Red Zone (Red Zone 1)

She felt her cheeks heat, aware that she couldn’t drag her eyes from his penis. Her mouth actually watered at the sight. It was long, thick, and curved up toward his stomach. A glance at his face told her he was watching her with a mixture of amusement and anticipation.

“Can I touch it?” Her fingers tingled at the thought. “I’ve only done this once before, and I didn’t get to touch.”

“You didn’t get to touch?”

She shrugged. “No, he just told me to lie down on the lab floor and get ready. Then he lay on top of me and we were done a couple of minutes later.”

He let out a stream of French curse words. “Please tell me he didn’t force you.”

“No. I wanted to see what sex was like.” She looked up at him and gave him the truth. She didn’t want him to be disappointed in her. “I don’t think it’s very good. Or, at least, I’m not very good at it. You should know that.”

“What I know is that the guy you slept with was a grade A asshole, and if it wasn’t good for you, then that’s on him.”

She sucked in a breath as his words flowed straight to her heart. It was clear he meant them. He was also angry—on her behalf. From the throbbing vein at the side of his jaw, she suspected her one and only previous lover might get a visit from Striker. One where he explained exactly what the guy should have done differently. She made a note never to tell Striker his name.

“Can I touch it, then?”

His eyes softened. “You can touch anything you like.”

“Do I have to be gentle?”

“You planning on bending it in half, chère? Because it sure don’t work that way.”

“I’m worried that, you know, I’ll hurt you.”

“Gimme your hand.”

She complied instantly. He took it to his hard shaft and wrapped her fingers around it—barely. He was wider than her wrist. He covered her hand with his, holding her to him. And then he squeezed. His hips came up off the bed, and he groaned.

She wondered how he could feel so firm and yet so soft at the same time.

“That’s how hard you can touch me,” he said hoarsely. He released her and put his hand back behind his head. “That help?”

“Yes. That was very helpful. Thank you.”

Vaguely, Friday wondered if anyone had ever written a scientific paper on pressure tolerance in male reproductive organs. Would there be a standard level of pressure one could exert on all penises? Or would each have a different limit?

“Hey,” Striker sounded amused. “You still with me?”

She blinked. “Yes.” She still held him firmly, but not as tightly, in her hand.

“Good.” He closed his eyes. “Then worship me. I’m waiting, chère.”

What was it about that arrogant amused tone of his that let him get away with murder? She bet he’d charmed his way out of trouble for most of his life. “Does anyone resist that wicked charm of yours?”

He opened one eye, the one that didn’t show his other half. “Don’t see you complying right now. My cock is in your hand, bébé. You gonna do something about that? And I don’t mean use it as a play mic for singing show tunes.”

Once again, he’d lost her. “I only understand about half of what you say.”

“Touch me, or I’m gonna end your turn and go back to playing with your sexy little body.”

“You think my body’s sexy?”

“You’re holding my hard-on in your fist. It didn’t get like that by accident. You caused it. Now, are you gonna do something, or what?”

She let go of him as she grumbled about his attitude. She pushed his thighs apart and climbed over his leg to kneel between his knees. Oh, this was a much better view. Her fingers squeezed thigh muscles that made her want to weep, then made her want to investigate why she’d had that reaction. She shook her head. This physical stuff was too confusing.

“I’m still waiting,” he said.