Page 74 of Rolling 75 (The Noire Brothers #1)
A chortle blasts out of me. “It sounds so menacing, coming out of your mouth, but you’ve been one hell of a mentor and friend, Axel. I’m grateful to call you my family. There is no one else I’d rather have give me away or bind me to Ryker.”
He offers me his arm, and after I link mine through it, he leads me out the door. As soon as we step onto the patio, “Champagne Supernova” by Oasis starts playing, which is so ridiculously fitting. But Axel and I burst out laughing when everyone comes into view.
Remy is clad in a suit and has pale blue locks—my something blue.
And Ryker is wearing a black-leather kilt.
Axel pumps my hand a couple of times. “You make him stupid.”
It takes me a minute to calm down enough to respond because the sight of my formidable man in his custom-made black suit on top with his bare legs showing beneath the kilt is too much. “I really do.”
That’s the thing about Ryker. The same quality that makes him rash and intense and a bulldozer is the very trait that lets him love so much harder than most. And I’m the lucky woman on the receiving end of all that passion.
Once we make it up there, Ryker’s grin is so wide, his blues so glossy, and his dimple so haughty, that a swarm of butterflies flits inside my stomach.
I bite my lip, my eyes raking over him in a seductive perusal. “You really own that formal attire mullet, Noire.”
“Right?” Cash claps. “That’s one hell of a party on the bottom.”
“Our girl here knows how to pick ’em. Sexy legs, bro,” Maddox adds before announcing that he’s the one who will be conducting the ceremony, which is perfect.
Ryker ignores them, stepping into me and cradling my face. His lips collide with mine, muttering sweet nothings against my lips as Axel berates him for bulldozing before the ceremony begins.
“You’re ravishing, the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.” Another swipe of his tongue. “And all mine.”
“Not yet, big bro.” Maddox tsks. “Papa Axe needs to tie those hands, and I need to pronounce you man and wife.” He dips his chin to me. “Good call on restraints for the ceremony, Merce.”
Ryker resumes his place, and Axel takes a long cord, tying our hands.
Maddox delivers a quick yet witty ceremony speech and guides us to exchange traditional vows, all while our guests pass around the yipping Bernard—the puppy—and Wells and Ivy’s cooing baby girl.
But when I expect Maddox to extend that final man-and-wife pronouncement, all the brothers, Rena, and Remy grab a piece of the hanging cord.
Ryker’s piercing blues gleam in the setting apricot sunlight. “Did you notice the vases?”
I nod, scanning the line of exquisite pottery housing the votive candles, composed of broken pieces, repaired with gold. “Kintsugi. It’s a Japanese art form.”
He smiles. “I knew you’d be familiar. But the night of the Prohibition Ball”—he not-so-subtly waggles his brows—“we talked about building a mosaic. I thought this was more fitting.”
He’s reimagining my house of shards.
All the emotion I kept at bay during our vows spills down my cheeks. “I love that. It’s meant to rejoice in the imperfections, highlighting resilience and the value of repair.”
“Beauty in the broken.” His eyes skim across his brothers and sister and Remy before returning to me. “We all made one.”
That hits as hard as he hoped, as hard as the sight of the entire family gripping the cord that symbolizes our unity.
A lump balls in my throat. “All of you?”
“Yeah,” Jax drawls, choked up himself. “No matter how shattered, we hold each other together. This is family. Your family.”
Rena wraps her arm around my shoulders, her pregnant belly just starting to show. “Ty and everyone else in my crew helped with mine, so it even stretches beyond the Noires.”
They all mutter similar sentiments, but like heavy moments tend to go with the Noires, a boisterous celebration immediately transpires.
Maddox extends his final declaration. Axel unties us.
Champagne is popped. Toasts are made with French 75.
And the party ensues in an elegant white tent, beneath a starry night.
There’s food and dancing and so much fun.
We even break into the Charleston, all of us together, much like we did all those years ago in the great room with their mom. They’ve all been mine ever since.
When Bob Dylan’s “Wedding Song” plays, Ryker scoops Remy up and spins us both around the dance floor, and by the end of the song, our little guy is passed out cold.
With my arms wrapped around the two of them, Remy’s hair a blue mop, like Jax’s—for the night—and Ryker so happy, in a kilt worn for me, I am abundantly aware that there is nothing richer in this life to hold.
“I lied.”
“Lied?” Ryker parrots as we sway, though he’s not alarmed by the admission.
“That night with Emma, when she mentioned little Noires running amok. I told you I’d never thought about this, but I had.
A lot.” My focus darts around the tent at the gathering of people who show up for us and back to the gifts in my arms. “This, us being a family, was the dream. I was just so afraid.”
His fingers skate up and down my spine. “Me too, baby.”
“My mom told me that the things you find endearing about a partner at the beginning are often the things that annoy you down the road, and I didn’t want that to be us. I gave you years of material in that department.” I expel a stilted laugh, and he does too.
“I promise you, Merce. Everything I found endearing in the beginning only got sexier over the years.”
I love that he sees me that way. We really have stood the test of time.
“I feel the same about you. Every day I love you more. I get what she was saying now though. She wasn’t being negative. She was encouraging me to commit, even when it was hard, to remember the good when it felt like it was slipping away.”
“I think we’ve mastered that.”
“We have.” I nuzzle my head against his chest before lifting my chin to him. “You have. Not just with me. You created something incredible from rough beginnings. Your mom would be so proud of you, of what you and Axel built. It’s the best thing I’ve ever given Remy.”
Ryker’s chest constricts, revealing how much those words mean to him, but instead of responding verbally, he presses his lips to my hair and squeezes me tighter.
Once the next song ends, Remy sleeping provides a worthy excuse to sneak out, so we discreetly make our way inside.
