antiseptic-smelling pallet on the floor of a cell in the lab—is pure heaven. Sleeping alone? Not so much.

I don’t understand this about myself. I should be content, more than content, with a huge, comfortable bed all to myself, with no fear of being watched or wakened or snuck-up on. But I’m distracted. And…

I can still feel his fingers inside me.

His mouth is imprinted on my neck.

I fall back against the pillows.
You need to stop. Get your mind off him. I promise you, his mind is off you.

In the other bedroom. Door closed.

I reach for the iPad the Pantera Diplomats have given me, and turn it on. I’m pretty unfamiliar with technology. Especially the newer gadgets. I saw workers at the lab using them, but we weren’t allowed close enough to see how things worked or what was available on the different devices. Along with the clothes, Dr. Julia gave me a tutorial on the basic working of the small computer, and a recommendation as to what to watch. A television program called “Scandal,” that she swore was “The greatest thing ever.”

I blink at the screen and scan the contents, check out the different programs, and decide to just go with the woman’s advice. Political drama, sexy, suspenseful. Sounds good. I push Play and tuck in for the first episode. Halfway through, I’m wishing I had popcorn. Halfway through the next one, I’m totally hooked. And halfway through the third, there’s a knock at my door.

I stab the Pause button and glance at the clock. Eleven fifteen. What is he doing?

“Striker,” I call.

The door opens, and he walks in wearing only a pair of gray pajama bottoms. Really unfair. They hang low on his hips, and make my mouth water.

I clear my throat. “Is it too loud?”

“What?”

“My show.” I point to the iPad.

His brows draw together. “Oh. No.”

I wait. Both for him to give me a reason why he’s in here, and for him to put on a shirt. Seriously, it’s like being a diabetic and having a hot fudge sundae shoved in my face. The male has
the
most perfect body. A trim waist that vees upward to broad shoulders and powerful biceps. Then there’re the waves of corded muscle and the line of hair leading down to his…

“I want to apologize,” he says finally.

It takes my brain a second to register what he’s saying as I’ve been temporarily held captive by his beauty.

“For what?” I ask.

He looks around, uncomfortable. “I don’t know.”

“Come on, Striker.”

“Okay. Treating you like—”

“A mission?” I finish for him. Then because I’ve been watching hours of relentless flirtation, I add, “Or refusing to keep treating me like a mission?” I can’t help myself. My mouth quirks up at both corners. The thing is, I’m not angry with him, or insulted. I understand that he wants zero attachment. I understand that it’s a life raft he seems to cling to. But I can’t make that my business. I have enough to think about with my own sanity and future. “Listen, it’s fine,” I tell him. “No harm done. Promise.”

Unconvinced, he comes over and sits on the bed, near my hip. “I feel like I have to explain.”

“You really don’t.”

“I do.”

I heave out a breath.
Perfect.
I was just getting over him. Well, thinking about him, anyway, as I watched this crazy show. And now he has to sit in front of me without a shirt, showing off his hip bones and his green eyes and those hands and fingers…

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 trying 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.”