Hyper Lynx (The Lynx Series Book 6) by Fiona Quinn (ebook reader for pc and android TXT) 📗

I caught the way he was assessing me. I knew I wasn’t fooling him at all. I didn’t even feel up to this much. I certainly didn’t want to eat. I was just play-acting to get to the point in my day when I could fall into bed, hopefully early and by myself, so I could just lay there and cry. Let my body release this sucky day. I stood up to get myself a drink of water.

“What do you need right now, Chica?”

I swept my hands over my face. “Just being here with you is pretty darned good.”

He reached out and pinched the edge of my dress between his thumb and forefinger, his mind working the problem. He was a SEAL, through and through.

Releasing the cloth, Striker reached under my arms and lifted me onto the counter, so we were eye to eye.

I rested my hands on the broad expanse of his shoulders and just felt the latent strength. These arms had the capacity to do great harm and the ability to take up great burdens. I loved Striker’s shoulders. I leaned in and laid a kiss on the rounding dome of his muscle.

When I lifted up, Striker’s lips met mine in a slow kiss.

Gentle and sweet, I felt my stress slide to the side. There it was, crouching on the floor, watching for another opportunity to grab my attention.

I was determined to leave the stress there, ignored.

As my body softened, Striker pressed my knees apart and stepped forward, snuggling into the space between my legs that was all his.

I flexed my feet to make my flats clatter to the ground. Wrapping my legs around Striker’s waist, I crossed my ankles behind him to keep him there in the place where he belonged between my thighs. To keep him doing the things he was doing with his mouth. A swirl, and a lick, a nibble, and a dance with my tongue.

He brushed at a wisp of hair that found its way to my cheek and was tickle-itching me. And as he did, he sent a look of curiosity toward the dining room. “What I think you need is a distraction.”

“Yes.” I sighed out. That was exactly what I needed. A concentration of this energy and then an explosion of release. “That would be wonderful.”

He drew my hands to his neck, then wrapped his arms around me. “Hold tight,” his voice carried a smile.

What is he up to?

Lifting me up, he walked me to the dining room. There he held me fast with one arm while he scooped my skirt up and out of the way before he set me down on the white paper-covered table.

“It’s the Nancy Drew dress that’s got you heated, isn’t it?”

“That’s turning me on? It’s you. All you.” He gave a slow tug to my zipper. “I think we could have some fun in here.”

“Oh?”

“Mmm.” He lifted the dress over my head and cast it to the side.

Every move, sensually slow.

Striker in play mode.

“Is this what you want?” he asked as his lips found the delicate bones beneath my neck, tracing a string of kisses from one side to the other. He stopped and looked up to catch my eye.

“This is exactly what I want.” All day, my muscles had been banded and ready for a fight, physical, intellectual—moral, even.

I had learned over our years together that Striker had a magical ability to shift my consciousness.

It was like hypnotism.

With the tone of his voice, the strokes of his hands, the world fell away.

I was sensation.

Connection.

My life’s experiences had taught me that I could blow the now by allowing the ugly and violent world to encroach on sacred space.

I purposefully and consciously put up an etheric do not disturb sign. I would focus on nothing but Striker.

Making love with Striker had many moods.

But mostly, it was about allowing a bubble to surround us, a partition, a designation. This is now. Here is where my focus lies. This is my body, my mind, my soul, and I share it with you.

I released my legs from encircling him. With my hands pressing into the tabletop, I scooted farther back on the paper, wondering what Striker was concocting in that creative brain of his that kept our sex life so passionate.

He lifted his chin. “A little more.”

I complied.

“A little more.” Striker kicked off his boots and toed off his socks. He whipped his belt from the loops of his tactical pants and let it drop with a thunk to the carpet. Then slowly, making sure I was watching, he tugged his uniform shirt over his head.

I licked my lips.

A demigod worthy of being a sculpture. An underwear model on a five-story billboard in Times Square. He was beautiful. And the way he looked at me made me feel beautiful, too.

He popped the top button of his pants.

Room to grow, I thought as my body warmed.

He reached across his chest, tucking his hand under his arm. The fingers of his other hand stroked at his chin. Contemplating.

He angled his head this way, then that, then walked to the dimmer switch on the wall, adjusting the light up, then down. Squinting his eyes, fussing with the brightness until I was illuminated just the way he wanted.

Moving back to my side, Striker pulled free the elastic that had been holding my make-do bun in place.

A gasp escaped my lips as the warm silkiness of the strands tickled over my shoulders and breasts.

I recognized this energy Striker was putting out.

The artistic inner space.

It was the place he went into when he was designing a new canvas. Striker preferred huge expanses where he usually painted stormy seas