Michel/Striker (15 page)

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.”

Genevieve is quick to say, “Don’t.”

But I’m not listening. “Please,” I press the female.

“I’m not going to lie to her, you guys.” She faces me again, her expression taut. “One of the males from the lab. One of the males who was used…like you…with you… He’s here.”

Around me, the females get quiet. I let this information sink in, allow my mind to roll back. It’s funny, strange, that I can remember everything from my time in the lab and nothing about what came before it. “Is it Three?” I ask them.

Keira’s eyes bug. “How did you know that?”

My heart squeezes at the confirmation. I can’t believe he’s here. “Unlike many of us, he remembered his life before the lab. He had a mate. She was his best friend, and he talked about her all the time. Even when—” I break off for a moment, then say, “The loneliness was killing him. He was a good male, and I’m so glad he’ll be reunited with—” The look on Keira’s face stops me. “What?”

“This was supposed to be a relaxing morning,” Ashe says, rocking the baby’s carrier, trying to keep her asleep.

“Look” I begin gently. “I appreciate this. I really do. You’re all incredibly thoughtful and welcoming, but…I’m just getting out of what I can only describe as hell on earth.”

“I swear,” Keira grinds out, “if Locke wasn’t dead already I’d string him up and go real slow and deep with my claws—”

“Keira,” Julia says tightly.

I give the female an appreciative smile. I really like her. “My point,” I say, “is that I’m not ready for fun and light and relaxing. I’m still trying to breathe right. I’m trying to figure out just who the hell I am.”

For a moment or two the only sound I hear is the bayou rushing by, the baby smacking her sweet little lips together in her sleep, and my heart beating inside my chest.

“Three’s name is Olivier,” Genny tells me.

I look up, over at her.

“His mate, Shasta, died several years ago,” she continues.

My throat goes tight. “How?”

“She left the Wildlands and went searching for him. Got mixed up with some bad people.”

“Does he know?”

She nods.

I put my plate down and come to my feet. “I have to see him.”

“No.”

The voice isn’t Genny’s. Or Keira’s. Or Ashe’s. Or Julia’s. It’s all male. And it’s deeply possessive and strikingly pissed off.

CHAPTER 7

Striker

“And I can’t believe you’re even contemplating this,” I say as Twelve and I stalk each other in the living room of the cottage.

Gone are the females. Their picnic and their
news
. I’m fucking furious. At how Raphael could’ve allowed this information about one of the males inside the lab to get to Twelve when she’s been out less than a week. And how he was zero help when it came to dealing with his mate. He couldn’t have cared less that she was here talking to Twelve. All the male wanted to know was how his baby, Soyala, was doing. Was she asleep? Had she smiled for him?