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

129. Bloom

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The sunlight beaming in from my bedroom window greeted me when I awoke late the next morning. It shone gently on my face and pooled on the bedsheets, warming the surface of everything beneath its light. Rolling onto my side, I buried my face in the pillow next to me, letting out a long sigh at the familiar scent that saturated the pillowcase.

Memories of the previous night replayed in my mind: Striker finally returning home from his last job, having dinner at my favorite restaurant, our bodies entangling and writhing together. . .

"Marry me."

My heart fluttered when I remembered those two words he uttered in the midst of our passion, and for a moment, I couldn't help but wonder if it had all been just a dream.

But then my eyes landed on the ring on my finger, and I smiled.

No. It wasn't a dream.

I pushed myself up in bed, rubbing the sleep from my eyes, and the cool air chilled my skin as the bedsheets fell from my naked body. Turning my head, I noticed my burgundy sundress folded lengthwise and draped over the back of my desk chair near the bed, my bra and panties placed in the seat and my black heels sitting on the floor underneath. I smiled knowingly, giggling to myself when I didn't spot his black button-up—no stealing his shirt this time.

I quieted, however, when I heard stirring coming from the living room, and I slowly climbed out of bed to my feet, snatching the navy comforter off the bed and draping it over my shoulders to cover myself. Tiptoeing down the hall, I caught sight of my lover—scratch that, my fiancé —sitting on the couch, clad in his dark blue jeans and a black wife beater, his guitar in his lap. He lightly plucked at the strings, humming lazily along with the tune he was forming. I leaned against the wall, smiling to myself as the sound of his baritone voice and gentle strumming filled the room.

"Where did you learn to play guitar?" I asked softly.

Striker immediately stopped humming, placing the pads of his fingers over the guitar strings to silence the instrument, then turned his head. He smiled warmly at me.

"Mornin', darlin'," he said. "Sleep good?"

"Yeah." I stepped toward the couch, and he tilted his head back to look up at me when I stood directly behind him. "How long have you been awake?"

He gave a small shrug. "About two hours."

I leaned my head over him, my messy hair falling and shrouding our faces, and he lifted a hand and pushed the wayward strands behind my ear.

"I picked it up about ten or eleven years ago," he said, finally answering my question. "Nobody taught me—I just learned it all by ear."

"So, if I gave you some sheet music, you couldn't read it?"

He smirked and shook his head. "Nah," he said simply.

"I figured," I remarked.

Striker grinned and brought his hand to my face, his fingertips grazing my cheek. He looked at me for a second, then propped his guitar on the floor beside the couch and stood. He circled the couch to approach me, peering down at me through those warm, glowing eyes. His smile softened as he stopped in front of me, his hands reaching for the corners of the comforter clutched in my hands. Gently, he took the corners from me and opened up the bedspread, revealing my still naked frame just enough for him to get a full view.

Striker stared at me for a long moment before releasing the corners of the comforter, letting it fall to the floor. He pulled me closer, pressing his body to mine as his hands travelled up and down my frame. He slowly and repeatedly felt up my waist, my back, my hips, squeezing every bit of flesh under his fingers, and it wasn't long at all before I could feel him growing against my thigh.