Tucking my phone away, I peer back at Jax, who is the most perplexing mix of tortured and serene. “Are you okay if I go take care of something?”
“Yeah. I got a client in twenty minutes anyway. Where ya goin’?”
In a poor attempt to stifle an onslaught of giggles, I press my fingers to my lips. “To fuck with Ryker.”
A blustery laugh gusts out of him. “Perfect. Give him hell, Mercy.”
RYKER
The farm? That’s essentially a suggestion that she wants my cock and all that comes with it. Nothing with Mercy is that easy. But even as my gut shouts that this is some sort of trap, my pace picks up so I can be ensnared faster.
For nearly twenty years, I craved a taste of her, and she exceeded every fucking expectation I’d ever had. And despite the sad smile she offered me when I told her I was waiting for my queen, she kept the hope alive. If she told me I had to wait twenty more years before I could sink inside her, I wouldn’t think twice about that sacrifice. Not that I’ll be announcing that.
After finishing my evening walk-through, I swing by the shops to grab Mercy. My heart thrashes at the sight of her. She’s stunning, as always.
When we were younger, people sometimes referred to her as girl-next-door pretty. She has an innocence about her that mantles her wild soul. A brain that embraces bizarre facts and dorky comebacks in equal measure. A smattering of freckles and big brown eyes that are adorable and spellbinding at once. But her sexy curves are all woman. And the confidence she carried inher badass lawyer days was fucking crippling. That viper is still in there. She just needs to champion that part of her again.
Girl next door fits in a sense though. She’s the type of beauty that makes a man want to sell everything he owns, buy all the houses in a hundred-mile radius, and move in beside her so he’s her only neighbor. Her whole world.
If she lived in hell, I’d sell my soul, decimate heaven and earth, and beat down the eternal door to damnation just to be in her vicinity.
That might hit better if I used heaven as an example since I’m undoubtedly banned from there, but the point is the same.
She bites back a flirty smile, greeting me with a lingering kiss on the cheek. No reservation. She’s definitely up to something. But I can work with that.
“Hey,” she whispers in my ear.
Holding her against me, I sweep my hand down her back, over the silky fabric of her burgundy blouse to the top of her jeans, until she’s shivering in my arms. “Hey, beautiful. Hungry?”
Her heart hammers in rhythm with mine as she swallows. “Yeah.”
For a split second, it’s as though the whole resort disappears. The fervid guests and the cabaret girls scampering by. The bronze and stone. The elegant chandeliers. The jazz music pumping through the speakers and the scent of garlic, yeast, and tomatoes wafting from the nearby Italian eatery.
It’s only us. I sweep my thumb across her cheekbone and capture her bottom lip between my teeth, issuing a nibble that will make it impossible to forget this during our meal, followed by a soothing lick.
An unfiltered purr emanates from her.
Champagne and delusions.
She might be gearing up to screw with me, but she’s immersed inusas much as I am. Which is why I fight every instinct to devour her and opt for entwining her fingers with mine and towing her toward Café L’Ambroisie.
I’m eager to see what she has planned.
Her heels clack a comforting beat as we breeze through the halls. Our two French restaurants are the only ones open to the public. The rest are simply to provide a variation of cuisines for our members.
Because Café L’Ambroisie caters to locals and New Orleans tourists, I called ahead to get a handle on the crowd details. It turns out, Martina is there with some friends. I was initially irritated, but on second thought, I think the timing is perfect.
That might not be my true reason for this engagement, but it is a perk.
The decor veers from our traditional ambience. This is more casual, more vibrant. Burnt orange with an industrial wood ceiling. Turquoise and brass accents. Aged brick walls. Polished concrete floor. Dueling piano musicians. It’s a taste of Bourbon Street here in our classy corner of NOLA.
“Ryker, Mercy,” Everett Floros calls as we pass him at the entrance.
I offer a brusque dip of my chin, but that’s all I’ve fucking got. I’m sure I should apologize for threatening to end him over buying Mercy a shot, but that’s not happening. I like Vander and Amy. And this guy has always been fine, but I know his type of woman. And Mercy is it. He has a corruption kink.
Or I’m fucking insane over this girl. There’s always that.
Mercy squeezes my hand in abehavegesture. “Hey, Everett. I’ve been meaning to reach out about the other night. I spoke with Axel, and I’m good to take on your case. If you’re still interested …”
