The Striker (Gods of the Game Book 1)
The Striker: Chapter 13

The storm continued to rage outside. Rain pounded against the windows, and flashes of lightning chased away the shadows on the ceilings every other minute.

It was a white-noise dream. People paid for this kind of bedtime ambiance, yet I couldn’t sleep a wink.

Instead, I’d been lying in bed for two hours, replaying the day’s events on an endless loop.

The weight of Asher’s body on mine.

The chase for the pap.

The moment we realized I’d have to stay the night.

And most of all, our conversation in the theatre, which had unearthed insecurities that I would rather have kept buried.

I hadn’t meant to unload them on Asher. I’d always kept my deepest (and shallowest) fears locked inside me, hidden from even Vincent and Carina. Because what was more shallow than refusing to step onstage in case I looked like a fool, like a has-been desperately clinging to her former glory?

Yet there was something about Asher that made me want to confide in him. He’d listened without a trace of judgment, and as an athlete, he probably understood my dilemma as much as any non-dancer could.

I should be angrier about him pushing me so hard, but maybe he was right. Was trying and failing better than not trying at all? Twenty, forty, sixty years from now, would I regret not reaching for a second chance when I could?

Ugh. Late-night existential crises were the worst.

I closed my eyes, listening to the claps of thunder roll through the room. My body was exhausted after the day’s exertion, but my mind was wide awake.

Asher had placed me down the hall, as far from his room as possible, despite the many empty guest suites between us.

I didn’t know whether to be relieved or insulted. Did he think I was going to break into his room and ravish him or something? Either that, or he was worried about what he’d do if I was too close.

Orrrr…hear me out…maybe it was a random assignment and you’re overthinking things. Not everything is about you, Scarlett.

Fine. My inner consciousness got me there. Thinking Asher Donovan was so attracted to me, he’d lose control if we slept across the hall from each other was the height of arrogance.

Still, an ember of heat flickered to life at the mental image of him in bed. Was he awake? If so, what was he thinking about? Did he sleep in boxers or a T-shirt and sweats or nothing at all?

I groaned and buried my face in the pillow. Why was I suddenly picturing him naked? What was wrong with me?

I attempted to focus on something else. Unfortunately, the only other thing grabbing my attention was how hungry I was.

My stomach growled in resentment.

“Shut up.”

The second growl overpowered the thunder. Clearly, my muffled command had only served to antagonize the hunger monsters more.

Oh, screw it.

I tossed my covers to the side and tiptoed into the hall.

It was almost three o’clock, the devil’s hour, and a shiver snaked down my spine. The house transformed into a different entity at night, when twisted shadows danced on the walls and the silence took on a menacing weight.

I couldn’t shake the feeling that I’d been cast as the unsuspecting lead in a horror flick, unknowingly walking to her gruesome death when she should’ve stayed safe and warm in bed.

Stupid Asher. I blamed my paranoia on him. Did he really think a story about a countryside manor haunted by sinister spirits was the best movie to watch before bed?

Maybe that was why I couldn’t sleep. My subconscious was protecting me from potential nightmares. It had nothing to do with anyone initialed A.D.

I made it downstairs and through the living room with the help of my trusty mantra.

Ghosts don’t exist. Ghosts don’t exist. Ghosts don’t⁠—

I turned the corner and stopped dead in my tracks. Pale light spilled through the kitchen doorway, alerting me to the fact that someone—or something— was already inside.

I finally understood how the characters in horror films felt because while self-preservation screamed at me to run away, morbid curiosity propelled me forward.

Apologies to every stupid character I’ve ever lambasted for making poor decisions. It turns out I, too, am a stupid character who makes poor decisions.

I peeked around the doorway, my heart jackrabbiting in my chest. A tall, dark figure stood near the open fridge, wielding a knife.

I couldn’t help it.

I screamed.

“Aaaahhh!!”

“Aaaahhh!!”

The figure whirled around. His knife clattered to the floor as our simultaneous screams shredded the silence.

I didn’t think. I simply darted inside, grabbed a nearby frying pan, and swung it toward his head before he recovered from his surprise.

He ducked just in time. I swung again, but he grabbed my arm mid-arc and sent us both tumbling to the ground.

He hit the tile first with an audible groan. I straddled him and brought the frying pan over my head.

I was acting on pure instinct at this point. If I stopped moving, fear would take over, and I couldn’t allow that to happen. Someone was going to get hurt, and it wasn’t going to be me. Not today, Satan.

I was about to swing the pan down when a familiar voice pierced my cloud of adrenaline.

“Scarlett, stop!”

Wait. Was that…

I blinked, my mindless haze parting to reveal a sharp jaw and emerald eyes. “Asher?”

“Obviously,” he grumbled. “Who did you think I was?”

“I thought you were an intruder.” My heart continued to race as it scrambled to catch up with this new development.

“Why would you think that?” Asher eyed my white-knuckled grip on the pan with wariness.

Oh my God. I’d almost bashed Asher Donovan’s face in with cookware.

I flushed and quickly set the pan on the floor. “I came downstairs for a snack and saw the light from the kitchen. I didn’t realize…”

“That I might’ve gotten the same idea?” he finished, his tone dry.

The flush spread to my neck and chest.

My mind had somehow leapfrogged over the most logical answer and straight to the worst-case scenario.

I wanted the floor to open me up and swallow me whole. Free falling into hell couldn’t be worse than assaulting my host with surgical-grade stainless steel.

“I was being cautious. If you had been an intruder…” I trailed off. Don’t make it worse. “Anyway, I apologize.” I should get that out before my face exploded from mortification. “I didn’t mean to, um, almost kill you.”

“Apology accepted.”

Relief ballooned at the twinge of amusement in his response.

Good. He wasn’t that upset.

