Stryker's Desire (Dragons Of Sin City Book 1)

by Meg Ripley

  “Twelve,” Johan told her with a little grin. He wrapped his arms around her carefully, avoiding her bruised rib.

  “I thought you were going to show me about—something, something, you’re not my mom.” Johan chuckled lowly, his hands beginning to wander over her body slowly.

  “That is, in fact, why I’m here,” Johan said, cupping her breast in his palm. He turned her face towards his and kissed her on the lips, his tongue darting into her mouth, exploring and probing. “How’s the knee? And the ankle?” he asked, breaking away for just a moment. Chelsea shivered as Johan’s caresses teased, lingering at her breasts one moment and then drifting down to her hips, slipping between her legs to stroke her lightly.

  “Better,” Chelsea said when her lips were once more free. Johan’s lips trailed from her mouth to her jaw, dragging along her throat. “How—how are we going to…” Chelsea gasped as Johan’s fingers slipped and slid along her already-slick labia, rubbing slightly. She shivered, twisting her hips as Johan’s touch deepened, his fingers finding her clit unerringly.

  “I’ve been giving that a lot of thought,” Johan said, his voice rough with desire. “Gave me something to…while away the time you were asleep.” Johan kissed her lightly on the lips, and slowly, carefully maneuvered himself on top of her, holding himself up as he withdrew his fingers from her soaking wet vulva. “First, I’m going to make you come,” Johan murmured, pulling Chelsea’s legs apart gently. “And then… well, you’ll see.” Johan grinned at her, and then began to trail kisses down from her lips, along the column of her throat, past her collarbones. Chelsea shivered as Johan lingered at her breasts, claiming each of her nipples in turn, licking and sucking each one. Johan’s fingers stroked just between her labia as he worshipped her breasts with lips and tongue, sending tingling jolts of pleasure through her body.

  Just when Chelsea thought she couldn’t stand any more teasing, Johan continued downward, kissing and nibbling along her ribs, past her abdomen. He nuzzled her hip, nipping sharply at the sensitive skin there, and Chelsea gasped, reaching down to tangle her fingers in his hair. Johan slithered down between her legs, spreading her thighs just slightly wider, careful to support her injured knee. Chelsea moaned out as Johan buried his face against her soaking wet pussy, sucking and licking hungrily. He pulled her labia into his mouth as he flickered his tongue up and down along her folds, tasting her thoroughly.

  Chelsea’s hips bucked and twisted as Johan brought his tongue up to her clit, barely swiping against the bead of nerves before moving down to the well of her pussy once more. She tugged at Johan’s hair without thinking, grabbed at his shoulder, too wrapped up in the pleasure of his mouth against her to remember where he was injured or even try to avoid it. Johan nuzzled against her, focusing his efforts on her pleasure center, and even though she tried to hold back, to savor the sensations coursing through her, Chelsea found her self-control slipping every moment, until she felt the growing knot of tension between her hips unravel, sending wave after wave of pleasure through her. Johan continued his worship even as Chelsea pitched and writhed, forgetting all about her own injuries, lost in the sensations coursing through her nervous system.

  Johan began to pull back as the spasms of pleasure began to abate, lapping up her fluids more slowly and then retreating, leaving Chelsea shivering in the aftershocks for just a moment before he slithered on top of her once more. “Are you ready for more?” Johan asked her, kissing her lightly on the lips. Chelsea struggled to catch her breath, draping her arms limply around his broad shoulders.

  “Not really but keep going anyway,” she said, smiling breathlessly. Johan chuckled and Chelsea felt him shifting her body around, moving above her even as he held himself up to keep from putting pressure on the parts of her body that still ached. She could feel the heat and hardness of his cock pressing against her, and even though Chelsea was still hovering in the haze of orgasm, she felt a ripple of renewed lust.

