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

Watching me pleasure myself was one of Striker’s biggest turn-ons.

As I moaned and writhed, my fingers finding the right rhythm, his eyes heated with desire.

I exhaled, watching him through heavy lids.

His attention was bouncing between my fingers and the mirror. Yeah, he was totally into this.

Without changing my pace, I reached out to feel his cock, satin-smooth and throbbing with impatience. I angled him into place, and he pressed his hips to me, sliding in slowly.

Rocking his hips, filling me full, he wrapped his hand around my bent knee. His eyelids closed. His face took on the tense laxness of coital concentration.

Slicked with sweat, he was so darned sexy.

He felt so damned good.

I shut my own eyes, concentrating on the building energy. Pressing my feet firmly on the table, I banded my muscles, curled my toes, and in a burst of energy, my orgasm gripped me, took over my thoughts, my breath, the beat of my heart.

Panting, I didn’t feel done. I needed a more intense angle. I reached for his hand, and as I pulled, Striker stabilized me. I found my balance on all fours, then looked over my shoulder at Striker. “Okay?” I wiggled my ass.

Striker shifted on the narrow surface.

With his fingers on my waist, he guided me to an angle. Here, we could watch in the mirror as he stroked in and out.

“This is for you,” I panted. “It’s your turn.” If I didn’t let Striker know, he’d continue to work on satisfying me, holding back on his own pleasure. But really, what I wanted was to feel the full power of Striker’s desire.

Nothing held back.

And he didn’t disappoint.

With his fingers curling tightly around my hips, his strokes grew deeper, more demanding. His head thrown back, he came hard.

For a long moment, I felt the sting of his fingers curling into my skin, the pulsing of his cock deep inside me. It was painfully good.

A weight lifted.

And now, peace descended.

With a gulp of air, he bent, pressing a kiss onto my back, then resting his forehead there. For a moment, we stilled while our heartbeats thrummed.

As Striker came upright on his knees, he chuckled at what he saw in the mirror. His beautiful artwork was no more. The paint had taken a wild ride as the sweat and friction turned the pigment liquid.

What a mess! And I was completely delighted.

“All right, Chica.” He climbed from the table with athletic grace.

Seeing his still-hard dick, revved my motors for another go. He grinned as I licked my lips.

He scooped me into his arms. “That was round one. Now, I’m carrying you up to the shower. Round two, we’re playing Mr. and Mrs. Clean.”

Perfect.

Chapter Twenty-One

Last night, as I shut my eyes to go to sleep, Deep rang the front doorbell. He would have no idea that I had gone to bed as the summer sun set.

I heard Striker answer and the men’s voices chatting. Deep, who was Strike Force’s logistics specialist, had been preparing my cover.

While Striker would try to gather the information from Deep, I needed to hear this firsthand, for safety's sake.

Pulling on a robe and tying it tightly in place, I wound my way down the staircase. “Hey there.”

“Hi Esther,” he said. There were two backpacks and a grocery bag by his feet.

“What do you have there?”

“Your Esther stuff. When you ran away from your cult, this is all you could carry.”

“Thank you.” I walked over and looked into the rumpled grocery bag first. Left over fast food napkins, plastic utensils, a box of crackers, a partially consumed jar of peanut butter, another of jelly. Some tins of tuna. Packets of instant soup. I could survive on this food. It looked like stuff I would have secretively tucked away from the community pantry. None of it delicious. Nothing as frivolous as a bag of chips or a sleeve of chocolate chip cookies.

In the backpacks, there were clothing basics. Clean, but a little gray and threadbare from too many washings. The style was early Goodwill. Certainly, nothing cute and nothing even remotely immodest. Most of the clothes were cotton dresses that would come down to my ankles.

“Gross,” I said, making Deep laugh.

“I have a clunker for you outside. It has Ohio license plates. It’s registered to The Church of High Holiness.”

“Huh.”

“Yeah, it’s not particularly inventive by design. You stole it from your cult. You’d rather the cops not figure that out. Remember that when you’re parking and if you’re asked to drive anywhere. For example, you might want to park away from where you work so that if the vehicle is spotted, the police won’t look inside the diner for you.”

“Good thinking. If that comes up in a conversation with Destiny, that will be believable.”

“I put a couple of sleeping bags and some pillows in the back seat. There’s a Porta Jane for your late-night convenience. I’m suggesting that you’re living out of the car. That might give Destiny an opportunity to offer you some compassion. It would be great if that was an invitation to sleep on her couch.”

“That wouldn’t be great,” Striker muttered. “I’d rather Lexi comes home at night.”

Deep exchanged a look with Striker, then moved the conversation along.

“I heard about your shiner. Way to go saving that woman.” He lifted a hand to high-five me.

And while I slapped his hand, I wasn’t in the mood for congratulations or celebration. “The piece of shit car you brought me, it’s dependable?”

“If you were in a high-speed chase, you’d win every time. Bullet resistant windows, run-flat tires.”

“No high-speed chases.” Striker crossed his arms over his chest, and he bit down on his back teeth, making his jaw bulge.

Deep exchanged a second glance with Striker,