Page 22 of Rolling 75 (The Noire Brothers #1)

RYKER

M y pulse ratchets higher. I fight the urge to bite my fist and release a pent-up growl at the sight of her.

Visions of ripping that dress to pieces, devouring every radiant inch of her, and thrusting my cock inside her until she’s undone, screaming, and she doesn’t fucking remember her goddamn name assault me.

Not tonight.

Axel and I went round and round last night. He thinks I should back off. Let her come to me when she’s ready. And when Maddox showed up a half hour later, he laughed until he nearly cried about me threatening to kill everyone and then told me I sucked at playing hard to get .

He had a fucking point.

But despite the feat it is, I keep my reaction as even-keeled as I can manage. “Breathtaking, Mercy. You’ll be the talk of the party.”

She blushes, extends a quick, “Thank you,” and sashays to the door, waiting for me, her posture ramrod straight, chin held high, face impassive.

Remy was our buffer today. We had a wonderful time, playing games, exploring the passageways, and relaxing. Without him, she’s closed off again.

Fine. All business. We’ll go with that.

I stride to the door and guide her to the elevator, her cherry-cake fragrance slowing my pace so I can simply breathe her in.

We’re headed to the center of the resort. There are two huge rooftop entertainment spaces that members are permitted to reserve. They occupy the area between the North and South Towers. With views of La Lune Noire architecture and the NOLA city lights, they are coveted spaces for events.

When the elevator doors ding open, I guide Mercy inside and brief her. “This party is a meeting of seven connected groups and families. You need to be clingy, attentive, interested. That is the expectation for a woman accompanying me.”

“How progressive,” she deadpans, crossing her arms beneath her breasts to create a seductively progressive shelf of wet dreams. “What are the stakes?”

She’s annoyed and bratty, but grasps the gravity of her role.

She might not enthusiastically support our endeavors, but Mercy is made for my world more than she realizes.

It’s in her blood. She has a strong moral compass, but what sets her light-years ahead of others in these types of scenarios is that she’s naturally cunning.

So, I fill her in. “Wives and girlfriends will be present. This will be cordial. Fun. Entertaining. But it is a pre-meeting for the formation of a new cabal. The heads will convene tomorrow night in one of our conference rooms to solidify bylaw agreements. We want as much intel as possible for various reasons. Be on high alert for any mention of a media conglomerate.”

“Spying?”

“And hosting.”

“Understood.” Her jaw sets, and her chest rises with an irritated inhale. “Just another duplicitous Friday with the Noires.”

As we near the correct floor, I thread our fingers and set my gaze on her. “Tamp down the attitude. That won’t work here. I’m not asking much of you. Be yourself, but pretend you are over the fucking moon to be on my arm. Anything less will be a distraction. Sell it.”

“Sorry,” she sighs. “It’s not what you think. The hardest part about that request is being myself. Difficult to do when I don’t know who the hell that is.”

“I know exactly who you are.”

She releases a dubious scoff as the elevator settles with a chime and the doors part. “Oh, yeah? Mind sharing?”

“You’re mine.” I drag her toward the waiting hostess, but before we reach the entrance, I release her hand to slide mine over the small of her back and rasp in her ear, “And just to be clear, I never fucking share.”

A flurry of goose bumps erupts on her skin, but I don’t acknowledge them because we’re on.

The strong, brassy notes from the trumpets and trombones of the electro swing band greet us as we filter onto the roof, with the scents of Creole, cognac, and Cuban cigars wafting toward us in the humid, salty air.

We have three fluorescent bar areas, dressed in black and gold—the most prominent being the circular one in the center—all under a canopy of stars and moonlit clouds.

Our signature Art Deco style carries out here with sleek, plush velvet sofas, gold-and-crystal accents, ball fountains on the parapet walls, and a glass roof that glides into place if it rains.

Keeping Mercy tucked into my side, I shake hands, dip my chin to those out of reach, and introduce her. The rhythm of the drums drives us through the crowd, and thanks to my performance last night at the Blind Tiger, none of the men let their attention linger on my girl for more than a second.

The women, who are donned in either audacious flapper attire or modern dresses, fawn over Mercy, asking her question after question about us .

That might be the easiest part of this lie.

So much of it is true. No stories to concoct.

