Page 27 of Rolling 75 (The Noire Brothers #1)

His hands rove with his characteristic intensity, starting at my chest to mime some of his words.

“As if your radiant face wasn’t enough, your tits are extraordinary.

Full and perky. Nipples like goddamn pencil erasers, begging to be pinched and sucked.

” He plunges two fingers inside my drenched opening, stealing the air from my lungs.

“You have the most perfect, mouthwatering pussy in existence. Fucking magnificent. Glistening and pink. So wet.” The hand on my breast falls to my stomach atop the hideous line, the other tracing the smaller bone-surgery scar on my arm.

“And these are not the marks of defeat. These are the badges of a fucking warrior. A goddamn viper. So gorgeous. Wear them with pride.”

A boulder lodges itself in my throat. “Ryker … I …”

“I know.” He enwraps me in his arms as his mouth sails along my neck and jaw with jagged breaths. “Too much. Let’s get you what you need, beautiful girl.”

Despite my chest being cracked open from that heavy dose of affirmation, my entire body is ablaze when he slides my buzzing dildo inside me, replacing his hand with mine.

“Fuck yourself with that,” he demands, and while I thrust it in and out, he circles my clit, kneads my breasts, and tweaks my nipples, crooning encouragement in my ear.

“You’re so fucking sexy, Merce, taking what you need.

So goddamn breathtaking. Look at how your cunt swallows that toy. So greedy.”

His words are straight-up filthy, so drugging that I’m heady and weightless.

The entire scene is obliterating. The two of us untethered, illuminated in the champagne rope lighting, aglow with humid yearnings.

Me—bare and splayed out between his legs, desperately pumping the juddering vibrator and moaning in delirium to the sensations rippling through me.

Him—suit-clad and wolfish and so wrecked from simply touching me.

He presses my lower back more firmly against his hard cock, growling from the friction as his fingers whirl in a frenzy of cravings, producing the most sumptuous cadence.

“Christ, you’re a work of art. Only thing better than this view would be my cock slamming inside you, filling you with my cum, the sight of that pretty pussy dripping with me for days. ”

Sheesh. He’s got a mouth on him.

That vision he painted, the thought of him inside me, his touch and rasp and desire for me—I’m catapulted to the edge, ready to soar. And just as I’m tipping, for some insane reason, he stops. Ceases the swirl on my clit. Prevents my wrist from pumping. And flashes a smug grin at me in the mirror.

“What the hell, Ryker?” The horror in my returned glare is akin to one you’d see in a slasher movie, provoking a stilted chuckle from him.

“You’re doing so good, baby.” His teeth graze my earlobe. “The more your body begs for it, chases it, the more explosive the detonation will be. You want to explode, don’t you?”

My hips buck, intent on guiding the toy to its rightful place with or without his consent. But it’s to no avail. I need him. “God, yes.”

“No need to be formal. I’ll be your god, but you can still call me Ryker.” His devilish grin bleeds into his dimple as his free hand roams, stroking, squeezing, and caressing, but still withholding. Taunting. “Tell me what you need. Say it, Merce.”

My brain isn’t working to form coherent sentences. All I can focus on is grasping the euphoria he just yanked from me. “To come … I need to come. Make me come.”

“That’s it, Viper.” He loosens his hold on my wrist, pumping the dildo with me as he resumes the massage on my clit with his other hand and bites the flesh where my neck meets my shoulder.

Everything zooms back to that rapturous precipice at the speed of light. The room fades. My muscles tighten with an ardent potency. And the sloshing sound of my arousal blends with the hum of the vibrations, my whimpered rhapsody, and our panting breaths to form one harmonic tune.

It’s as though he knows the secret code for unlocking my flight to ecstasy.

My body is damn near levitating.

Until it all tumbles away from me when he halts again.

“Ryker.” The hiss of his name falling from my lips resembles a demonic curse.

His dimple glints with triumph. “Okay.” He releases my wrist, but keeps his hands to himself, a challenge written in his features. “You can continue without me. I won’t interfere this time.”

