Page 70 of Striker’s Rebel

Partly because I like this far too much.

I shift against him, trying to find my phone without disturbing the human wall behind me.

His arm tightens immediately.

“Where you going?”

His voice is wrecked with sleep, low and rough against the back of my neck.

I smile into the pillow. “Nowhere.”

“Good.”

His mouth brushes my shoulder.

“You weren’t even awake.”

“Awake enough to know you were trying to escape.”

“I moved two inches.”

“Too far.”

A laugh slips out of me.

I turn carefully in his arms, and Striker loosens his hold just enough to let me before pulling me back against him.

His hair is a mess. Stubble shadows his jaw. His green eyes are barely open, and somehow the bastard still looks unfairly good.

Nobody deserves that kind of face before coffee.

“Morning,” he says.

“Hi.”

His hand slides beneath the sheet and settles against my bare waist.

Then his eyes drop to my mouth.

Oh.

I know that look now.

My stomach tightens.

“Don’t.”

His eyes come back to mine. “Don’t what?”

“Look at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“You know.”

His thumb moves over my skin.

“Can’t help my face.”