  Johan carefully brought Chelsea’s injured leg up, resting her calf against his shoulder, and Chelsea bit her bottom lip, briefly uncertain; but as he thrust into her slowly, filling her up inch by inch, any worry about hurting herself evaporated. Johan rocked his hips, pushing deeper and deeper inside of her as Chelsea began to move with him. Hot and cold flashes of sensation crackled through her, and she reached out, carefully stretching to touch Johan everywhere. He held her leg on top of his shoulder, his free hand trailing over her body, stroking and caressing her, teasing her nipples one moment and then drifting down between their bodies to rub her clit the next. Chelsea arched and writhed, moaning out as the friction between them built up.

  She could feel Johan’s cock twitching inside of her, feel the tension in his body as they continued to move together; Chelsea forgot even the memory of pain as more and more pleasure coursed through her, bringing her swiftly to the edge of orgasm, grabbing and clutching at Johan’s body as if for life itself. They both reached orgasm at almost the same moment—Chelsea felt her self-control give way, and then felt the first hot, sticky-slick splash of Johan’s come rushing into her as they moaned together, crying out in pleasure.

  Johan carefully fell to the bed next to her, letting her leg slide from his shoulder as he draped his arms around her. Chelsea trembled, turning onto her side to cuddle close to Johan as they both panted and gasped for breath. “Okay,” she said, smiling slightly as she looked up into his face. “You’re definitely not my mom.” Johan laughed out loud, his arms tightening around her.

  “I would hope not!” Johan kissed her eagerly. “How do you feel now?” Chelsea considered the question.

  “Like I want half a Vicodin, breakfast, and then some more of this.” Johan chuckled.

  “I mean about your life,” he told her, tousling her hair playfully.

  “Well it could be all the pleasure chemicals in my system, but I’m pretty optimistic, on the whole,” Chelsea said. “You’re not just going to leave me when this is all over, are you?” Johan shook his head.

  “I told you yesterday: you’re stuck with me until you tell me to leave.” Chelsea smiled.

  “What are we going to do until the trial? I mean, I can’t work…” Johan brought her face up to his and kissed her hungrily.

  “Well, personally my plan is to keep you fed, keep you from getting hurt again, and regularly fuck your brains out, as long as you want to fuck me.” He nibbled along the column of her throat. “I seem to recall you having an issue with me ‘bullying you’ into fucking on my schedule.” Chelsea laughed, and clutched at her bruised rib as the movement sent a ripple of pain strong enough to cut through the haze of pleasure and painkillers.

  “Okay, okay,” she said, breathing carefully. “No more complaints about that.” Johan pulled her closer, nuzzling against her neck.

  “Then I think we’ll be just fine.” Johan kissed her again. “No more tantrums until you’re healed up, got it?” Chelsea nodded.

  “Got it. Now when are you going to feed me?” Johan guided her hand down along his body, and she laughed, half-groaning as she realized he was starting to become hard again. “One more time. Then we eat and get some drugs in me.”

  “We have nothing but time,” Johan murmured, and they began to move together once more.

  ****

  Chelsea managed to walk into the courtroom without limping, although the high heels the attorney had insisted she should wear for her stint on the witness stand made both her knee and ankle ache. She was healing—and Johan’s client had generously covered the expenses of her physical therapy, as well as the continued visits to the doctor—but it was slow.

  She was grateful to have Johan at her side; Chelsea glanced in the direction of the defense table and saw her former employer, Aaron Rosen, glaring daggers in her direction. There was no doubt in her mind that if Rosen somehow did manage to avoid conviction, he would continue to send people after her—only it would be for the pleasure of revenge rather than the desire to keep her silent. She had mentioned tha
t possibility to Johan the night before, as she lay awake in bed, worrying about her first day of testimony. “If he gets off,” Johan had said, pulling her around and on top of him, “then I will take you with me to Sweden, and we’ll live there. He’s small time, Chelsea-baby. He doesn’t have the resources to follow you outside of the country.” The prosecutor had told her that with her testimony—and the evidence that she had provided—it was practically no contest. The trial would end, and Rosen would be convicted and spend the rest of his days serving out consecutive sentences—to which the district attorney had added murder and attempted murder.

