Michel/Striker by Alexandra Ivy & Laura Wright

Author:Alexandra Ivy & Laura Wright [Ivy, Alexandra & Wright, Laura]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Goodreads: 25340164
Publisher: Laura Wright and Alexandra Ivy
Published: 2015-06-09T04:00:00+00:00

STRIKER

by

Laura Wright

CHAPTER 1

Twelve

I am a nerve. Raw and humming. The one inside me, pushing, pushing, calling me by my name—my number—keeps me intact. It keeps me from breaking apart and existing no more. It came to me…how long ago? Hours. Days? I don’t remember what those are. Did I ever know?

Pain. Burning. Hungry pain.

It has pulled out of me.

I growl at it. More. More.

It knows what I mean. It understands my sounds. It understands my teeth. I’ll bite it. Consume it, if it doesn’t come…

Ahhhhh…

It’s flipped me. Something soft catches me, my face, my belly. My hips are yanked up. It’s inside me again. Deep. And it’s thrusting. I feel…better. But not enough. I need the wash of its semen. Spreading over me. Inside me.

Healing me.

Eyes wet. Mine. Why? Pain…but not in my body. My heart. Will this end? Ever end? Not who I used to be. My name is not Twelve. And yet it is.

Hands cup my breasts. I press into them. They are good. Big. Hot. Squeezing me. It—the one inside me—gives me what I want. Always gives. It is good.

My claws dig into the softness. Claws. That’s what they are, yes? I think.

What is thinking?

It makes sound when it’s inside me. I like this sound. My blood is rushing. My insides are exploding. I follow it.

I am coming. It is coming. My body grips, holds tight, sucks until I get want I want. The wash. It hits hard. So hot I can’t breathe. And then it spreads…the relief…inside and over and throughout.

I lie there, panting. Content. My tears dry.

My eyes are clear. I look and see. Where I am. The room. Pretty. White and blue and cool, and warm. I’ve been here before, I think.

What is thinking?

Then I’m covered. My skin is very warm. Like my insides. And I am safe.

It makes me safe.

I sleep.

***

Striker

Seventy-two hours of constant fucking makes a male hungry. The Pantera female is sleeping. I stand at the door watching her, downing a sandwich. I hope she gives me at least fifteen minutes this time. I need fuel. I should change the sheets. Lot of come on that white cotton. Not to mention the rips and tears. For some serious debauchery, they’ve given us one sweet-ass cabin. It’s like Martha Stewart decorated it, then said, “Let’s dial this shit back a little, friends.”

She stirs, and so does my cock. I’m ready. Hell, I’m always ready. It’s part of the reason they chose me. The other part I refuse to acknowledge.

My eyes run over her. Long, pale, naked limbs, small breasts, an ass that will no doubt consume my thoughts for years, long, thick black hair that falls near to the top of that ass—and an angel face that displays every emotion imaginable even though her mind is not her own. She’s lying on her belly, still asleep, her ass pink from my ready hand. I ‘met’ her just seventy-two hours ago, but I know every inch of her.

Every. Inch.

A Pantera male—a normal, sane, feeling Pantera male—would have claimed this female as his own by now.

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