by Fiona Quinn
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 in slashes of violet and indigo oils, connecting some inner emotion with his brush strokes.
He swept my hair back and dropped one of my bra straps down my arm.
Then the other.
“This just needs to go.” He reached over to unclasp my bra, sliding it off and tossing it to the floor. He took my hands in his. “Will you lay down for me?”
“For you?” I gripped his fingers tighter as I lay back, wondering where this was all heading. “I would do most anything.”
I was rewarded with a slow sexy smile. The one that promised good things to come.
His gaze shifted to rest on the pots of finger paint, then back to me. A questioning tilt to his head.
“That would be so cold. Don’t you think?”
“I have no idea. Shall I try?”
A burst of laughter bubbled up from my belly and filled the room. It was part delight, part I’m not sure about this, part anticipation.
His fingers snapped at the sides of my panties. “These are very pretty. I don’t want to get any paint on them.”
“Thank you,” I murmured, pressing my weight into my heels to lift up.
He inched the lace over my hips, then slowly, slowly down my thighs, and untangled them from my feet.
Striker had a way of making me feel graceful. He had a natural rhythm, an elegance to him that would be lost to those who only knew him in hardened operator mode.
Well—ha!—hardened as in body of steel ready to go after evil and malice.
I was the only one who got to experience this kind of hardened operator mode. I reached out and traced my finger over the tip of his erection, wrapped in underwear and not happy to be constrained. “These come off too, please.”
I didn’t have to ask twice. He peeled off the rest of his clothes, then crawled naked up on the table with me, lifting the pot of blue and showing it to me.
I shivered with anticipation.
He dipped his finger in, his eyes scanning over my body. He started at my calf. In cursive, he traced out the word silken.
Twisting, he looked at my belly, quivering with this new game. There, his index finger drew soft.
Striker bit his upper lip, tipping his head from side to side. He lifted my hand above my head, then slid off the table, crouching low, his head resting against the flat surface. He was focused on my side that had been slashed by the serial killer. Over a hundred stitches tugged me back together. Those scars were vulnerable to me.
Striker dipped his finger into the pot. I watched in the mirror over my buffet table as he looped voluptuous.
That was what he saw when he looked at my side? Not damaged?
Trading for a pot of white, on my arm, from wrist to shoulder, strength.
Caress on the other arm.
Nibble worked its way up my neck.
I kicked at him as he traced tickle across the arch of my foot.
Lifted to my elbows. It was erotic as heck watching him paint arouse on my inner thigh.
Oh, yeah, I was aroused all right, and I was gratified to see the drip of moisture shine the head of his cock, letting me know this was doing good things for him, too.
I knew from our years together that Striker liked slow. He enjoyed the idea of using sex as an escape into physical sensations of love and joy, and he felt no reason, except when I was asking for a quicky, to hurry things.
Tonight, there was no rush. Slow was perfection.
This was so much better than a massage. Striker’s fingertips swirled over my body, making me feel beautiful and treasured.
His little kisses, licks, and nips punctuated the loving words he coiled over my skin.
“I think the base is done.”
When Striker started a canvas, he did just this. He began by painting words. Thoughts that he wanted to consider as he added the next layer of paints building the oils up one step at a time so that there was depth and intricacy.
The base was done. We had just begun…
I closed my eyes and let myself move to a meditative place, experiencing the sensation of his fingertips creating serpentine lines as they stroked over my most vulnerable places.
My muscles would clench and release as he moved over my body.
Lifting, repositioning, pausing as he contemplated.
“What are you painting on me?” I whispered.
“You are Eve. The only woman. You are brave enough and strong enough to reach for the apple of knowledge. I’m painting you into that garden.”
His fingers swirled on my hip. “In your garden, you can be all things, but mostly, you can breathe the heady perfume of the flowers. You can swing lazily from the vines. You can just experience and rest.”
“Mmmm.”
When his fingers finally left me, Striker whispered in my ear, “I just need to wash off the paint for the other places I want to explore.”
I let a lazy smile slip across my face as I listened to him climb down and move into the kitchen. I rolled languidly over so I could see his handiwork in the mirror.
Striker had indeed turned me into Eve. I looked like a woman lost amongst the flower and vines of the rainforest. It was so beautiful.
When Striker emerged, drying his hands, I patted my hand behind my back. He followed my invitation. Crawling onto the table and lining up to spoon with me—his hard-on teasing against my ass.
And that just wasn’t close enough.
I tapped his hip and spun as much as the tabletop would allow me to.
Striker angled himself on his side, giving me enough room to lay back with my legs draping over his hips. I rested my head back as I reached between my legs.
