Page 49 of Rolling 75 (The Noire Brothers #1)

MERCY

I t’s slick and slippery and effervescent. And though I thought he’d lost his mind when I grasped his baptism intent, the luxuriousness submerging us makes perfect sense.

Of course this is the battlefield Ryker Noire would choose to have us go to war with our demons.

Because he’s over the top and generous and passionate. And so sentimental that he transformed a drink that’s been a staple for us into a weapon to spear old ghosts.

It just might. Or at least make a damn good slash in them.

I do my best to release the tangled thoughts about this incredible man with the horrid memories of the monster who tried to kill me. To leave it all to rot in these bubbles.

The guilt for not listening to his warning, for not telling him that a twinge of something deeper for him struck me that day by the car, for pushing him away, and for staying gone so long.

The anger—justified or not—that he didn’t tell me how he felt about me.

The feelings of worthlessness and failure and defeat. Of being powerless and a victim. Scarred and never enough.

I’m sure some of those things will resurface from time to time, maybe even reemerge with a vengeance, but as we sprout out of the champagne baptism, I focus on the new version of us that he promised.

One day at a time—and today is a day I’m desperate to live.

A shower of decadence rains down upon us.

The filtering dawn light frolics on the celebratory bubbles.

The fruity scent of apricots and peaches and berries and plums permeates the air.

Our limbs are sleek and entwined; our breaths stuttered, like a wispy laugh; our chests melded; our hearts hammering.

And he must be lasered in on that new version, too, because he smooths my drenched strands off my forehead, swipes at the dribbles hanging on my lashes, and searches my face. It’s only a second, one rise and fall of our fused chests, before his mouth collides with mine.

Unapologetic. Unhinged. And ravenous.

If I thought we were wild before, I was mistaken. Everything unfolds in a blur.

Years of denial and restraint and stupidity splash with our frantic limbs and frenzied mouths.

My fingers weave into his sopping hair, nails scraping against his scalp, teeth grazing the lobe of his ear, tongue trailing the steel cut of his jaw.

His lips are everywhere—hot and scalding on my neck and collarbone and the swell of my breasts, swirling my pebbled nipples, caressing the valley between, and trekking back up to catch what he missed.

“Christ, Merce. You taste like—”

“Hope,” I finish, capturing his lips.

He said that once before, when he was kneeling before me in the safe room, with dueling pianos keeping time on the other side of the brick.

I didn’t get it then. But now? Here? There’s no other word for licking my favorite drink off my favorite man.

The freshness of lemon and dreams and unwavering devotion bursting on my taste buds.

The flavor of how he always restores me.

And the aspiration of doing the same for him.

My hands rove with feverish need. His rigid pecs and chiseled six-pack.

Defined biceps. Thick thighs. Velvety flesh.

Every speck of him is scrumptious. Edible.

I rock my hips, seeking friction from his hard length, and the hissed groan that spills from him is far more intoxicating than the tub of alcohol we’re submerged in.

Pride and contentment wash over me. I do that to him.

When I buck again, he shoots out of the bubbles like a geyser trying to reach the heavens or Poseidon controlling the sea.

The champagne slides off us in sheets, a waterfall of anguish left behind.

And the trickling melody harmonizes with our panting breaths.

He’s got me slung around him and a crazed glint in his blues.

His wheels are turning, the plan formulating almost visible.

And the room illuminates with his growled conviction. “Yeah, fucking hope. I need to devour you now.”

I resume my tasting, my tongue laving over every taut inch of him that I can reach, while he snags a pile of towels and leads us into the bedroom. It’s simple and classy, streamlined and minimal despite the grand size and lush materials. Warm with its black molding and tannish-gold accents.

He tosses the towels down on the cream bedding, spreading them out while we drip onto the rich wood floor, though I’d bet he’ll be springing for a new comforter after this. Once he’s done, he flops onto his back with me on top of him.

With his hands on my hips, he drags me from his waist to his chest. “Climb up here, baby. Sit on my face and let me drink champagne from your perfect pussy.”

His smoldering gaze rakes over me, and a confidence I thought had been swallowed by that bloody floor flares to life. I don’t worry about my scars or my softer muscles or whether or not he really wants me. With his eyes on me, I’m sexier than I’ve ever been.