The thought is so deflating that my protest is automatic. “No. No, I need you.”

He nods, pulls me snugger against him, and relays his command with a ragged breath against my cheek. “Beg me, beautiful. It’ll be even more explosive if you beg.”

A shiver trickles over me. His gruff tenor, strained with desire, is electrifying.

My whole world narrows to the smoldering gaze in the mirror. “Please. I don’t want to come without you. Please touch me. I need you to touch me.”

His only response is the rumble in his lungs. And his skilled hand, spinning magic on my clit, his fingers rolling my pebbled nipple, his teeth raking over my skin.

He’s everywhere. In my veins and bones, my pores and blood.

In the tightness in my chest.

The throb in my core.

The speckled stars freckling my vision and the soupy air, thick with lust.

He licks and laps, pinches and nips, whispers dirty words in my ear and bridges the past and present.

Lost and found. Chained and freed.

And I. Am. Undone.

“Oh God, Ryker … I’m gonna …”

“That’s it, baby. I’m your god. You come with my name on those pretty lips.”

That sample of his bold smoothness only serves to skyrocket me further.

My eyes anchor to his amorous blues in the mirror as a raging torrent thunders over my every nerve ending in a crackling gale.

It bursts from my core and shoots down my limbs with a sweltering heat, conquering all my cells and hushing my busy mind until I practically black out.

Shake and soar.

Sizzle and jolt.

Pant and scream.

Wrecked by a shattering that’s welcome, liberating me from the glass cage I tried desperately not to see.

This mess of shards is an exhilarating gift.

“Fuck, Ryker, that was …”

“You’re so beautiful when you come. I need to see that again.

” Without providing me time to float down, he whips the vibrator out of me, turns it off, and hands it to me.

Then he lays my quivering body on the blanket, my ass elevated on the pillow, and his face nuzzles between my thighs.

“Suck that clean like a good girl so I know what those pouty lips would look like wrapped around my cock.”

Baffled that we’re not done and utterly spellbound, I’m unable to verbally respond. But I obey as promised, sliding the toy into my mouth and extending a sultry whimper at the taste of myself, wishing it were his dick and hoping my eagerness pleases him.

“Filthy girl. Watch yourself, how stunning you look, sucking that off.”

My attention drifts to the mirror, to the reflection of another erotic scene that has my jelly limbs and satiated libido zealous and wanton. Still, I’m spent. Boneless.

Ryker’s tongue flicks my too-sensitive clit, his arm draped across my squirming hips, fastening them to the floor. “So good.” He licks and sucks and swallows. “Fucking cake.”

“Too much,” I murmur from my euphoric daze between avid slurps of his cock stand-in. “I can’t. Not yet.”

“You will,” he growls through his all-consuming, famished devouring.

He drinks in every morsel of my sopping arousal, lashing my clit with groans of approval. Thumb in my ass. Scruff on my thighs. Tongue fucking my opening.

It’s everything and not enough, all at once.

My hand weaves into his hair, holding him in place and shoving him deeper into my heat as my hips buck in unhinged feral desperation.

“That’s my girl. Fuck my face.” His authoritative gaze coasts to mine with the reassurance I’ve been missing and the tethering I’ve never allowed myself to entertain. “I’ve got you.” Lick. “So goddamn beautiful with all your holes filled.” Whirl. “Come for me, baby.”

“Ryker,” I pant, hardly recognizing the huskiness of my voice as the room begins to fade.

Murky clouds edge my vision, and the golden lights streak to a blur of ecstasy.

My back bows. Lungs empty. Heart hammers.

My muscles coil and tighten. Loosen and breathe.

The shards fall away, the razor edge of reality dulling to a satin serenity. And at least for this flight, wholeness cloaks me.

His one night of pleasure is without end, as if he wants to ensure there will never be a day I don’t relive this and wish I could bask in the dizzying rapture for all time.

He bestows three more orgasms with various toys and his fingers and his tongue, as requested, and growls against my heat, wild and untethered with each one.

All while I mutter nonsensical musings and beg for him to stop and keep going.

