Page 32 of Rolling 75 (The Noire Brothers #1)

RYKER

T he farm? That’s essentially a suggestion that she wants my cock and all that comes with it. Nothing with Mercy is that easy. But even as my gut shouts that this is some sort of trap, my pace picks up so I can be ensnared faster.

For nearly twenty years, I craved a taste of her, and she exceeded every fucking expectation I’d ever had.

And despite the sad smile she offered me when I told her I was waiting for my queen, she kept the hope alive.

If she told me I had to wait twenty more years before I could sink inside her, I wouldn’t think twice about that sacrifice. Not that I’ll be announcing that.

After finishing my evening walk-through, I swing by the shops to grab Mercy. My heart thrashes at the sight of her. She’s stunning, as always.

When we were younger, people sometimes referred to her as girl-next-door pretty.

She has an innocence about her that mantles her wild soul.

A brain that embraces bizarre facts and dorky comebacks in equal measure.

A smattering of freckles and big brown eyes that are adorable and spellbinding at once.

But her sexy curves are all woman. And the confidence she carried in her badass lawyer days was fucking crippling.

That viper is still in there. She just needs to champion that part of her again.

Girl next door fits in a sense though. She’s the type of beauty that makes a man want to sell everything he owns, buy all the houses in a hundred-mile radius, and move in beside her so he’s her only neighbor. Her whole world.

If she lived in hell, I’d sell my soul, decimate heaven and earth, and beat down the eternal door to damnation just to be in her vicinity.

That might hit better if I used heaven as an example since I’m undoubtedly banned from there, but the point is the same.

She bites back a flirty smile, greeting me with a lingering kiss on the cheek. No reservation. She’s definitely up to something. But I can work with that.

“Hey,” she whispers in my ear.

Holding her against me, I sweep my hand down her back, over the silky fabric of her burgundy blouse to the top of her jeans, until she’s shivering in my arms. “Hey, beautiful. Hungry?”

Her heart hammers in rhythm with mine as she swallows. “Yeah.”

For a split second, it’s as though the whole resort disappears. The fervid guests and the cabaret girls scampering by. The bronze and stone. The elegant chandeliers. The jazz music pumping through the speakers and the scent of garlic, yeast, and tomatoes wafting from the nearby Italian eatery.

It’s only us. I sweep my thumb across her cheekbone and capture her bottom lip between my teeth, issuing a nibble that will make it impossible to forget this during our meal, followed by a soothing lick.

An unfiltered purr emanates from her.

Champagne and delusions.

She might be gearing up to screw with me, but she’s immersed in us as much as I am. Which is why I fight every instinct to devour her and opt for entwining her fingers with mine and towing her toward Café L’Ambroisie.

I’m eager to see what she has planned.

Her heels clack a comforting beat as we breeze through the halls. Our two French restaurants are the only ones open to the public. The rest are simply to provide a variation of cuisines for our members.

Because Café L’Ambroisie caters to locals and New Orleans tourists, I called ahead to get a handle on the crowd details. It turns out, Martina is there with some friends. I was initially irritated, but on second thought, I think the timing is perfect.

That might not be my true reason for this engagement, but it is a perk.

The decor veers from our traditional ambience. This is more casual, more vibrant. Burnt orange with an industrial wood ceiling. Turquoise and brass accents. Aged brick walls. Polished concrete floor. Dueling piano musicians. It’s a taste of Bourbon Street here in our classy corner of NOLA.

“Ryker, Mercy,” Everett Floros calls as we pass him at the entrance.

I offer a brusque dip of my chin, but that’s all I’ve fucking got.

I’m sure I should apologize for threatening to end him over buying Mercy a shot, but that’s not happening.

I like Vander and Amy. And this guy has always been fine, but I know his type of woman.

And Mercy is it. He has a corruption kink.

Or I’m fucking insane over this girl. There’s always that.

Mercy squeezes my hand in a behave gesture. “Hey, Everett. I’ve been meaning to reach out about the other night. I spoke with Axel, and I’m good to take on your case. If you’re still interested …”

Everett’s dark eyes shift to mine, and I have to admit, the hint of terror in the man pleases me. Out in ordinary society, he’s feared. Tatted, built, motorcycle club member. But here, he’s in my world. Maybe that’s the best reason to approve. I can stay ahead of this.