So, I crawl the rest of the way toward the headboard. When I reach it, I turn around and lower myself onto his mouth, facing his feet. And his eager cock.

He doesn’t question it, doesn’t waste a single second.

His hands clamp on to my hips, and he rotates me while sucking on my clit, and I see fucking stars.

His husky groans of approval blare through the room and through me, making me all the headier.

His licks and laps become utterly voracious, his scruff dusting my inner thighs with a tingle, his dick leaking and twitching.

It reminds me of how he came in his pants that night in his closet. Simply from making me come.

I fall forward, both from loss of balance and my urge to reach him. Clutching his thighs, I whirl my tongue around his engorged head, gently sampling his precum, and the man writhes beneath me with a moan akin to a battle cry.

He’s freaking addictive.

Without warning, I swallow him whole, opening my throat to welcome him into the dark edges, and bob with my own feral hunger.

His magic cross scratches an itch I didn’t know I had.

The sweetness of the champagne and the tartness of the lemon and the musk that is intrinsically him flood my senses.

And of course the fruity vanilla notes that are a Noire signature—everything’s better with cognac.

I can’t get enough.

Rivulets of our revival scatter across his shins as his toes curl. Even the man’s feet are pretty. God, I want to lick every inch of him.

While still bracing myself on his clenched thigh, I use my other hand to play with his balls, kneading them with the pressure I’ve discovered is his undoing.

His knees fall open, his abs contract, and a rumble thunders against my stomach from the depths of his lungs, the vibrations radiating through my pussy.

It only intensifies his own devouring. He grows ferocious and savage, forcing my weight onto him more, the swipes of his tongue both decadent and aggressive, his thumb wiggling all the way into my ass with a blinding sting that hurts so good.

And soon, it’s too much. I want to wait to see if we can come together, like he did for me in the makeshift prison, but his steadfast thirst breaks me.

Those stars marring my vision streak behind my eyelids, down my spine, through my limbs. My mouth, though still stuffed with him, ceases its mission on his cock. My muscles coil tight, champagne sweat beading every pore. I shake and grind and gasp and whimper.

I’m not sure if it’s the unorthodox baptism, or the alcohol soaking through my skin and inebriating me, or how sexy I felt beneath his gaze, or the otherworldly lash of his tongue, but the plight to ecstasy is a holy crusade.

An erotic symphony of avid lust and quenched cravings rings in my ears like a choir of angels.

Everything fades to celestial awe, the heat of my core, and my trembling bones.

In a flash, I’m plucked off him, thrown onto my back, and he’s slamming inside me, my knees kissing my ears, his mouth seizing mine. He’s crazed, and I’m still partially blacked out, folded in half and quaking from aftershocks while he reaches hidden crevices inside me.

His thrusts are rabid, his arms tender, his words panted with a gravelly timbre. “Do you have any idea what you fucking do to me? And what I want to do to you? I want to live inside this sweet cunt. Feast on only your cum and the French 75 dripping out of it. Cake and champagne while I worship.”

He’s deliriously untethered, and I love it. He promised a rebirth, a new beginning, and he’s delivering one divine touch at a time.

A shattering of the old, a reckoning of the lost, a renewal of what was.

Our sanctuary.

He glides his tongue along each of my calves, kisses my toes, and journeys back to my arms and shoulders and neck and chin, consuming every drop he can.

So, I eat up every moment—of his mouth on my body, of his cock filling me, of him twisting me to reach fresh angles, the barbells of his piercing rising to the challenge in every new position, my head still dazed and starry.

I’ve never felt so desired before, so anchored and complete.

He rolls me onto my side, straddling one leg while draping the other over his forearm and plunging in and out of me. “Look at how your pussy swallows every inch of my cock. Do you see it, Mercy? See how perfect we fit? How wet you are? How you’re made for me?”

I track his pumps, the hypnotic slide of him ramming into me, coated in my cum, until I finally lift my chin and assure him, “I see. Perfect.”

“Fucking perfect,” he echoes. “So tight. Mine.”

All his.

“Yours,” I whisper.

The depth is similar to when he was behind me in the escape room, but his ardent blues are latched to mine, and his fingers swirl my clit, and he’s glistening and wet and the most gorgeous thing I’ve ever seen.

“Mine,” he repeats in a wolfish haze. “I need to see you fall apart again. You’ve got another one in you, beautiful. Give me more.”