STRIKER: Lords of Carnage MC Read online

  She slides off the stool. “I’m ready to go home now.”

  Fuck. I’m frustrated and more than a little pissed as I toss some bills on the bar. As I follow her out, I don’t know if I’m madder at her or at myself. I shouldn’t have taken the goddamn call from Rudy with her right here. I should have known she’d have some sort of goddamn opinion about it.

  I should tell her to shut the hell up about my choices, and keep her opinions to herself, because I don’t give a shit.

  But the hell of it is, that’s a lie.

  I do give a shit.

  I hate it, but the fact is, I care about what Ember thinks of me.

  And I hate even more that she’s right.

  25

  Ember

  On the way home, neither of us talks.

  I can tell Striker is angry at me, and I’m not sure I care.

  As for me, I’m trying to push down how upset I am at the idea that he’s going to go fight again.

  I know it’s not my place, but it’s true what I said to him. I don’t think these fights are about the money. Or at least not only about money. Surely if he needs money, he’d prefer to give his best in the ring, instead of throwing the match and letting the crowd celebrate his defeat? One look at Striker’s taut, muscled arms and the alert, predatory way he carries himself, anyone with eyes can see he could take on a man much larger than he is. So why is he willing to let himself be pummeled?

  We get to my house just before midnight. Striker parks the Mercedes in the street, instead of in my driveway. He comes over to my side and opens the door for me while I’m still fumbling to get my seat belt off. I guess he’s going to walk me up to the door. I silently take the hand he offers.

  “Can I come in and change out of this tux?” he asks gruffly. “My shift is starting now.”

  His shift.

  The words leave a bitter taste in my mouth, almost as if I had spoken them myself. Funny, tonight I had almost forgotten Striker is only here because Tank asked him to protect me. It’s been so easy to slip into the illusion that we’re friends.

  “Of course,” I say.

  Striker goes to the trunk and pulls out a duffel bag, slinging the strap over his shoulder. As he has all evening, he places his hand protectively on the small of my back as we go up the walk.

  I like it too much when he touches me like this. I liked the way he looked at me tonight at the gala, too. Like he was proud to have people think we were together.

  The martini I had at the hotel bar has worn off, leaving me sober as a judge. When we get to my front door, I stop and gaze up at him. Striker’s eyes glint by the light of the porch lamp. His face is half in shadow, meaning I can’t read his expression at all.

  “I had a nice time tonight,” I say softly. “Better than I would have if I had gone by myself. Thank you.”

  I don’t wait for him to respond. Instead, I fish my keys out of my small clutch and open the door, letting us both in. Bert, as always, greets us with a wagging tail.

  Striker goes immediately to the downstairs bathroom to change. I let Bert out into the backyard, then go to the kitchen and pour myself a glass of ice water. I gulp it down, then close my eyes and take a deep breath in, holding it for a few seconds before letting it out.

  A few seconds after I let Bert back in, Striker reappears, dressed casually in worn, soft-looking jeans and a dark T-shirt. He’s carrying the duffel in one hand and a garment bag in the other. He sets both on one of the stools at the kitchen island.

  “Has the Mercedes changed back into a pumpkin, too?” I say, trying for a joke.

  “You’re still in your princess clothes,” Striker points out. “Minus the glass slippers, that is.”

  Suddenly, the Cinderella thing doesn’t seem so funny anymore. Striker is handsome, but he isn’t my prince. He isn’t my anything. Even though I’ve just shown myself to the world as Striker’s date tonight, the chasm between us has never seemed wider.

  I should let him go outside and take his station outside for his shift, I guess. But even with this distance between us, it still seems so silly for him to be out there, watching my house in the dark.

  “Striker, why don’t you just stay in here tonight?” I suggest. “It doesn’t make any sense for you to be outside when you can guard the house just as well from inside.”

  Striker gives me a long look.

  “There’s just one problem with that,” he says.

  “What’s that?”

  Striker takes a single step forward. He’s still several feet away from me, but it seems like he’s much, much closer. I feel myself stop breathing.

