Page 73 of Striking
“You need me, my fucking queen,” he growls against my pussy, sending delicious vibrations through my entire body as his teeth scrape my aching clit, and his fingers press against my G-spot, sending me spiraling.
I shatter on a silent scream. Panting and gasping, fighting for breath.
Irrevocably broken.
BELLAMY
Monday . . . You motherfucker.
—Bellamy’s Secret Thoughts
“Are you coming to play poker, baby?” Clara asks as Joss slides to the next image in what feels like a never-ending parade of possible coronation dresses.
“No. Queen bee and I have work to do.”
I look up from the iPad and glare. “I hate when you call me that.”
“But that’s what you are,” Atticus yells from the other room, and I flip him the bird. Not that he can see it.
She points at me and then points at the iPad. “Crown up, buttercup, and keep looking.” She leans back, and Clara drops a kiss on her lips. “And you... You are going to kick the boys’ asses and suck them dry.”
“I do like the sound of that. Love you, pookie,” Clara calls out as she walks back into the other room where Rhys, Atticus, and Silas are setting up for poker night.
“Pookie...” I hand Joss the device full of dress options and more than one message from my oldest brother, which I’m choosing to ignore. “Did she seriously call you pookie?”
Poo-kie . . .Wow.
“It’s a joke.”
I lift a brow. “It would have to be.”
“She loves that Broadway musicalRent. The one girl calls her girlfriendpookie, and I laughed. Now I’m being punished. But have you seen Clara? I’ll deal with pookie if it makes her happy.”
“Aww... that’s kind of sweet.” I lift my champagne and look through the doors at the gorgeous man watching me as he shuffles a deck of cards.
Joss sucks in a breath, and I cringe.
I can’t help it. I love staring at him.
“Umm... bee. You need to look at this.”
“I am watching...” I sigh, and she shoves the iPad at me.
“Not Rhys, you twit. The text from Cross. He seems pissed, bee.”
“I swear to God, one day I’m going to kill my husband for that stupid nickname.”
“Your whole family calls youbee,” Joss attempts to defend the nickname.
“They don’t. They call me B. Period. Like the letter B. You all call mebeelike a freaking bumble bee.”
“They’re cute,” she argues.
“They’re bugs, Joss.” The screen lights up again, and I cringe.
Cross
Stop fucking ignoring me, Bellamy, or you won’t like what I do next.