  Whatever happened, Chelsea thought as she gave Johan’s hand a brief squeeze, glancing at him for support, she knew that the man who had come into her life so unexpectedly, and who she had fought against so hard, would stand by her and support her.

  THE END

  Seduction On Eden Island

  Story Description

  Finding out on national television that her long-term boyfriend is a cheater, mild-mannered HR manager Rayne Baker throws caution to the wind and accepts a mysterious invitation to an exclusive new tropical resort.

  But not is all as it seems on Eden Island; there are mysteries behind every bend.

  After making a horrifying discovery, Rayne and her sexy cohort are on the run. Will they make it off the island? Will they discover what’s making the guests disappear? Who can she trust?

  On Eden, no one can hear you scream.

  There was blood everywhere. It coated the walls, the floor--there were even spurts on the ceiling. Rayne held a double-ended canoe paddle in both hands and braced herself; this was not in the brochure.

  Earlier…

  Rayne had woken groggily on the private jet; she had slung back far too many gins and her head ached. Twenty-four hours ago, she had sat at her cubicle mopping smudged mascara, trying to explain to a group of disgruntled accountants why all the fridge contents had to be cleaned out the previous day.

  “There were intelligent life forms growing in that petri dish of yours. We had no other choice but to abide by OSHA regulations before new forms of sentient life became a real problem for us. You handle multi-million dollar accounts and can find a tax loop-hole in the eye of a needle; why can’t you keep an eye on the expiration dates of your food?”

  After another thirty minutes of discussing the implied freedoms of the communal fridge, Rayne lost her nerve and threw a fistful of snotty tissues at the group. “Could you please just get the fuck out of my cubicle and get back to work? If a gross fridge was my biggest problem today, I would be your all-singing-all-dancing kind of HR manager, but I’m not. Get out!”

  After threats of common assault were bantered about, Rayne’s director, Rod, stepped in and sent the grim accountants back to their floor. In a gush of bubbly snot and stinging black tears, Rayne revealed it all: her boyfriend of five years, Jason, had been photographed with another woman, an infamous socialite with a penchant for little dogs. Jason was a statistician; not exactly a sexy job, but he had boyish charm--and apparently wandering hands. The photo had been taken when they were sitting together, and from the torso up it looked fine, but the camera caught activities happening below the small table they sat at.

  Rayne had only become aware of this when the pixelated version flicked onto her TV screen as she was cooking dinner at home. Within moments, her phone had scuttled off the kitchen bench in the dance of the many silent vibrations. Her social media page had gone bonkers, too, with strangers and journalists trying to contact her. Jason never did come home--turned out he wasn’t at a statistics and budgetary meeting that day after all.

  Rayne was gently guided from the building by Rod and was told to consider an extended break until the media buzz died down. Floating past the newsstands filled with full-page reproductions of her boyfriend’s cheating--or, more likely, the unabashed shame of the socialite--Rayne ambled to the subway, pulled out a worn paperback from her bag and settled onto a bench to immerse herself into a story where the almost-fiancés weren’t caught out on national media cheating with pretty socialites.

  Several people had joined Rayne on her bench; one was a stylish woman with a glossy blonde bouffant, designer coat and black patent stilettos. The woman was flipping mindlessly through a thick glossy fashion magazine, paying only slight attention to the fashion spreads. A rush of air across the platform signaled the arrival of another train. The woman folded back several pages of her magazine and tucked it under arm as she hoisted her large leather tote and stepped into the crowd of commuters, disappearing among the throngs of beige trench coats and black jackets. Just as the train was pulling out the station, sucking another gush of air from the platform, Rayne felt a frantic fluttering at her side; a business card had lodged itself into the slats of the bench. Rayne picked it up and was surprised by the weight. It was made of a very luxurious bright white card stock but felt like it contained something heavier—almost as heavy as a credit card. Pressed cleanly into the card were crisp black letters in a take-no-prisoners serif font:

  YOUR PARADISE AWAITS…

  The other side just had a cryptic web address of letter and numbers. Rayne looked back to see the final train carriage disappear from view; the woman must’ve dropped this. Rayne tucked the card into her book and continued reading, deciding to check out the website once she was within Wi-Fi reach and see if she could drop the card off.