  “If I stay in this house with you after looking at you in that sexy as hell dress all night, the only thing you’ll need protecting from is me.”

  My heart starts to hammer in my chest, so loud I swear he must be able to hear it.

  “What if I don’t want to be protected from you?” I hear myself say.

  Striker groans. “Jesus, don’t say that.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I’m seconds away from making a real bad decision here.”

  Nervous as hell, my body takes over for my mind. I take a step toward Striker. He groans again.

  “Make it,” I whisper.

  His mouth covers mine. The taste of him — the memory of the last time he kissed me — hits me like a force field as he picks me up in his arms and carries me up the stairs to my bedroom. As soon as he’s over the threshold, he sets me on my feet. Then he’s reaching behind me, lips still devouring mine, as he pulls my dress off my shoulders and down to the waist. I’m not wearing a bra because of the low drop of the dress down the back, I’m naked from the waist up, my skin cooling in the night air. Striker breaks the kiss and takes a step back to stare at me in the moonlight coming in through the window.

  “Holy shit,” he rasps.

  He reaches up and pulls the T-shirt off up over his head with one fluid movement, then stands before me, naked to the waist as well. He’s already breathing heavily, his muscled chest rising and falling, making the symmetrical pattern of tattoos dance in the pale light. We stand facing each other, the air pregnant and heavy with lust.

  “Take off the skirt,” he orders me, voice rough.

  I reach back to the zipper and pull down. The dress falls to the floor. I step out of it, and stand in front of him in only black panties and my nude heels.

  Striker reaches down, palms his thick shaft through his jeans. “I’ve never seen anything as hot in my life,” he says thickly. “Jesus, Ember. You need to tell me now if you wanna stop.”

  “I don’t want to stop,” I say, swallowing. “I want you to take me, Striker. I’ve wanted it for so long.”

  It’s just tonight, I tell myself as he unbuttons his jeans and let them fall. No matter what happens, this is what you want right now. If he doesn’t want you afterwards, that’s okay.

  I don’t quite believe it, but I do know that I want this more than I can ever remember wanting anything. I won’t regret it, no matter how it changes things tomorrow. I won’t let myself.

  Striker is naked in front of me now. His cock, thick and hard, pulses in his hand.

  “Get on the bed, babe,” he growls.

  I do, leaving my heels on because he hasn’t told me to take them off yet. I’ve abandoned all my will, wanting him to take control, make my body his, just for tonight. He’s still stroking himself, slowly, so slowly, and it’s mesmerizing, literally making my mouth water as I stare at him, unable to tear my eyes away.

  “Yes. Sweet Jesus, look at you,” he breathes. “Fuck, Ember, you’re not the only one who’s wanted this. Lie on your back and take off your panties, real slow.”

  I do, hooking them with my thumbs and pushing them over my hips. He tells me to scoot back on the bed, and then he kneels at the foot, between my raised knees. Leaning over me, he kisses me again, long and deep, as one hand cups my breast, rough thumb sliding over the hardening nipple.

  “Striker
!” I gasp, arching my back at the pleasure that shoots straight through my body to my core. I don’t know how it’s happening, but I’m already soaking wet and throbbing between my legs, so ready to come that I know it won’t take much. His lips leave my mouth, tracing a path down my neck to my other breast, and he sucks that nipple in his mouth, gently biting down as his thumb continues to caress on the other side. Oh, God, it’s so good, I’ve never felt anything like this — it’s like my body was a total stranger to me before now, and Striker is waking it up in ways I never knew possible.

  “So sweet,” he whispers as he sucks and teases the hardened bud. My legs have fallen apart, and I’m moaning now, loudly enough that I should be embarrassed but I’ve lost all ability to control myself. My hands clutch at the bedcover, then at his back, and my hips arch toward him, needing his touch so badly but not knowing how to form the words. Striker must sense my need, because his mouth abandons my breast now, and begins its slow, agonizing descent down my torso, to my stomach, kissing and licking all the way. I know where he’s going, and it’s so intimate that I almost want to fist my hand in his hair and make him stop, but I want to feel his mouth on me more, so I writhe and pant, wordlessly begging him to give me the release I crave.

