Page 47 of Rolling 75 (The Noire Brothers #1)

RYKER

T here’s a shift in those captivating doe eyes.

One I’ve longed to see. It’s more than lust or passion, certainly more than friendship.

It’s resolution. And a dash of fight. Like she might finally let me love her the way I need to.

Not that I’ll be using that word on her anytime soon.

I’m not fooling myself into believing she isn’t still skittish.

Regardless, tonight has been full of champagne and tangible delusions. I plan to savor it all.

Including speeding through the rest of this event so I can sink inside her again because it was everything I’d hoped it would be and so much more.

She’s always been my home, but nestled inside her, hearing her whimper and moan because of me, was nothing short of a brush with the divine.

I’d been bleeding out for years. A slow, painful death.

And with one encounter, she sewed me up with so much hope that the stitching was almost as painful.

Deliriously so. I’m still a bit lightheaded. And I’ve got big plans for more.

My suit jacket is draped on her crooked elbow while her other arm hooks over my shoulder, fingers weaving into the hair at the nape of my neck as she presses her pillowy lips to mine. “Okay.”

“Okay?” My shock is evident.

I can’t recall many times Mercy has simply conceded.

And despite the fact that she knew the number of days we were apart, I’m aware her cognizance is for reasons that likely have little to do with me and everything to do with her trauma.

So, I was expecting a battle over me monitoring her every move.

She nods, though she doesn’t move her forehead from mine so they rub together with the gesture.

“I trust you.” Her tongue darts out to lick her lip a hairbreadth from mine, and she swallows as if she’s taking her time to find the right words.

“I hear what you’re saying and even what you aren’t.

You watch to protect me. And to heal because you’re hurting too.

The stuff you’ve done for Remy, the way you’ve taken care of us, and your research on how to help—all of it …

I have a hundred more questions, but none of them will change that I want to be that for you. The person who can help you carry it.”

My chest cracks wide open. That’s huge. I would never ask that of her, to shoulder my agony. And, yes, she willingly volunteered for that role for the entirety of our friendship. But since she’s been back, everything has been so muddled that I didn’t anticipate her suggesting anything of the sort.

I also know that nostalgic dancing and burying myself inside her in this makeshift jail don’t mean she’s magically escaped the prison of pain she’s trapped in or the association her mind has made between that horrific night and me.

This is a good day—a phenomenal fucking day—but it’s one.

And I’m here for them all, no matter how weak or strong she feels.

“Hey.” I kiss her temple, pluck my suit jacket from her, and shrug it on before clutching her chin. “This—you and me together, you on my arm out there, not because you’re playing a part, but because you want to be mine—is all I’ve ever needed.”

Her mouth pops open like she’s about to say something, but she stops herself.

“What?” I press, assuming it’s one of the hundred questions she mentioned having.

She shakes her head. “Nothing. We’ll settle things later when we revisit the regrets. Let’s get back to the party.”

“That’s for the best.” I steal another quick kiss, her scent of cherry, cake, and sex enveloping me. “If we stay in here much longer, I’ll have you locked in that cell for the rest of the night.”

Her mouth quirks up into a flirty smirk as she taps her upturned wrists together. “Cuff me.”

I chuckle, relishing these glimpses of her playful side. “I’ll back-pocket that idea. Promise.”

As I snatch my phone from the table, she motions for me to shine it on her.

“How do I look?”

My eyes scan every inch—her flushed cheeks and glowing skin, her bright eyes and hair that’s collected several more wisps, her swollen lips that are free of gloss but still have an alluring berry shade to them.

The bite mark I left on her shoulder, her heaving breasts, and her gorgeous legs.

And even the parts I can’t see—the clarity of her thoughts and the puddle of our cum cocktail wetting her panties.

A low growl murmurs from my chest. “You look freshly fucked and stunning.”

She bats her lashes and offers me her hand. “Good. That’s exactly what I was going for.”

That might hit me more than her vow that she trusts me. She really is prepared to own this role—to be Noire royalty and all that entails. To be mine.

Our fingers lace together, and we sneak out into the shadows, slyly pilfering some hors d’oeuvres and drinks from the refreshments area as though that’s where we’ve been.

