Page 24 of Rolling 75 (The Noire Brothers #1)

MERCY

“I think we’ve catapulted over any semblance of a line.” That emerges much like gibberish because I’m teetering on the edge of an orgasm in the middle of some gangster convention and utterly electrified by Ryker’s erotic queries. And his rock-hard erection spearing me.

He bends down so I’m concealed from the rest of the party.

His scruff grazes my cheek with a tantalizing prickle as he continues to pump his fingers inside me, his thumb tangoing with my clit.

“Nothing left to lose then. Take what you need, baby. You’re so wet, so tight, so desperate. Fucking perfect.”

Baby? How did we get here? Since his fingers are inside me, getting hung up on that is pointless, and …

Fuck, he’s sexy. All long limbs, wicked grin, steel pecs, and royal bravado. That cocky dimple and filthy mouth. Killer icy blues.

And hunger. So much hunger.

For me.

The feral set of his jaw and his seductive cozy-corruption scent must be intoxicating me. That’s it. I drank the Noire Kool-Aid.

But I’m a lawyer, a researcher by nature. So, of course, I want answers to all his damn questions.

This is bad.

And so, so good. I haven’t felt this in … maybe ever. My limbs are quaking, clit throbbing, nipples deliciously hard.

But it’s a no-turning-back plight, with or without a contract.

“We shouldn’t … this is … too messy.” My incoherent ramblings harmonize with the promiscuous drawl of the saxophone and the roar of the jamboree.

Still, he hears me.

He whips his fingers out of me, and the loss is unbearable.

Punishment for my forward thinking. My whole body yearns to follow him, to tow him on top of me and let him ravage me right here in front of the homicidal goodfellas.

His potent gaze remains latched on mine as he raises his fingers to his mouth and sucks them clean.

Good Lord. What in the ever-loving hell?

“Fuck,” he hisses before plunging inside me once more and bringing his arousal-coated fingers to my mouth this time. “Taste, sweet girl. That’s the flavor of heaven, like goddamn cake frosting.”

Due to instinct or temporary insanity, I hollow out my cheeks and suck him clean, invigorated by the lewd act. I’ve never tasted myself before. Cake frosting is a liberal appraisal, but I’m enamored either way.

“That’s my girl. So fucking beautiful,” he praises, confusing everything further. He withdraws his fingers, his thumb dusting over my lower lip as his other hand cradles my head. “Stop hiding—from this, from me. I’m offering you everything you need. Take it.”

Is he? I don’t even know what I need, other than a way to pick up the shards of who I was. This won’t do that. Will it? This is a Band-Aid. My shambles require industrial-strength glue.

“No, you’re not, Ryker, and I’m not hiding.

You’re definitely not a monster, but I’m not naive.

I know who you are, the scope of what that entails—the hit on Dalton in prison, the threats you make that aren’t idle, the shady way you hunted me down.

And I know you’re watching my every move here, using the eye in the sky to your full advantage.

I’m sure you’ve convinced yourself that’s in my and Remy’s best interest. Maybe it is.

Your craziness makes me feel safe, but it doesn’t stop me from feeling empty.

I can’t do this with you because if I’m going to be here …

” I force the lump in my throat down to rasp out my final plea. “I want my friend back.”

Honestly, I’m not even sure if that’s wise.

I don’t know how to avoid hurting him. If I’m truthful about everything that happened that horrible night, he’ll be shattered.

Like me. And if I deep-dive into what he knew, I risk further annihilation by unveiling betrayal.

I tried to spare him, and he dragged me back.

Now I can’t bear to do this without him.

Hell might be the only place we can comfort each other.

He scoffs and glances at the vibrant party scene before returning to our shadow of desolation.

“I’ve done a hell of a lot more than all of that, but this isn’t confession time.

Your friend was gone the day you left.” He shakes his head, and it’s evident he’s slipping away, retreating to the crater of pain between us.

“No, before that—the day you chose Dalton.”

“Because he ripped me away from you,” I spit out, shocked by my own admission, but powerless to stop it. “I was just too stupid to see it. I lost everything to him, and you’re letting him steal more.”

Speaking the words feels like another blow.

Another swift kick to the ribs. All the things I ignored, overlooked, excused.

During the pregnancy, Dalton was pretty great.

But those few months afterward, when I was weak and exhausted and struggling with postpartum depression, things slowly took a turn.

