I don’t know what the story is there. It doesn’t sound like something I’d promote, but I don’t give it much thought. What does catch me is her notion about labels and people needing each other.
Ryker’s words from the past week and a half wallop me.
“We’re not friends, Mercy.”
“All I want is to be the man who builds you back up.”
“Someday, you’ll let me carry your wounds. I have to believe that because the only way I get off that fucking floor is to save you from it.”
He’s stuck too. I’m not his prisoner. We’re both shackled to that bloody floor. And he’s right. Our friendship perished in the wreckage of those years. But we are two people who need something from each other. I don’t know who I am, and he seems hell-bent on showing me.
“I’ll catch up with you ladies some other time. Enjoy your night.” I set my half-filled flute on the bar and strut over to where Ryker is deep in conversation with a few men.
It’s probably important. He’s obviously working an agenda here, which appears to be adjacent to corporate espionage, not that I’m judging. What do I know? If I’ve learned anything over the years, it’s that nothing is clear cut—one more area of disillusionment to crumble the values held by my younger self. All these criminals come here willingly, so I don’t pity the groups attempting world domination if Ryker pulls a fast one on them.
“I’m sorry to interrupt.” I wait to continue until those icy blues thaw at the sight of me. “I had a quick question. About our conversation earlier.”
Ryker smirks, his dimple beckoning me with deadly promises. I should sashay my way out the door simply based on that haughty expression. But before I can manage that, his deep, gravelly tenor washes over me, like lava trickling down my spine, reigniting the inferno he set ablaze between my legs.
“Go ahead, Merce.”
My mouth dries, so I lick my lips, rejuvenated when he tracks the movement. “You seem to have strong views about who … theclientis, so I was wondering whatexactlyyou think they need.”
“You can answer that, but”—he steps closer, lacing his fingers into my hair as he lowers his lips to the opposite ear—“we both know what you need, so keep things simple and choose between your toys, my fingers, or my mouth.”
So, the offer still stands. I’m on fire.
My heart races as he moves away and resumes his conversation, as if that were business as usual. The men surrounding him, in custom-made suits with semiautomatic weapons tucked into their waistbands, never glance my way. When the king is speaking, the subjects listen.
Except …
“Ryker?”
His head whips toward me, and for a still beat, we’re us—the past, the losses, the friendship, and safety. Playgrounds, beignets, and Bob Dylan at midnight. Witty sparring that makes me feel alive.
And lust. If I’m honest, that’s always been there. And if, just for tonight, I don’t berate myself for that truth, maybe I could enjoy it. Maybe we could both reclaim a shard from that dreadful splintering.
But as the frozen second disintegrates, I fret that nothing will flourish here other than more regrets. Until his smoldering embers rake over me, and in those eyes, I’m moremethan anywhere else.
One night.
“I’ll go with all of the above.”
“That’s my greedy girl.” His husky words, dripping with desire, lurch from his lungs a nanosecond before his massive frame lunges for me, flipping me over his shoulder and bolting for the exit with me flopping behind his back.
A shriek of hoopla rings out from the dance floor, which I assume is bellowed by Kim, her cousin, and themistress, but I don’t lift my head to investigate.
My every cell is vibrating with thrill and nervousness as the joyous cheers and boisterous swing band fade, taking a back seat to the ding of the elevator and my swishing blood flow.
“Is this really necessary?” I ask to Ryker’s taut backside.
“I’m not taking a chance on you getting stuck in that pretty brain of yours again.” He carts me into the elevator and drops me on my feet as the doors close. His fingers entwine in my tousled strands, directing the angle of my head as sternly as his following command. “Don’t think.”
MERCY
He captures my mouth, stealing my breath with the signature Ryker Noire unbridled passion that I suddenly realize my bones have always craved. Our tongues tangle with a fervor, and something inside me snaps. A desire clawing its way up from the depths of my being. My hands cruise over every chiseled inch I can reach, frantic to feel the pieces I ignored—or denied myself—all these years.
“There’s my girl.”