After we lay Remy in his room, I take Ryker’s hand, ushering him toward the master bedroom, where I got ready. “I have something for you.”
He flashes me a panty-dropping grin. “Is it what’s under that dress?”
“I could ask you the same thing, pretty boy.”
His ebullient laugh fills the hallway. “Touché.”
I spin to face him, walking backward and dragging the side zipper on my gown down. “But I guess we could start there.”
“Good.” He practically growls that, throwing me over his shoulder with my dress half undone. “Because I really need to fuck my wife.”
I love so much about that sentence.
In some sort of birthday/wedding-day miracle, our clothes disintegrate, but while that was lightning fast, what follows is slow and gentle and so unlike our typical feral encounters. Maybe because this feels like we finally have forever.
And, Jesus, it hits me: He’s still my best friend, but I get to look at and touch and play with this gorgeous Adonis anytime I want. His skin is inked for me. My DNA is written with him. How the hell did we get here?
“You’re a masterpiece, Ryker. I can’t believe you’re mine.”
“Forever yours.” He gathers me on his lap, atop a velvety sofa, stroking his hard, leaking cock a few times. “I’m so crazy in love with you, Mercy Noire.”
That has a nice ring to it.
“I love you too,” I whisper, the hunger in my voice dripping like honey as he sucks on my pert nipple. “So much.”
“Every inch of you tastes so fucking good.” Abandoning my breast, he sinks two fingers inside me to verify that I’m ready, lifts my hips, and lowers me onto him. “Always so wet for me, baby.”
Groans of approval flow from both of us, and he swallows them, his tongue sweeping against mine with a tender reassurance, a leisurely fusion full of promises.
But with a final nip on my bottom lip, he relaxes into the back of the couch, scooching forward so I’m angled with my clit brushing his pelvis.
One hand cups my cheek, and the other clasps my hip, guiding my rhythm.
His cerulean embers never veer from mine the entire time, and while he’s not rabid and I’m not begging for it to be harder, it’s no less passionate.
It’s me and the boy from the playground, the friend who carried me when I lost my parents, the man who rescued me from that horrific floor, and the soul who is an extension of mine, who reminds me to laugh in the storm.
I’ve always loved his unhinged side, but this is the part of him that’s only ever mine. Every brush and twinge and throb we share is an electrifying current. Every charged touch zaps through us, our panted purrs filling the room with the melody of our rapture.
No words pass between us, and yet our locked gaze says it all. Gripping one another is the answer to everything. It always has been. Like the Kintsugi vases outside, this is our gold.
“Come with me, Viper,” he rasps against my mouth. “I need to watch my radiant wife fall apart.”
With that command, I soar into a blissful rapture under the heat of those sultry blues, twitching through a mind-blowing release, and he takes flight seconds later. His taut muscles tense, his hold on me tightens, and hot spurts of his cum jet into me.
Several minutes pass, and we remain entrenched in this tethering, a tangled heap of sticky limbs and heavy breaths, his cock still nestled deep inside me.
“That was a good something.” His voice is gravel and satin coasting over me.
I smile against his sculpted shoulder, soaking in his cozy-corruption scent. “I have something else too.”
“I hope you have it on this couch because I plan to stay buried inside you for the foreseeable future.”
Hurling my arms out from my sides, I glance around. “Nope. Sorry. I need my purse.”
Accepting the challenge, he rises with me molded to him and plods over to my purse, where he squats so I can dig through it, his dick remaining firmly where it belongs.
“No one could ever accuse you of not committing to a cause.” I bite back a giggle and grab what I need. “Got it.”
He returns to the sofa and assesses my curled palm. “Smaller than a breadbox.”
“Physically, yes. But I think it represents something so much bigger. Did you know that the French 75 drink was named after the Soixante-Quinze gun, which the French viewed as a symbol of hope?”
He grins, his dimple winking with a reverence that seeps into my cells.
“You’re so sexy when you geek out, but, yes, I did know that.
I always loved the cocktail because of the symbolism, more so after I saw how much you loved it.
Made our way, with cognac, it’s sometimes referred to as French 125. ”
With my free hand, I trace the marble edge of his scruffy jaw, enamored by how uninhibited he is in the quiet encounters we share. “I saw that, but we’ll stick with French 75, especially since I suspect that’s the reason for your weird-shaped dice. That’s what you’re rolling for, right?”
“Yeah.” He smooths some of my wispy hairs back, his adoration romping all over my face. “That number is us . Every day we were apart felt like a gamble, but I always had you in my palm. Hope. A reminder that there’s possibilities.”
My heart squeezes at his beautiful coloring of us and our journey. “Good. I didn’t know we were getting married today, but I got you something to celebrate Remy officially being yours. I’m glad I waited to give it to you because now that we’re complete it applies even more.”
Uncurling my fingers, I toss a pair of pale gold dice into the air, catching them and handing them to him. One has seven on every side, except two. The other has five on every side, except two.
He studies them before palming my head and capturing my lips with a swift but steamy kiss. “I love them, love you. They’re the color of champagne.”
“Exactly.” I lean into him, stealing one more quick nip. “I love you too.”
He inspects the dice for another beat, skimming his thumb over the engraving. “Why is Noire on two sides of each?”
“You need some risk involved. But at least this way, when you don’t get the number, you’re reminded of the name Remy and I share with you.”
“Always winning,” he croons, shaking them in his coiled fist while he peers at me in a way that makes me feel cherished. Hopeful.
“That’s right, Noire.” I entwine my arms around his neck, letting his warmth and charm and intensity cloak me with the triumphant beauty that is our story. “Forever and always, we’re rolling seventy-five.”
THE END