The first notable time was when Remy was four weeks old.

Dalton was infuriated when he came home and found his parents visiting.

After they left, he interrogated me about everything we’d talked about.

He was so worked up, which made no sense.

When I tried to leave the room, too worn out to continue, he grabbed my wrist with a bruising grip.

I told him if it happened again, I’d leave, and he apologized profusely, saying he wasn’t himself since the baby had been born.

I wasn’t either, so it was the shadow of a doubt that, as a lawyer, I had been trained to respect.

There were other signs. Neon ones, in hindsight.

How he loathed my friends and was irritated at the mere mention of them.

The job he insisted I quit, playing on my fragile emotions about my parents and how my mother had given up everything to homeschool me.

And the fear I let him instill in me—subtle threats that I wasn’t properly caring for my baby, that he’d expressed that concern to the pediatrician. Documented it.

I had a way out. Ryker was always my way out. My lifeline. And I didn’t make the call until the last possible second. It’s unfair and nonsensical, but sometimes, I resent both of us for that.

Ryker grips the sides of my face and drops his forehead to mine. “You weren’t stupid, Merce. You were manipulated. Emotionally abused long before he raised his fists. I am so sorry you endured that. So fucking sorry I didn’t get you out of there.”

The agony in that misplaced apology lances through me. I shake my head, refuting it, but I’m at a momentary loss for words. Everything is tangled.

He kisses my hair and rises to his full, formidable height, his glacial blues teeming with so many unspoken things before he settles on a less emotional direction.

“He’s gone. He only wins if you deny yourself.

So, for one night, let go of all the baggage between us and be selfish enough to take what you need. One goddamn thing.”

“One night?” I parrot, wondering what the hell life would look like the day after. This is absurd.

“That’s all we’re ever guaranteed,” he says, obviously not in line with my thinking.

While Ryker is rigid and intense, he has never been much of a planner in regard to his future, so this seize-the-day mentality fits. That’s another area where we differ. There was a time when I had a rough itinerary for the next fifty years.

His rules flash through my mind. No reciprocation is baffling. Why wouldn’t he jump on that? Is it a boundary so we don’t take this too far? My being bare and coming in front of him would already decimate that. Maybe this is his way of saving me without the fear that I’d ask for more.

He slides up his cuff-linked black shirtsleeve and checks his watch before gesturing to the festivities. “I need to make another round. If you don’t want to stay, I can text one of my brothers to escort you back to the penthouse, but don’t leave alone.”

I guess we’re done. I killed the good time we’d been having. “I’ll stay. I have a part to play.”

“You do, and you play it well.” He’s all business again, which annoys the hell out of me.

When he strides back toward the crowd, I follow, keeping pace. Fuming.

Most of this is my fault. I suck as a human these days. I get it. I just don’t know how to fix it or make sense of anything.

I came back home, but home isn’t who he used to be.

Part of me is terrified by that. It confirms a lot of fears. The other part is enthralled.

As Ryker veers off to greet some of his Mafioso buddies, I beeline for the circular bar, order myself a French 75, and relish the lemon fizz on my tongue while drinking in the La Lune Noire opulence.

It’s a rare gem. NOLA spirit in an extravagant package of decadence and depravity. Glee hiding gore.

The old me would’ve been out there on that dance floor, embracing the jovial side of what the resort offers.

“Mercy.” The girl from the restroom—Kim—sidles up beside me.

She introduces me to her cousin, whose name I don’t catch, though I fake it well.

There are three of them, wide-eyed and crowded around me as if I were a modern marvel.

This is because I had to twist things to snag the information for Ryker, which served two purposes.

One: I fulfilled my duty for the night, thereby feeling like less of a mooch.

“It’s not only the threats. He went completely insane, being away from her, begged her on his knees and refused to eat until she moved here,” Kim reiterates my spilled tea from our restroom gossip trade.

Which served the other purpose. Two: Tessa had encouraged me to fuck with Ryker, and after his kiss that made my knees weak last night and his vow to keep me prisoner, it made sense to embellish. A little.

“It’s true,” I sigh, sipping my champagne cocktail. “The man is down bad. What could I do? Well, other than not accept a shot of J?ger ever again. Lesson learned.”

“I hear ya, babe,” the no-named cousin replies. “My husband throat-punched a dude once for carrying my groceries.”