He waits for me to nod and then smiles at Mercy. “I appreciate that. Sorry about any misunderstandings. I’ll have the concierge set up the meeting.”

“Perfect,” she returns, and while much of her lightness is due to whatever she’s got coursing through her system, that poise she exhibits when she’s conquering something envelops her.

Worth it.

Our booth is ready upon arrival, so we take our seats, order drinks, and peruse the menu.

“Oh my gawd ,” Mercy moans, practically drooling. “I want one of everything.”

I chuckle, wave the waiter over, and tell him to bring us the chef’s favorites from every category, instructing him to space the dishes out so we have time to savor.

Mercy pipes up with a request for bananas Foster—my favorite dessert.

She’s starving but thoughtful. Or trying to win my favor with food.

Two hefty sips into Mercy’s cocktail and a verbal vomit about her first week of lawyering, she slides her hand over my upper thigh. “So, I’ve been thinking we might need another contract.”

My dick jumps, all too eager, while I casually drink my Glenfiddich on the rocks. “Is that so? What type of contract do you have in mind?”

“An exchange of goods.” She pauses brilliantly—a courtroom pause that leaves the jurors salivating—and the halt in her voice is filled in by the crowd cheering through a rousing rendition of “Great Balls of Fire” as her fingers cruise further north.

When the song drops, it provides a cinema-worthy opportunity for her to conclude her thought. “Farm goods.”

“What do I get for loaning my … goods ?” I scrub my hand over my chin. “I can’t stick with this fucking farm analogy much longer.”

“That’s fair.” She chortles, light and free, but it’s masking something deeper. “I need to use it for one more parallel though. No one buys a farm without knowing everything about it. How everything works. And tastes.”

Going in for the kill. Immediately. She might want me, but she wants me off-balance enough to answer her questions more. I’d have done that anyway. No need to share that. I’ll guide her toward a solution for both instead.

“I would argue that in this circumstance, the prospective buyer knows more than most. But a queen should know what she wants to about the kingdom she’d be ruling.”

Her chest heaves as she peers at me from beneath the fringe of her lashes, suddenly nervous, but the buzz she’s nursing renders her unable to pull back. “Did you have someone in mind for that queen role?”

“I’m looking at her.” I lift her chin so she can’t avoid the truth in my response. “We’re not friends, Mercy.”

“You … that’s why you kept saying that.” She swallows as she licks her lips. “How long have you …” She shakes her head. “No, don’t answer that.”

“Why?”

“It will just make things harder. It’s already such a mess in my mind. We can’t change who we are or were or … that night …” She trails off as the waiter delivers our appetizers.

Once he’s left, I make her a plate. “What happened that night? What am I missing?”

She pops a crunchy brussels sprout in her mouth, chewing and chewing for a goddamn eternity.

“I … this isn’t how I wanted to do this.

I remember some things, a phone call, and you have information you’re keeping from me.

” Her brown doe eyes find mine, and in them is a plea.

“Let’s ignore all that and just focus on the taste. ”

She bites into a crab-stuffed mushroom with a hum that wraps around my cock.

Maybe I should interrogate her about the memories and phone call she’s referring to, but we’ll get to that.

I’m too mesmerized by every satisfied groan of approval.

She isn’t usually so uninhibited, but the marijuana has her off-kilter.

I lean in, shrinking this booth so little space remains between us, and press her for a different answer. “A taste of?”

Her gaze drifts from the food consuming her to my half-mast dick, slowly trailing up to my face. “You. I need to taste you.” She wipes her hands, tossing the napkin on the table. “Now.”

I really thought I was out ahead of her on this one, but I’m at a loss. No clue what the hell is happening here. Fucking with me? Yes. Succeeding? Also yes.

“Here?” I wave my hand around the packed restaurant—the bustling servers, howling patrons, lively music, and colored lights.

She nods. “I’m sure there’s someplace private in the walls, right?”

I arch a brow, intrigued. “Of course.”

I’ve never known Mercy to be aroused by the idea of getting caught, so this must be her bargaining chip. There are plenty of hidden spaces where I could call her bluff.

“So, what do you think?” She rakes her teeth over her lip, her brown embers sparking with desire. “Me, on my knees, getting an up-close view and feel and taste of the kingdom’s amenities?”

She’s already fucking winning.

Grazing my knuckles down her cheek, I smirk. “I knew it would come to this—you begging me.”