“Princess,” he says, voice rough.
“Yes?”
His gaze drops to my mouth. “You trying to kill me tonight?”
I smile before I can stop myself. “You seem pretty sturdy.”
“That was before you showed up in that shirt.”
The cab feels smaller by the second, his thigh close to mine, and a nervous little laugh escapes me. His expression changes instantly at the sound.
“Bethany,” he says quietly, like he’s warning himself.
That does me in.
I don’t really decide to move. One second I’m in the passenger seat, and the next I’m shifting across the center console, one knee landing beside his thigh. Striker goes completely still, heat rolling off him, tension wound tight through his body like he’s holding himself together by force.
“You keep looking at me like that and then acting surprised when I do something about it,” I say, my voice breathy.
His hand lands automatically on my waist, steadying me as I climb fully into his lap.
The second I settle there, both of us suck in a breath. His cock is hard beneath me as one massive hand grips my hip. The other is braced hard against the steering wheel like it’s the only thing keeping him from completely losing control.
He’s letting me know exactly how much he wants me and my cheeks heat up. Striker’s eyes close briefly, like the sensation physically hurts him.
“Fuck,” he mutters.
I should probably move, but instead I slide my fingers into the hair at the back of his neck and grind down.
His eyes open immediately. Dark and focused entirely on me.
“Tell me to stop,” I whisper.
“Don’t you fucking dare.”
Then he kisses me. Hard. One hand tangles in my hair while the other pulls me closer against him. His mouth is hot and demanding, and I moan involuntarily. The kiss deepens slowly, like he’s savoring it despite himself. Every soft sound I make seems to pull another one out of him in return.
His thumb brushes the bare skin just above the waistband of the jeans Viv picked out for me.
I shiver.
“Cold?” he murmurs.
“No.”
A dark smile touches his lips. “Good.”
I laugh, breathless, and he kisses me again before the sound fully leaves me.
The cab fogs up around us. My hands drift from his hair to his shoulders, exploring the hard muscle beneath his shirt. Hegroans when I shift against him and the sound goes through me, wetness pooling between my thighs.
“Striker,” I whisper.
“Yeah?”
“I don’t think this is helping your self-control.”
“You think?” Then his mouth trails along my jaw, slower now, down to the sensitive spot beneath my ear and down my neck.
