25
Ember
On the way home, neither of us talks.
I can tell Striker is angry at me, and I’m not sure I care.
As for me, I’m trying to push down how upset I am at the idea that he’s going to go fight again.
I know it’s not my place, but it’s true what I said to him. I don’t think these fights are about the money. Or at least not only about money. Surely if he needs money, he’d prefer to give his best in the ring, instead of throwing the match and letting the crowd celebrate his defeat? One look at Striker’s taut, muscled arms and the alert, predatory way he carries himself, anyone with eyes can see he could take on a man much larger than he is. So why is he willing to let himself be pummeled?
We get to my house just before midnight. Striker parks the Mercedes in the street, instead of in my driveway. He comes over to my side and opens the door for me while I’m still fumbling to get my seat belt off. I guess he’s going to walk me up to the door. I silently take the hand he offers.
“Can I come in and change out of this tux?” he asks gruffly. “My shift is starting now.”
His shift.
The words leave a bitter taste in my mouth, almost as if I had spoken them myself. Funny, tonight I had almost forgotten Striker is only here because Tank asked him to protect me. It’s been so easy to slip into the illusion that we’re friends.
“Of course,” I say.
Striker goes to the trunk and pulls out a duffel bag, slinging the strap over his shoulder. As he has all evening, he places his hand protectively on the small of my back as we go up the walk.
I like it too much when he touches me like this. I liked the way he looked at me tonight at the gala, too. Like he was proud to have people think we were together.
The martini I had at the hotel bar has worn off, leaving me sober as a judge. When we get to my front door, I stop and gaze up at him. Striker’s eyes glint by the light of the porch lamp. His face is half in shadow, meaning I can’t read his expression at all.
“I had a nice time tonight,” I say softly. “Better than I would have if I had gone by myself. Thank you.”
I don’t wait for him to respond. Instead, I fish my keys out of my small clutch and open the door, letting us both in. Bert, as always, greets us with a wagging tail.
Striker goes immediately to the downstairs bathroom to change. I let Bert out into the backyard, then go to the kitchen and pour myself a glass of ice water. I gulp it down, then close my eyes and take a deep breath in, holding it for a few seconds before letting it out.
A few seconds after I let Bert back in, Striker reappears, dressed casually in worn, soft-looking jeans and a dark T-shirt. He’s carrying the duffel in one hand and a garment bag in the other. He sets both on one of the stools at the kitchen island.
“Has the Mercedes changed back into a pumpkin, too?” I say, trying for a joke.
“You’re still in your princess clothes,” Striker points out. “Minus the glass slippers, that is.”
Suddenly, the Cinderella thing doesn’t seem so funny anymore. Striker is handsome, but he isn’t my prince. He isn’t my anything. Even though I’ve just shown myself to the world as Striker’s date tonight, the chasm between us has never seemed wider.
I should let him go outside and take his station outside for his shift, I guess. But even with this distance between us, it still seems so silly for him to be out there, watching my house in the dark.
“Striker, why don’t you just stay in here tonight?” I suggest. “It doesn’t make any sense for you to be outside when you can guard the house just as well from inside.”
Striker gives me a long look.
“There’s just one problem with that,” he says.
“What’s that?”
Striker takes a single step forward. He’s still several feet away from me, but it seems like he’s much, much closer. I feel myself stop breathing.
“If I stay in this house with you after looking at you in that sexy as hell dress all night, the only thing you’ll need protecting from is me.”
My heart starts to hammer in my chest, so loud I swear he must be able to hear it.
“What if I don’t want to be protected from you?” I hear myself say.
Striker groans. “Jesus, don’t say that.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m seconds away from making a real bad decision here.”
Nervous as hell, my body takes over for my mind. I take a step toward Striker. He groans again.
“Make it,” I whisper.
His mouth covers mine. The taste of him — the memory of the last time he kissed me — hits me like a force field as he picks me up in his arms and carries me up the stairs to my bedroom. As soon as he’s over the threshold, he sets me on my feet. Then he’s reaching behind me, lips still devouring mine, as he pulls my dress off my shoulders and down to the waist. I’m not wearing a bra because of the low drop of the dress down the back, I’m naked from the waist up, my skin cooling in the night air. Striker breaks the kiss and takes a step back to stare at me in the moonlight coming in through the window.
“Holy shit,” he rasps.
He reaches up and pulls the T-shirt off up over his head with one fluid movement, then stands before me, naked to the waist as well. He’s already breathing heavily, his muscled chest rising and falling, making the symmetrical pattern of tattoos dance in the pale light. We stand facing each other, the air pregnant and heavy with lust.
“Take off the skirt,” he orders me, voice rough.
I reach back to the zipper and pull down. The dress falls to the floor. I step out of it, and stand in front of him in only black panties and my nude heels.
Striker reaches down, palms his thick shaft through his jeans. “I’ve never seen anything as hot in my life,” he says thickly. “Jesus, Ember. You need to tell me now if you wanna stop.”
“I don’t want to stop,” I say, swallowing. “I want you to take me, Striker. I’ve wanted it for so long.”
It’s just tonight, I tell myself as he unbuttons his jeans and let them fall. No matter what happens, this is what you want right now. If he doesn’t want you afterwards, that’s okay.
I don’t quite believe it, but I do know that I want this more than I can ever remember wanting anything. I won’t regret it, no matter how it changes things tomorrow. I won’t let myself.
Striker is naked in front of me now. His cock, thick and hard, pulses in his hand.
“Get on the bed, babe,” he growls.
I do, leaving my heels on because he hasn’t told me to take them off yet. I’ve abandoned all my will, wanting him to take control, make my body his, just for tonight. He’s still stroking himself, slowly, so slowly, and it’s mesmerizing, literally making my mouth water as I stare at him, unable to tear my eyes away.
“Yes. Sweet Jesus, look at you,” he breathes. “Fuck, Ember, you’re not the only one who’s wanted this. Lie on your back and take off your panties, real slow.”
I do, hooking them with my thumbs and pushing them over my hips. He tells me to scoot back on the bed, and then he kneels at the foot, between my raised knees. Leaning over me, he kisses me again, long and deep, as one hand cups my breast, rough thumb sliding over the hardening nipple.