Page 41 of Striker
With his wrists braced beside her head, he gently stroking her hair back with his fingers.
Pleasure filled her as he slid in and out, hitting her clitoris with every plunge.
“Oh my god,” she breathed.
“Molly, you feel so good.”
She wrapped her arms around him, holding his shoulders. His lips came down on hers and he rocked into her.
Heat torched her cheeks. His tongue delved into the cavern of her mouth. The taste of her own scent increased her desire. He moved from her lips to her cheek, then found her neck, nibbling there.
She bucked her hips, matching his thrusts. He ground against the nub that needed the most attention, and she snapped.
Atlas’s deep groan vibrated her chest. His body tensed and he took her deep, reaching beneath her lower back to hike up her hips.
She cried out. He pumped harder, grinding against her and penetrating to her core. She held fast and an array of colors exploded behind her closed eyelids. His guttural cry combined with her own ecstasy.
His urgent thrusts slowed and he melted back on top of her. After kissing her shoulder, he moved up her neck to her cheek, then to her mouth once again.
“You okay?” Satisfaction roughened his words.
“Mmm,” she murmured, sated and relaxed.
He rolled over, catching her shoulders and pulling her on top while they were still joined. He cupped her ass, his long, strong fingers tempting her again.
“Round two?” he asked.
She grinned. “That’d be round three for me.”
He chuckled and moved his hands up her back. Catching her hair, he swooped it to the side. “We’ll rest for now.”
She lowered her head to his shoulder. “I might fall asleep like this.” Her eyes already felt heavy. She hadn’t had sex like that in . . . ever. Never had someone showered her in such affection.
He stroked her hair. “Gimme a minute to get cleaned up. Wait here.”
He eased himself out of her and gently slid her to the mattress. With his hand wrapped around his cock, he shuffled from the bed. She watched his high, tight ass retreat. Even the backs of his legs were thick with muscle.
He disappeared into the bathroom. The A/C unit kicked on with a sharp whistle, and a cool breeze washed over her skin. She should put her clothes back on, or at least get beneath the covers, but there was only one thing she wanted to keep her warm.
Atlas returned a minute later. The bathroom light bathed him in yellow, revealing the tattoos covering his chest and the sinewy lines of his body.
He strode across the room buck naked, his shoulders back and his manhood moving with every step. Not a care in the world. A prominent indent on his left leg caught her eye—the other gunshot wound. He had something in his hand, and he came around to her side of the bed, behind her.
She started to roll to face him, but he placed one hand on her hip, stilling her.
“What are you doing?”
“Cleaning you.”
Before she could protest, he nudged her top leg forward and swiped her from front to back with a warm, damp cloth.
“Uhm.” She squirmed nervously. Embarrassment singed her cheeks, though she couldn’t say why. The man had just had his face in every crevice of her body, for god’s sake. No boundaries in sight.
“No point in you getting out of bed.” He cleaned the insides of her thighs, then returned to the bathroom.
A minute later he returned and slid into the bed beside her. He tucked his arm under her shoulders, pulling her to his side. She drew her knee onto his, and he held her thigh.
She placed her hand on his chest and was barely aware of him kissing her hair before she dropped into the arms of oblivion.
