Page 43 of Striker’s Rebel

Then he comes toward me.

“Still deciding?”

My breath catches.

“About what?”

His gaze drops to my mouth.

“Whether I pass.”

Heat climbs into my cheeks.

There is absolutely no point pretending.

“You’re doing pretty well.”

His hand closes around my waist.

The kiss hits hard enough to wipe out every smart answer I might have had left.

I grab his shirt and kiss him back. His mouth turns rougher immediately, one hand sliding into my hair while the other pulls me flush against him.

Then he lifts me.

I gasp against his lips. “Striker.”

“Got you.”

He carries me into the living room and settles me across his lap on the couch. For one second, I’m too aware of my weight, the softness of my hips and thighs, and how much of me is pressed against him.

Then his arm tightens around my waist and pulls me closer.

Like he wants all of it.

Like the thought of me being too much has never crossed his mind.

That shuts down the little voice in my head surprisingly fast.

His mouth finds my neck while his hand slides up my thigh, and suddenly all I can think about is exactly where I am.

In his cabin.

Wrapped around Striker.

And very aware that his hand is getting closer to somewhere no man has ever touched me.

His fingers slip beneath my T-shirt.

I shiver when his palm finds bare skin.

His eyes meet mine.

I nod.

His hand closes around my breast through my bra, then slips beneath the cup. The first stroke of his thumb over my nipple pulls a sound from me before I can stop it.

“Fuck,” he murmurs.