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

8. Speechless

The early morning sunlight shone through the window's sheer curtains and directly into my eyes. I let out a small groan as I brought a hand to my face. I shifted slightly, noticing by the feel of the cushion below me and the hard object under my head that I was most definitely not in my bed. Taking a moment to peel open my eyes, I looked around to see that I had fallen asleep on the couch — with my head in Striker's lap.

"Mornin', sleepyhead," I heard him say above me. I turned my head upward to find him looking down at me, an amused grin on his face. "Good thing you're up now. I gotta take a piss."

"How long have you been awake?" I said, rubbing my eyes.

"Not long. Maybe half an hour."

I pushed myself up off of his lap, flinching when my head started to pound. I shut my eyes again and held my head in my hands. "Fuck. How are you not hungover with all the booze you had?"

Striker snickered. "'Cause I'm not a lightweight like you." He placed a hand on the top of my head and ruffled my already messy hair before standing and going into the bathroom.

While he was occupied, the memories of the previous night began to trickle in. They came in blurry, broken segments, and my stomach rolled when I recalled our rather steamy make-out session and its outcome . . . and the fact that I fell asleep with him on the couch. I had my doubts that we did anything else after my breakdown.

But I had been very drunk, and my memory was fragmented and incomplete. I couldn't say for sure that he didn't. . .

I gnawed at my thumbnail nervously until the bathroom door creaked open and Striker came back into the room. He picked up his belt that was still slung over the back of the couch and began working it around the waistband of his cream-colored jeans. "If you're hungry, they serve a pretty nice breakfast downstairs," he said, fastening the buckle. "A good hot meal oughta help with that hangover."

"Striker." I stared down at the floor, wringing my hands. "About last night — you didn't . . . we didn't do anything, right?"

Striker furrowed his brows at me, then looked away and closed his eyes as a sigh escaped his lips. He bent down in front of me and gingerly took my chin in his hand. "No, darlin'," he said in a low, quiet voice. "You said to stop, so we did."

My eyes fluttered closed, and I nodded. "Okay. I thought so. . ."

His thumb lightly traced my jaw, back and forth, several times. I realized that I was still wearing his jacket when he reached down and buttoned the front of it. "Did you bring another shirt with you? 'Cause if not, there's a shop down the road we can prob'ly get you one at."

"Um, just an old pajama top," I said, my face flushing at the sudden contact. "But I'd like to check it out. And maybe, y'know, see the sights. . ."

Striker smirked. "I don't know if you noticed, darlin', but there ain't many sights to see in Wrath."

My fingers toyed with the tassels on the hem of Striker's jacket, and my eyes darted to the floor next to him. "Well, then . . . maybe you can show me what's worth seeing around here."

He raised an eyebrow, his smirk growing wider. "Young lady, are you askin' me what I think you're askin'?"

I felt my face burn. A sheepish smile tugged at my lips. "And what do you think I'm asking you?"

Striker straightened up as he let out a hearty laugh. It surprised me, just how loud and jovial it was. He sighed and said, "Oh, honey, you are somethin' else!" His laugh quieted down to an amused chuckle, and he put his hands on his hips. "Go on and get dressed so we can go on our not-date, then."