Page 56 of Striker’s Rebel

“Don’t get smug.”

“Little late for that.”

I roll my eyes, but I’m smiling, and the look he gives me makes something warm settle behind my ribs.

Later, I’m curled against his chest in his bed, one of his arms wrapped around my waist.

Chapter 7

June

I wake up to darkness gathering outside the window.

For a few seconds, I’m warm, comfortable, and blissfully unaware of where I am.

Then Striker breathes against the back of my neck.

Memory comes rushing in.

His mouth. His hands. His body over mine.

Every single thing.

Oh, God.

My face heats against the pillow.

“You’re thinking too loud.”

His voice is rough with sleep.

“I hate you.”

A low laugh rumbles against my back, and his arm tightens around my waist.

I reach blindly for my phone on the nightstand.

Nearly eight.

“Shit.”

I push myself upright.

Bad idea.

My entire body reminds me exactly what I spent the afternoon doing.

I go still.

Behind me, the mattress shifts.

“Not one word.”

“I didn’t say shit.”

I look over my shoulder.

Striker is propped against the pillows, hair a mess, bare chest on display, looking far too satisfied with life.