“Hmm, French,” she muses as Bob Dylan’s “Just Like a Woman” blares from the record player. “I really should’ve seen that one coming.”
Plucking both filled glasses off the bar, I swagger over to her, handing her one. “I’ll give you a free pass. It’s your birthday.”
Her mouth tips into a lopsided smile as she sips the drink, those beautiful brown eyes shimmering with approval. “So much better with cognac.”
I wink. “Only degenerates use gin.”
She laughs, not missing a beat. “Filthy gin joints.”
Fuck, I love that she always has something smart to say. It’s what I adored about her that first day on the playground, andit never ceases to impress me. I’ve never known anyone who could bounce off anything I threw at them so seamlessly.
“That’s my girl,” I praise without a second thought, clinking my glass with hers.
Her chest heaves for a few beats as she bites her lip and considers me. “Your girl, huh?”
“Of course,” I return, though I’m not sure what to make of how thick the air is, but I muddle my way through. “And tonight, you’re my birthday girl. My kingdom is your kingdom. So, if I could grant you a wish for the future, what would it be?”
She sways to the music, flipping through more albums and sipping her champagne cocktail. “Handing me the keys to the Noire kingdom is a mighty birthday gift. Too bad it’s one of those sell-your-soul kind of presents.”
“Are you subtly labeling me a devil, Viper?”
“Nothing subtle about it. If the horns fit …” She pauses, assessing me. “Let’s say I didn’t care about keeping my parents from rolling over in their early graves, what would I ask the Noire dev—king for?”
She slides her index finger across her lips like she’s searching hard for the answer, but it’s clear when it emerges that she’s had it stored up for some time. “I want the highlight reel. To be top of my class, followed by a successful law career, putting loads of your members behind bars. Since I’ll be busy, I don’t want to meet the right guy until I’m about thirty-three or thirty-four, but then I’d like a whirlwind romance, complete with a marriage by the time I’m thirty-five, and a cozy life of having it all. A wraparound porch and kids running in my big backyard with hundred-year-old oaks when I get home from winning a name-making case.” She bats her lashes. “Is that too much to ask?”
That’s Mercy, never shooting low, even after being knocked down and losing everything.
After refilling her half-depleted glass from my own, I saunter back to the bar to make myself another. “It won’t take a wish to be top of your class. Your big brain and tenacity will accomplish that. No problem. You won’t be putting my clientele away because I’ll lure you to the dark side eventually. But I’m sure I can manage the rest.” The words are out before I can catch them, and as I lift my gaze, I notice the hitch in her breath, so I quickly amend. “We’ll get you the right guy at the right time, and the rest will fall into place.”
She nods, drinking her champagne and swaying with the music.
I finish making the cocktail and take a seat at the bar, not wanting to make things awkward. The avalanche of confusing emotions crashing into me is terrifying, so I ingest a hefty swill, plaster on my friend hat, and nag her for more information. “You’ll be playing the field for the next decade because …”
Bob Dylan’s “Blowin’ in the Wind” filters through the speaker, ushering her answer. “I don’t want to get derailed. Even if I meet the right guy before then, I’ll tell him the timing is off. If I get involved earlier, I’ll sacrifice my career because new relationships are hard. And I can’t do needy. I can barely manage time to eat breakfast. But honestly, I will be excited to find someone I can stop being vanilla with someday.”
What’s that now?
The avalanche of emotion melds into a gigantic boulder of curiosity—lust-fueled intrigue that has no business being in my mind with Mercy. “Vanilla?”
“Terribly so,” she grumbles with an eye roll as she strolls over to me, taking my glass to top hers off as she perches on the stool beside mine. “I can’t risk a stage-five clinger, but that leaves one-night stands, which are … rudimentary.”
“Rudimentary?” Reduced to a stupor where I parrot her words, I stretch over the bar, grab the champagne, cognac,and simple syrup to mix them without the out-of-reach ice or lemon juice, like a dirty drunk would, because this is far more important. “Who the hell are you fucking?”
She shrugs. “Law students.”
“Ahh, yes.” I rub my jaw, perplexed by … wherever the hell this is headed, and mix my cocktail. “Another thing that gets better on the dark side.”
“Maybe that’s the problem.” She flings a reproachful hand at me. “I’ve been immersed in La Lune Noire and tales of what the sex club offers for too long. You’ve ruined me. Or the environment has. Without any personal experience on the matter, my mind still asks,Is it really sex if there aren’t whips, chains, and ball gags?”
Jesus. Fuck. She’s going to kill me.
Ruining her is the best idea I’ve ever fucking heard.
“You might score a belt or a tie slung over the bedpost with a lawyer, but that’s probably as kinky as it gets.” I know anyone in any profession could be into what she’s suggesting, but there is no way in hell I’m telling her that.
“I’m reasonable.” She beams, her cheeks blushing, but she’s bold. The liquid courage is undoubtedly dictating her responses. “I’ll meet them in the middle. Praise, wax, ice, a swift spank, an order to get on my knees, or a demand for me to crawl. That seems doable, even for someone stuffy.”
Fucking Christ. My cock is offering a standing ovation to every damn word dripping from that perfect mouth. “So, what if you don’t meet the right guy by thirty-four? Then what?”
