Come Hell or High Water - Striker x Reader (18+)

72. Closer

Striker immediately realized what he'd done and retracted his hands from my frame, unsheathing himself and quickly climbing off of me. He crouched beside me on the mattress, his eyes repeatedly looking me over. Like I had learned to do over the past couple of months, I closed my eyes and focused on my breathing, taking slow, steady breaths through pursed lips until the pain eventually diminished.

I waited for the pain to only lessen, because it never really went away.

After a few minutes, I opened my eyes again and looked up at Striker. His brows were tightly furrowed as he watched me. He kept his distance, sitting on the opposite side of the bed. My body relaxed, and I slowly sat up and smiled reassuringly at him. "I'm okay," I said. "It's just . . . any kind of contact with it still hurts."

Striker stayed silent, a small frown tugging at his lips.

Though not quite as strong now, my libido compelled me to crawl toward him and press my lips to his. He returned the kiss, an unusual gentleness behind it, and his hands hovered over my body before hesitantly resting on my arms. I tried to encourage him by guiding him back on top of me, my arms and legs wrapping around his frame to draw him closer. I kissed him a little harder, my hand reaching down to grasp his erection, and I shifted underneath him to position myself, the movement aggravating my wound and causing me to wince.

Striker took my wrist and pulled my hand away, and he let out a small sigh against my lips.

"I can't," he muttered. "I'll hurt you."

I looked up at him, seeing that torn expression on his face, and gingerly cupped his cheek. "It's okay, Striker. You're not going to hurt me."

"But I might," he retorted. "I could get carried away and — "

He directed his gaze to the side, seemingly unable to look at me, and he shook his head. "I can't hurt you anymore. I've . . . I've done enough damage."

My heart twisted in my chest at his words. "Striker. . ."

He pushed himself off of me and sat on the mattress at my feet, his shoulders hunched forward. An abashed grimace contorted his expression as he glared at a spot on the floor.

I sat up, forcing myself to ignore the residual pain in my stomach. "Striker. Please . . . I-It's okay. I'll be alright."

He shook his head again, the grimace on his face deepening. "I just . . . I — I can't. Not now."

I watched a war being waged behind his eyes, one I knew he'd been battling for quite a while now. Shame riddled his features, making the glow of those bright yellow eyes just a little dimmer. I pursed my lips in realization: even if I did convince him to continue, he certainly wasn't in the headspace to be doing such things — and I could never bring myself to make him.

I nodded in resignation and muttered a quiet, "Okay."

Striker shifted to the side of the bed and swung his legs over, bending down to reach for his boxer briefs. He slipped his feet into the leg holes and stood to pull the garment up to his hips, covering his softening manhood. He ran a hand through his hair, and after a moment, he turned to head out the bedroom door.

"I-It's okay, Striker," I started in a last-second attempt to reassure him. "I'm a little disappointed, yeah, but it's okay. Really." I wrapped my arms around each other, an almost sheepish smile tugging at my lips. "I mean, we've had to stop because of me plenty of times before. . ."

Striker froze in the doorway, whipping his head around to look at me, a dumbfounded, almost appalled expression marring his face. And when I thought about it, I recognized that look: it was the same look he gave me all those months ago, on the night we met, when I had thanked him for stopping in the middle of our drunken passion.

And just like back then, he turned his head away from me, glaring down at the floor, and shook his head in staunch disapproval. Except this time, a twinge of what appeared to be guilt flashed in those eyes. An ugly scowl pulled at the corners of his mouth, and he let out a heavy sigh and approached the bed again. He perched himself on the edge of the bed in front of me, lightly cupping my cheeks.

"(Y/N)," he said in a low voice. "Don't . . . That's not the — "

He trailed off, apparently unsure of what exactly to say, as if there just weren't words for what he wanted to tell me. He clenched his jaw, looking down at our laps in frustration.

"Goddammit," he hissed, his voice barely above a whisper. "Feathers was right. I don't fuckin' deserve you."

I frowned at his words, feeling a small spark of anger squeezing my chest at the thought of what Stolas might have been filling his head with while I was unwell. I took his face in my own hands and lifted his head so that our eyes met, leaning forward to plant a soft kiss on his lips.

"Get out of your head," I said. "Know that I love you and you're stuck with me."

A small smile briefly crossed his face, and his eyes fluttered closed as he grabbed my hands and brought them to his lips. "I'm sorry," he murmured against my fingers, his breath warming my skin.

"Don't," I responded. "It's alright, my love."

He looked at me with tired eyes and released my hands, leaning over the side of the bed to retrieve my clothes and handing them to me.

I half-smiled at him. "I'm gonna go get cleaned up, okay?"

He nodded, his hand finding the side of my head as he bent toward me and kissed my forehead. My smile widened slightly at the gesture, and I stood and walked out of the bedroom.

Entering the bathroom, I closed the door and rested my back on the frame. A soft sigh escaped my lips, my hand falling to the dressing on my stomach. Tears of frustration pricked my eyes, but I quickly wiped them away with the pads of my fingers and turned on the shower to begin washing myself off.