  When his head is between my legs, Striker slides a finger inside of me, deep into my soft heat, and I feel myself clenching, gripping him. I know I’m soaked, because the air is cold on my pussy lips. When he removes his finger and covers me with his hot mouth, I cry out and arch my neck back into the mattress, overwhelmed by how good it feels.

  Striker slides his finger back inside me as he sucks my clit into his mouth, between his lips. It’s so soft, so hot, so wet, it’s unbearable, so all-consuming I go wild, driven half out of my mind as he teases and explores. He caresses me with his tongue, gentle but demanding, bringing me to the brink and then backing off half a dozen times until I’m begging him, pleas wrenching from my throat as I say his name over and over. Finally, when I can’t take even one more second of the torture, Striker lets me come, and I scream as I shatter, my whole body exploding with a force that scares me as I succumb to it.

  I’m still reeling as I feel Striker’s weight shifting off the bed. A clink of what must be his belt, then the crinkle of a wrapper. A second later, the heat of him at my entrance makes me draw a sharp breath.

  “Oh, God,” I moan as he fills me.

  It’s so tight, just short of painful, but it feels so perfect, and when Striker’s hands grip my hips and he begins to thrust, somehow, unbelievably, I know I’m going to come again. He buries himself deeper and deeper, fingers digging into my skin, and as I listen to his groans of pleasure I feel myself contract. I pull in a shaky breath, waiting for the explosion, and then just as Striker roars his release, I come around him, awash in an ecstasy so all-consuming I’ll never find a name for it as long as I live.

  26

  Ember

  “That was… wow,” I pant when I finally start to think straight.

  “Yeah,” Striker agrees hoarsely. “That… was a long time coming.”

  We’re both lying flat on our backs, but Striker rolls over, covers me with his body, and kisses me long and deep. Somehow, that kiss is even more intimate than what just happened.

  It feels profound. Like this wasn’t just sex.

  And it wasn’t. At least, not for me.

  When Striker breaks the kiss, he rolls back and pulls me into his arms. I shiver, suddenly cold, and snuggle against him.

  “Tank’s gonna be pissed at me.” Striker kisses the top of my head. “But goddamn, it was worth it.”

  I feel myself blush. “Why was Tank so concerned about this happening?”

  Striker chuckles. “Ah, he was afraid of me being a general asshole and pissing you off so much that you’d drop them as clients. Which, frankly, I can’t blame him for.”

  I’m silent, absorbing his words. Even though I told myself I wouldn’t second-guess this, I can’t help but wonder if I’m going to get hurt as a result of tonight. Objectively speaking, getting sexually involved with Striker is a bad, dumb, no-good idea. On paper, he’s exactly the wrong person for me in every way, including being bad for my reputation and my career.

  But then again, on paper, Mark looked like the exact right person for me. That’s the logic that got me into a marriage I never belonged in — with a man who only loved the idea of me as an accessory on his arm.

  Striker is a mess in a lot of ways. There’s a storm brewing inside him, for sure. But he’s also kind, beneath that rough exterior. And he’s gentle with kids, and protective of me in a way that’s not oppressive. And Bert loves him. That’s got to count for something.

  When I met Mark, I followed my head and got burned.

  Tonight, I followed my heart — my gut — by sleeping with Striker.

  I’m not sure if it will come back to bite me in the ass. But right now, lying in his arms, I tell myself I don’t regret it for a second.

  “I wouldn’t drop Tank and Cady as clients.” I wriggle closer to Striker as he wraps the bedspread around me. “No matter what, I wouldn’t do that. So Tank has nothing to worry about.”

  I feel Striker nod, and then for a while neither of us talks. He doesn’t say anything for so long that I think maybe he’s falling asleep. Then:

  “So, that shit you said earlier,” he says in a low voice. “About why I fight to lose.”

