Page 55 of Striker’s Rebel

“Apparently I survived.”

His mouth twitches.

“Barely.”

I smack his shoulder.

He catches my hand and presses it to the floor beside my head before kissing me.

When he finally pulls back, the smugness is gone.

He looks at me in a way that makes my chest feel strangely tight.

His thumb brushes my cheek.

“You good?”

I’m naked on his rug, my legs still wrapped around him, and I’m fairly certain I’ve forgotten how walking works.

I smile.

“Ask me again when I can feel my legs.”

That gets a real laugh out of him.

And I decide I like that sound almost as much as he likes mine.

Striker kisses me once before pulling away. The loss of his body leaves me suddenly aware of everything. The rug beneath my back. The soreness between my thighs. The fact that I am completely naked in a man’s living room after doing several things I had never done before today.

He stands and reaches for me.

“I can walk.”

He ignores that and lifts me into his arms.

I should probably argue harder, but my head drops against his shoulder instead.

So much for independence.

He carries me into the bathroom, turns on the shower, and steps beneath the water with me. There is no teasing this time. He washes me carefully, his hands gentler between my thighs, then rinses shampoo from my hair while I stand there and let him.

That might be stranger than the sex.

I’m used to taking care of myself. What I’m not used to is someone doing small things for me before I think to ask.

When we’re clean, he wraps me in a towel, dries himself, then pulls a T-shirt from a drawer and hands it to me.

I put it on.

It falls halfway down my thighs.

His gaze moves over my face.

“You good?”

“Very.”

One corner of his mouth lifts. “Very?”