No facts to memorize. This ruse is more authentic than the last three years for her, whether she recognizes that or not.

And my sexy Viper sinks her teeth into the doting-fiancée scheme—touching me every chance she gets, batting those long-as-fuck lashes, smiling in feigned adoration.

She’s a fucking fantasy. If only she wasn’t acting out a goddamn role.

Despite that, her presence is beneficial. It’s been a long time since I’ve had a plus-one at any of the events. She keeps my appearance here casual, which is imperative because it isn’t.

We make the rounds, drinking and mingling. The sheer volume of the bass creates the illusion of privacy and encourages clandestine conversations. The most productive talks tend to occur when the dance floor is busy, so I instruct the band to play several Charleston-inspired songs in a row.

After an hour, Mercy retreats to the restroom while I watch the door, sanitize the germs off my hands from all the shaking, and gather information from a nearby discussion.

She returns several minutes later, arching a brow to alert me that she collected her own intel.

I drag her into the far corner, my back braced on the wall, hers against my chest. Hooking my arms around her waist, I graze my cheek over hers. “No one will bother us if we’re over here, having a couple moment. What did you get?”

She shivers and presses into me, her hands clasping my arms. “Nothing about media. But Lenhart isn’t sold on this venture.

His wife was in the restroom. I asked her for some makeup, checked the stalls, and garnered her confidence.

She told me he believes there could be negative ramifications from another cabal that he’s in good standing with. ”

“Nicely done.”

“Thanks.” She smiles, her brown eyes soaking in the vivacious dancing. “It was … fun.”

Holding her like this is nearly everything I’ve ever wanted. Nearly.

I slip my hand into one of her pockets, my fingers hovering above her panties inside her skirt. “Maybe you like the dark side more than you originally thought.”

“Maybe.” She swallows, her breathing shallow as she slowly forms her thoughts. “I think I’d prefer spying to shut down nefarious groups rather than to propel them.”

“Are you sure about that?” I drag my nose along her jaw, nipping at her earlobe and relishing the way she moves with me as if she can’t fight it. “Some noble work is done in the shadows. Ty is a perfect example. He can only erase people pro bono because he makes money off other cases.”

“More to consider in the Mercy Phillips identity crisis.” Her voice is wispy as the festivities zip around us.

Fountains splashing. Band crooning. Feathers, beads, and pearls glimmering. It’s hard to focus on the darkness when so much life persists, so I lean into that.

“There’s a lot to appreciate about deals made in the shadows.” My fingers inch closer to her clit, my other hand concealing the bulge in her skirt.

She makes no move to stop me, her chest heaving. “I suppose that’s true sometimes.”

“Let’s make one. I have a proposition.”

“About?” she murmurs, evidently in a daze.

My finely trimmed stubble skims the shell of her ear as I whisper, “The milk.”

She laughs, bites her lip, and cranes her neck to obtain a better view of my face. “That’s not what I was expecting. You admit I made perfect sense?”

“Never. But I can speak Mercy just fine.”

“I’ll take it.” A smile blooms across her pink cheeks, but she shakes her head. “Milk dealing will get us into a worse situation than yesterday, but if we keep referring to sex that way, it will probably keep us from partaking anyway.”

“Agreed, so let’s call it what it is.” Removing my hand from her pocket, I slip it beneath her skirt from behind while draping my other arm across her hips to secure her in place.

My index finger sails back and forth over her drenched panties.

“Nothing more than me keeping good on my promise to prioritize your needs and provide a safe escape for you. A deal made in the dark.”

There is a barely audible whimper that reveals how mixed she is about shutting this down before her curiosity wins out, like I hoped. “I’m listening.”

“Good.” I continue teasing her pussy, only offering a fraction of the friction she craves, but delivering enough that her desperation is sure to grow.

Otherwise, I treat this like any negotiation.

“It’s been a long time since you’ve had a release.

And I’m asking a lot from you with this engagement.

I’m willing to help you in that area, but we need some ground rules. Conditions for clarity.”

“Ground rules?” She smirks over her shoulder—it’s a puzzled, disbelieving, you-can’t-make-this-shit-up kind of smirk. “You’re going to make me come with conditions? Like a climax contract?”

Fuck, she’s fun.

“Exactly.”

She rubs her forehead in exasperation, but she’s still more receptive than she’s been. “That’s absurd.”