Getting hauled off on attempted murder charges would’ve put a serious damper on my weekend.

The hum of the fridge crept between us. He hadn’t closed the door before I swung at him, and the blast of cold air sent goose bumps rippling up and down my arms. Asher’s body was the only source of warmth.

My eyes drifted down of their own accord. A soft green T-shirt molded to his shoulders and chest, not too tight but just enough to hint at the sculpted eight-pack underneath. Unlike the bright, piercing hue of his eyes, the shirt was so faded it was almost gray. It’d ridden up during our altercation, revealing a strip of tanned skin above the waistband of his sweats.

So this was what he wore to sleep.

It was so casual yet intimate, like he’d unwittingly offered me a peek at his most private⁠—

“Scarlett.”

“Hmm?”

“I hate to interrupt your ogling, but can you please get up? As much as I love having you on top of me, this tile wasn’t designed for comfort.”

My gaze snapped up to his as realization dawned for the second time that night.

I was still straddling him.

Asher’s eyes creased with mirth as I shoved off his chest and scrambled to my feet.

Forget malicious spirits. If I died tonight, I only had myself to blame.

Here lies Scarlett DuBois, a victim of self-inflicted humiliation.

“I wasn’t ogling you,” I lied, drawing the tatters of my dignity around me in a last-ditch shield.

“Sure, and rain isn’t wet.” Asher stood, looking remarkably put together for a quarter past three in the morning. Further proof the universe didn’t play fair. “It’s alright, darling. I won’t hold it against you.”

“What did I say about calling me ‘darling?’”

“I’d say I get a pass considering you almost rearranged my face with my own cookware.”

He—well, okay, he had a point. “You’re never going to let that go, are you?”

“Never is a long time.” A wicked grin stole across his face. “However, I’d expect frequent mentions of this night for the next fifty years or so.”

“Bold and erroneous of you to assume we’d still be talking in fifty years.”

“Stranger things have happened. If you’re lucky, it might even be seventy.”

I pictured wrinkled, white-haired versions of ourselves bickering in a nursing home somewhere.

The image didn’t repulse me as much as it should’ve.

Another gust of arctic air billowed from the open fridge door.

Asher’s gaze slid from my face down to my neck and chest. His smile faded, and an electric shiver rippled down my spine.

Neither of us moved to close the door.

Tension swallowed our earlier levity, and I was suddenly conscious of how little I was wearing.

I hadn’t wanted to sleep in my workout clothes, so Asher had lent me one of his shirts. The vintage black tee hit mid-thigh. Underneath it, I wore my favorite lace knickers—and that was it.

No bra.

My nipples hardened to painful points beneath Asher’s scrutiny. His eyes darkened, and an answering pulse throbbed to life between my legs.

I wasn’t a casual fling person. I’d tried. They didn’t do much for me, so my vibrator and I had developed a close relationship over the years. Usually, it was enough, but right now, it wasn’t the thought of my Maximus 3000 Ultra that made my body sing with heat.

It was the thought of what Asher could do with his hands and mouth when his gaze alone turned me on.

It was the fantasy of me straddling him again—only this time, we were both naked.

It was the simmering attraction that had been building between us since we met, the one I’d done everything in my power to destroy, only to have it revive again and again like a phoenix from the ashes.

I wasn’t saying I wanted to date him or marry him, but I wanted him, and judging by the way his breathing shallowed, he wanted me too.

He took a step toward me. “Scarlett⁠—”

The husky rasp of my name slapped me back to reality.

What the hell am I doing?

“Sorry again about the attempted murder, but I…I have to go back to sleep,” I blurted. “Early morning tomorrow. Talk to you later.”

I turned and beelined out of the kitchen before he could stop me.

It wasn’t until I’d safely locked the door and burrowed beneath the duvet that I realized I hadn’t grabbed a single thing to eat.

Good news: I was no longer hungry.

Bad news: My craving for food had morphed into a craving for something else.

After five minutes of tossing and turning, I gave in and pushed the covers to the side. The throb between my legs had intensified into a painful ache, and when I slipped a hand into my underwear, it was instantly soaked with my arousal.

I closed my eyes, lost to the pleasure and the montage of scenes unfolding in my head.

Asher opening the door and replaceing me like this, legs spread and fingers rubbing shamelessly over my clit.

Him climbing on top of me, his face half-shadowed by the relentless storm.

The weight of him pinning me down, the delicious stretch when he first enters me, the steel grip on my hips as he fucks me with long, hard strokes.

Oh God. My breath shallowed into pants. I rubbed faster, my skin slicked with sweat, but it wasn’t enough.

My other hand reached up to play with my nipple, and I kept my thumb on my clit while I pushed two fingers inside me.

A loud moan escaped. Fuck, that felt good.

It’d been so long since I got myself off manually, and the fact that I was doing it here, in my should-be enemy’s house, only made it hotter.

The slippery sounds of my fingers pumping in and out intermingled with the booms of thunder.

My pants came faster.

I was so close.

I could practically taste him on my tongue, a cocktail of sweetness and earthiness that made my head spin. I imagined it was his hand squeezing my breast, his fingers filling me up so well. The thunder was the slam of the headboard against the wall, and the blasts of cool air were his breaths on my skin.

It was wrong to imagine those things, but fantasies ran wild beneath the cover of night, and once they broke free, there was no holding them back.

My orgasm hit with blinding ferocity. White lights burst behind my eyes, and I was falling, falling into an abyss where there was only warmth and pleasure and an unbearable sensation of lightness.

I lay there, sweaty and breathless, until the world eventually returned in bits and pieces.

I’d taken the edge off, but as I finally drifted off to sleep, a pang of unfulfilled need remained, filling my dreams with images of dark hair and green eyes.