Page 45 of Striker’s Rebel

I shake my head.

His hand cups the back of my neck.

“And you want me to?”

“Yes.”

“Say it.”

My breath catches.

“I want you to touch me.”

His eyes stay locked on mine.

“Trust me?”

“Yes.”

“Good.”

The word comes out rough.

His mouth covers mine, and his hand slips lower.

His fingers slide beneath the waistband of my jeans, slipping past the lace of my panties. I gasp, my back arching as he finds me.

He pauses when he feels how wet I am, and something in his breathing changes.

“God, Rebel,” he growls against my mouth. “You’re soaking.”

Heat floods my face.

There is something mortifying about him knowing exactly what he does to me.

Unfortunately, the way he sounds when he says it only makes everything worse.

Or better.

Definitely one of those.

He pulls back just enough to open my jeans.

“Up.”

I lift off his lap, and he pushes the denim down over my hips, taking my panties with them. I help kick both free before settling back against him.

His eyes drop over me.

“Shirt.”

That single word sends another pulse of heat through me.

I grab the hem and pull it over my head. Striker reaches behind me, unhooks my bra, and slides the straps down my arms.

Suddenly I’m naked on his lap while he’s still fully dressed.

That seems wildly unfair.