He asks me for my safe word in between and checks that I’m okay.

I assure him I’m fantastic and stick with the begging.

And as he pants my name, like a windswept prayer on his lips, the only coherent thoughts I can conjure are that I can’t bear for this to be over.

That I haven’t felt this good in years—or maybe ever.

That if we stay here, I won’t have to shatter tomorrow.

I won’t have to dwell on all the ways this hurts.

So, when his phone rings as I’m quaking with aftershocks, my lungs constrict before the conversation even begins.

He cradles me in his arms, kisses my hair, and answers the call. “Yeah?” A pause to listen before, “He’s been taken to counting room two?” Another silent wait. “I’ll handle it. Give me fifteen.”

Once he hangs up, he brushes my unkempt hair away from my flushed face, his blues skating over me, brimming with so many things. I’d like to pluck each one out and dissect it. Here in his dressing room, it’s safe to explore.

“Did that satisfy the all of the above request?” There’s a trace of arrogant mischief in his eyes.

“And then some.” That pesky quaver threads my voice again. I clear my throat. “Our one night is done? You have to go?”

“Yeah,” he says, choking something down.

I want to ask him what he’s holding back, but that’s not what comes out of my mouth. “What happened? What’s counting room two?”

His index finger meanders all over me, drawing a soothing sinuous trail on my fiery flesh. “Do you want the truth?”

That response tells me all I need to know. This is the part of Ryker I’ve always struggled with, so I’m unsure if my answer is to wake myself up from this blissed-out stupor or if it’s because his face shouts that he needs me to accept him.

“Please.”

He pecks my temple, but he lifts me off him and rises to straighten his wrinkled attire and roll down his sleeves. “There was an altercation, which is a breach of our membership agreement. Counting room two is an interrogation room or holding cell.”

“Someone was hurt?” I guess.

“Yes, which is unacceptable. We are responsible for the members when they’re here. No one harms what’s ours.” He shakes out his suit jacket and shrugs it on. “Dr. Landry is optimistic, but regardless …”

“So … how will they leave counting room two?”

He hedges, sauntering to his dresser and selecting a T-shirt and boxers before returning to me, urging me to stand, and sharing what I already know. “Ashes.”

My breath leaves my lungs in a whoosh . I can’t hide how that affects me. The same gentle hands that cared for me are about to take a life.

Reading that reaction, he points to the site of my night of climaxes. “That was me, Merce. But this is too.”

He slips the T-shirt over my head, stringing his fingers through my hair to tame it before holding the boxers out for me to step into them.

“I know.” I’m not sure how else to respond to what he’s about to do, so I focus on the rest of our evening. “This was … amazing.”

He bends down, cups my face, and softly presses his lips to mine. “It was more than amazing. It was perfect. You’re perfect.”

“I’m sorry you didn’t get to come.” That gusts out of me, clunky and not at all how I intended to broach this.

“Who said I didn’t?” he volleys.

My eyes drift to his pants, but he’s covered up with the suit jacket now. Ryker doesn’t say things just to say them. He came in his pants from getting me off?

Sensing my astonishment, he elaborates. “That’s how good you tasted, how sexy you were, sucking off that toy, clenching around my fingers, and coming undone on my tongue.”

A warmth engulfs me, igniting beneath my skin, so as he readies to leave, I blurt, “Are you celibate?”

“Yes,” he says without looking back.

“Why? For how long?”

He halts at the threshold, twisting to peer at me. “I decided years ago that I was tired of fucking just to fuck. So …” A smirk plays on his lips as he composes his explanation. “No one gets the cock unless they buy the cow.”

I laugh from my shock and his humor regarding my comment from last night.

“I’m the cow,” he adds.

“I got that.” I bite my lip, treasuring this final moment of his eyes on me, even though my mind is drowning in confusion for what this all means. “Cock, cow—sounds like a whole damn farm.”

“Yeah.” He chuckles, but it’s melancholy. “Or a kingdom. I’m waiting on my queen.”

We both know that’s probably not the role for me.