We mingle with the guests, field all the double entendres my brothers can sling, and marvel at the brilliance of the brokered alliances we witness being formed.

Mercy and I take a few more spins around the dance floor, and the band croons into the wee hours of the morning. By five thirty, the music has faded to instrumental jazz, and breakfast is served, which is the conclusion of the Prohibition Ball.

Mercy, my brothers, and I occupy the table at the front of the ballroom.

Axel is beside me, scrolling on his phone while cutting into his omelet.

Since I’m eager to whisk Mercy back to the penthouse and ravage her again before we get some much-needed sleep, I do the same, following up on some instructions I sent to Gentry, checking my emails, and insisting that she drink some espresso.

She took a long nap yesterday afternoon, but the exhaustion will be setting in soon.

She’s laughing at something Maddox said when my eyes snag on a name in my inbox that I’ve been dreading.

Monroe Montgomery—Dalton’s father.

I know they’re back. I cooperated, and you took matters into your own hands. Let’s put it all behind us. That boy is my blood. My wife and I expect to see him.

My stomach churns. Of course that’s never fucking happening, but I just got Mercy to a place where she feels mildly safe here.

While I’m certain Monroe wasn’t the one on the phone with Dalton that night, she isn’t.

Telling her will only have her wanting to bolt again.

Instead of fearing one person, she’ll be terrified of everyone.

She wouldn’t even be wrong to be on edge.

I spoke with Ty again yesterday. Every lead they had is ice cold.

They’d already followed the scent of the call, though Mercy hadn’t remembered and tipped them off to it until a year had gone by.

It was to a burner no longer in service after that night.

Aside from that, most of Dalton’s associations were benign.

He wasn’t the type to have close contacts or tight friendships, which would be required to fall into the I’ll-hide-the-body-for-you category.

But we can’t link him to any professional cleaners either.

Something is off. I can feel it.

Ty’s angle is that it’s been years without any disturbances, so it likely isn’t a concern.

They monitored Dalton closely. He didn’t reach out to anyone suspect during the trial or while he was in prison, which Ty sees as positive.

He thinks if anyone were going to make a move, they’d likely have already done something since Mercy has been here for nearly a month.

No evidence was shared about Mercy in Hailey Holden’s trial—the one that sent Dalton to prison—and there was no obvious retaliation against Dalton from Mercy.

So, Ty believes that even if there was another party involved, their concern about her pointing a finger at them would be minimal.

That profiling is far more his crew’s expertise than mine, but I still feel unsettled.

Mercy glides her hand over my thigh. “You might want to eat something. I expect impressive stamina for whatever you have planned.”

I click off my phone and set it down, scooping up some hash browns and winking at her. “No worries there. I’ve been fueling up for this for years. The laps I swim for an hour every night are with this goal in mind.”

As is the edging I’ve been inflicting upon myself since she returned. I’m not ashamed of coming in my pants from tasting her, but I plan to last tonight.

She leans in close, fingers skating up to graze my cock, her voice raspy and hoarse and so damn sexy from being up all night. “I sure hope I get to see what that swimming has produced. It’s about time for me to glimpse everything under that suit.”

There’s a lot to show her there, but my feisty girl seems all in, so I push any nagging worries to the back of my mind. I waited a long damn time for her to crave me like this. It’s almost hard to believe it’s real.

“We should get out of here.” I tap her coffee cup, urging her to finish her espresso.

She sips but eyes me with a taunt over the rim. “There’s still a half hour left.”

“Happens every year. We’ll stay late next time.”

She stifles a laugh and bottoms out her cup, so I slide her chair back from the table, but Axel grabs my arm.

“Thanks for sticking around. Did Trafton ever find you?”

Theo Trafton is the guy that Mercy and I passed on the way to the escape room.

“No.” I decline to share how I blew him off. “Why did he need me specifically?”

“I don’t know.” He scrubs his jaw, inspecting the half-full tables—not everyone makes it to breakfast. “He seemed jittery, but I don’t see him now.”

“Who’s Trafton?” Mercy asks. “Do the names of all these members ever get confusing?”

“The names aren’t important until they are.” I’m not sure that’s what she’s looking for, but it’s the truth. It’s like a principal who knows hundreds or thousands of students’ names, but they only matter when there’s an issue, good or bad.