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 d
eep 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, then turned back to me, fishing in his pocket. “You decide where you want these. Driver’s license, birth certificate, sixty dollars in cash.” He fished in his other pocket. “Cheap ass burner phone. Once you’ve made a call on this phone, it erases from the memory. That way, you can use it to call us or the FBI, and no one will be able to tell. The GPS is connected to Iniquus. Control will be monitoring your location. Oh!” Another dive into his back pocket. He held up an angel medallion on a chain. “This is also a GPS. In case you get separated from your phone.” He glanced Striker’s way, then back to me. “I can’t imagine this being a dangerous assignment from what you said.” He tapped his cheek where I sported my bruise. “Except when you’re a random heroine. But still, one is none, and two is one, as the SEALs like to say.”
After that, I’d gone up to bed. Deep and Striker hung out watching TV downstairs. The utter normalcy of it helped me drift off to sleep.
Fortunately, I went all night without remembering a single dream.
This morning, I got up and did my morning Tai Chi.
After time on my meditation cushion, I felt much more centered and capable of taking on the day.
I had decided against my routine jog or putting in any time in my basement gym. I had to assume I’d get a thorough workout at the diner today. I’d never tried being a server, so fingers crossed it would all go okay.
Today, I changed my appearance. I wasn’t too worried about presenting one way yesterday and another today. People, in general, weren’t great with holding on to details of someone’s appearance. The swollen cheek would be enough of a physical reminder that I was who I was.
I used my brown contact lenses. Last night I decided to dye my hair pink. Well, not all pink. I lifted up the crown of blonde and colored the layer underneath. I thought it actually looked pretty cool. I liked it. But it was temporary and would wash out in time for next Saturday’s wedding pictures. “Yeah,” I told the mirror, “this is something someone rebelling against her cult might do.”
What did I know beyond Dr. Gupta’s lecture about any of that?
One of the important points I’d taken away: No one knows what’s going on in The Grove now because of secrets. Same for whatever cult I was supposed to have escaped from.
I hoped Modesty—well, Destiny—and I got along.
I hoped she would quickly learn to trust me, and I could figure out how best to get her to agree to turn State’s evidence.
I’d really like to cross this off my slate before Thursday and the beginning of the wedding parties. Disappearing for three days might prove difficult.
No reason to borrow trouble.
Leaving a love note for Striker next to the coffee pot, I gathered the two backpacks and the crumpled bag of food that Deep had put together and headed to the car.
Man, he wasn’t kidding; this looked like a total piece of shit.
The yellow and rust car yesterday, the diner’s would-be kidnappers’, would have been a major step up in luxury.
Still, when I inserted the key and turned the engine over, it hummed.
***
Heading to the diner, I was thinking about Spyder.
I had concluded that he wasn’t in town. Yesterday morning when he called to tell me to take the FBI meeting, that call had come through the Iniquus switchboard that encrypted locations.
I sure would like to ask him some in-person questions.
Why were we trying to persuade Destiny?
The FBI didn’t tell me. All I knew was that my role on this case was to make friends and find Destiny’s vulnerabilities. Those weak spots would be exploited for information, not by me, but by Finley and Prescott at the FBI.
I was getting a foot in the door. That was it.
Assuming Spyder was still working to take down the Hydra, that meant Destiny had to have information on one of three entities—well, there were three groups that I knew about. Maybe Spyder turned up another.
But so far, we had focused on the Assembly for political power, Omega fo
r military power, and Sylanos for criminal money bags.
Did this have to do with something Destiny knew about the Assembly? About a dozen men who were sent to prison after the data dump proved them to be pedophiles. Certainly, the Assemblymen might have exploited youngsters in a cult. Was she a victim? Did she know of others who were?
Omega Security… I couldn’t see how Destiny could have anything to do with them. Besides, after their corruption was exposed, those that weren’t scooped up for trial headed overseas. They were based out of Moldova—with no United States extradition—and took contracts mostly in East European countries and Africa.
Now Sylanos, on the other hand… That was an interesting thought. He was part of that Hydra whose head we didn’t cut off. Working out of South America and constantly changing his location, it had taken me over a year just to prove he was still alive and working his crimes.
Yeah, it would be amazing if Spyder finally had a way to take down Sylanos. Though, what Sylanos would have to do with Modesty Blackburn from The Grove…
I took the long way to the diner, driving by where the apartment building where I grew up used to stand. After it burned down, city developers swooped in and made modern shop spaces with offices above.
Such a shame.
What a cultural and personal loss.
Driving in the direction that Spyder and I used to jog, I’d admit it. I did it on purpose, trying to remember anything that would help me figure out why I was experiencing this odd connection with my parents.
It was out of the blue.
And while it might have been chicken shit of me, I didn’t mention this to Dr. Carlon. She didn’t have information about my having advanced psychic skills. I was sure if I told her about the sensations, she’d think I was hallucinating—a big red flag for brain trauma survivors.
I wasn’t a hundred percent sure I wasn’t.
That was the crazy-making thing about having psychic skills. Until I had some kind of confirmation or affirmation, mostly the things that bubbled up for me just made me feel crazy.