  Oh. I wince, regretting my words.

  “I’m sorry about that, Striker. It wasn’t my place to say any of it. And I was probably way off base. I just…”

  “No,” he says, cutting me off. “That’s the thing. You weren’t way off base. You were pretty much right on the fucking nose.”

  Striker’s words shock me into silence.

  And then, even more shocking, he keeps going.

  “There’s something I haven’t told Tank. Haven’t told anyone.” He pauses. “I’m the reason Cady and Wren got kidnapped.”

  “What?” I gasp. I pull myself up on my elbow, needing to see his face. “What are you talking about?” I ask, searching his expression for clues.

  “It’s true,” he declares. “I didn’t know it at the time, but it’s true all the same.”

  “That doesn’t make any sense,” I challenge him. “If you didn’t know, then how could you be responsible?”

  But the tortured expression on Striker’s face tells me he believes it one-hundred percent.

  “I told you about my brother Richie.” He hesitates. “Well, Tank is my brother in everything but blood. My best friend, for going on ten years now. We used to do the rounds in the underground fighting circuit together. Made a hell of a lot of money between us. Hell, Tank was an even better fighter than me. He’s a natural at it. Always has been.

  “The money you can make in those fights is insane, if you’re good enough and you’re not afraid to take risks. We cleaned the fuck up on that shit. This was even before we joined the MC. Once we got patched in with the Lords, we both kept fighting for a while, until Tank eventually decided to bow out. Rudy, the guy who organizes the fights, was tryin’ to get Tank to sign on for a fight that could have made him rich. But the ones that make real bank are risky. And Tank didn’t like the way things were heading. So he turned Rudy down, and decided to get out of the scene.

  “Shit wasn’t the same after that. I kept fighting, but it wasn’t as fun with just me goin’ to the fights without him there with me.” Striker runs a hand roughly through his hair. I notice it’s shaking a little. “And then one night, Tank goes to his front door, and there’s this little girl standing there, with a note sayin’ he’s her father. Then a couple days after that, he meets Cady. All of a sudden Tank becomes a family man.”

  He grimaces. “After that, I saw him even less than I did when he stopped fighting. I knew he was happy, and I was happy for him. Tried to be, anyway. But hell, things just weren’t the same. Everything felt different. I dunno, fuck, it sort of felt like I’d lost another brothe
r, ya know?”

  I contemplate his words, not daring to say anything for fear he won’t say more if I interrupt him.

  Striker lets out a dry bark of a laugh. “And then the club decides to go legit. Money got tight. A lot of our sources of income started to dry up. I picked up some more fights on the circuit to make up for it. Rudy must have figured out that if I was hurting for money, maybe Tank would be, too. He starts pressuring me to bring Tank back in.

  “And then, one night, he tells me about a fight he’s got for Tank that’s a no-brainer. A one-time deal, for a huge purse, against a guy Tank could put down in his sleep. I told Tank about it. Made it sound as sweet as possible. I knew he needed the cash, since he’d told me he was havin’ trouble makin’ ends meet, what with Wren to take care of.” Striker shakes his head. “I thought maybe after he remembered how easy the money was, he’d come back on the circuit with me. Maybe it would be like old times again.

  “That night,” he continues hoarsely, “while Tank was at the fights? That was when the men who wanted to destroy our club took Cady and Wren.”

  I gape at Striker, trying to make sense of his words. “Striker, what are you saying?”

  “I’m saying,” he barks, “that if Tank hadn’t been at the fights that night, he would have been with Cady and Wren. It never would have happened.”

  “Striker, you can’t blame yourself for that!”

  “The hell I can’t!” Striker barks. “Tank never would have been at the fight that night if it wasn’t for me.” His face is etched with pain. “And it almost cost Wren and Cady their lives.”

  It comes to me all at once, in a flash of understanding. Striker has been throwing fights he could easily win because getting beaten on -- not fighting back — is helping him cope with the guilt.