  Despite the lust and romance that sprinkled the pages of her favorite books, opening the door of her brownstone apartment brought Rayne back to her immediate future. Mentally exhausted, Rayne began to boil water for tea, getting out her favorite mug. Remembering the special business card tucked in her book, Rayne scrabbled around looking for it before booting up her laptop.

  Dropping onto the couch, Rayne turned the card over in her hand and carefully typed in the long URL, double-checking the letter and number sequence twice. Within a fraction of a second of pressing the enter button, Rayne’s screen went black. Of all the people in the world to type in a link to a virus…

  Then, the screen faded into white; a set of black letters materialized and faded in a gentle sequence:

  “Welcome to Eden. You have been selected to join us for an exclusive getaway. Disappear into a tropical island paradise. For your eyes only.”

  Oh crap.

  The screen changed to show expensive resort imagery with sweeping tropical landscapes. After one rotation through the images, a registration screen popped up demanding details. Rayne searched the static page looking for contact details, but there was nothing.

  I can register, but I’ll explain that it was a mistake and I’m looking for the right person.

  Rayne typed in her details and, after a moment of hesitation, pressed ‘submit’.

  Another screen popped up among a new gallery of resort images: “Thank you for registering. One of our resort team members will contact you shortly.”

  Rayne opened a new search window and typed in “Eden Resort,” only to get back tens of thousands of possible clues. She extended the search with “island paradise,” only to whittle a couple of thousand from the list. Before Rayne could contemplate another search term, her landline phone started ringing.

  “Hello?”

  “Hi, is this Rayne Baker?” a bubbly woman’s voice echoed down the phone.

  “Yes, who is this?”

  “My name is Cassandra from Eden Resort. We just received your registration.”

  Wow, that was fast.

  “Look, I’m glad you called because I actually think this invitation was for someone else.”

  “Was there a name on the card?”

  “No, just a web address.”

  The woman’s voice brightened, “In that case, it’s very much your card. This is part of a secret promotion Eden Resort is hosting prior to its official launch; I believe a few cards were distributed through random circulation."

  Smart PR move…

  Rayne could hear typing and clicking in the
background. “You’re actually very lucky, Ms. Baker. I've just checked the reservation, and it seems that you have been assigned the Lotus Suite, one of the most expensive suites on the island. There’s yoga, massage and private dining included in your package, which… yes, you’re entitled to over $18,000 worth of value for a six day, seven-night stay.”

  “I’m sorry, what? Did you say an $18,000 stay?”

  “Yes.” The disembodied voice was practically beaming down the phone.

  “Do I need to purchase anything for this?”

  The woman laughed, “No, not at all. It’s an exclusive invitation. A bit like what travel agents get to review resorts.”

  “So, I am to review the resort in exchange for over $18,000 of value?”

  “That’s the plan.”

  Rayne sat, astounded by the opportunity that landed in her lap. “So, when do I leave?”

  ****

  Rayne massaged her temples and smacked her lips together, desperate for a steward to provide her with a glass of water. She had been hauled out of bed at 4 am and taken by private car to a private airport where she had boarded...a private plane.

  There were two other guests on the plane, though none had yet to say hello. The first she met was a man with stiff, swept back blonde hair, a gingham shirt and beige slacks. Despite the ungodly hour, he seemed preened and ready for a midday outing. The Tommy Hilfiger wannabee deemed Rayne worthy of just a small nod before staring pointedly out his window.

  Okay, not to worry--he’s just one prick.

  The second guest had arrived as Rayne was just tipping back the final contents of a fresh mimosa: a stunning woman with a magenta pixie-cut. The woman was swimming in furs, constantly peering over her sunglasses.