Raw and Dirty(8)

My throat's still burning and my stomach is churning with the sudden rush of alcohol to the system, but now everybody's looking at me. I've never been one to do things half-assed.

“Bottoms up,” I say, not sure if that's the right slang or not. Oh well.

I lift the drink up and down it in one swallow. More cheers.

“Another?” Blondie asks and I shrug. What the hell. The men continue to cheer me on, hooting and hollering as I down another round. And then another. By the time that fourth one hits me, I can feel it in my head like a tingling buzz, a swarm of bees in my brain.

“Can I get a soda or something?” I ask and the men groan, going back to their business with a clink of beer bottles and the rustle of leather. Show's over, boys.

“Name's Fauna,” the bartender says as she pushes a glass towards me. “And you're … ?”

“Lyric,” I say and then hiccup. I clamp a hand over my mouth and glance around, but nobody's looking at me. Why would they? There's a pair of girls on a nearby table doing body shots. “Lyric Rentz, Deputy Mayor of Operations and Government Affairs.” I slide my drink closer and take a deep breath.

Fauna raises a pale brow at me.

“What exactly does a Deputy Mayor do anyway?” she asks, her voice holding the same amount of distaste for my job title as I'd had when I said biker to Royal earlier.

“Basically whatever the mayor can't be bothered to do,” I say and then cringe, glancing around like my dad might be standing in a sea of drunk motorcycle men. “Anything he doesn't have time for.”

“Like coming to a truce with the Alpha Wolves?” Fauna asks, blue eyes focused on me as I sip my soda from the white and red straw. I can feel a lure being hooked, like she's trying to fish the information out of me.

She can try all she wants; I'm a closed book.

I smile up at her and then move to slide off my stool.

The world tilts and spins around me, making me realize that I'm a hell of a lot more buzzed than I thought I was. How did that happen? Wasn't I stone-cold sober just a few minutes ago?

“Careful there, Pint-Size. I don't think your Daddy would look too kindly on the club if you fell and broke your head tonight.” Royal's fingers wrap around my upper arm, steadying me. I turn my gaze to face him and find him smiling at me, not even bothering to try and hide his amusement.

“A jiff is a moment or an instant,” I blurt, and I realize that I must sound ridiculous. “Not twenty or thirty of them.” The president of the Alpha Wolves MC stares at me like I'm crazy for a moment and then laughs, shaking his head at me.

“You're one interesting girl, you know that, Pint-Size?”

“Stop calling me that,” I say, pulling my arm from his grip and tottering on my heels a moment. “Makes me sound like a bucket of Ben & Jerry's.” Royal slides his arm around my waist, helping me catch my feet. Unfortunately, he also helps me lose my breath, tugging me close and knocking the air right from my lungs.

Our bodies are pressed tight, hot and sweaty from the press of the crowd and the crush of bodies. Through the thin fabric of my dress, I can feel a hard bulge in Royal's jeans. I might work in the mayor's office, but I still know what that is.

“Stop pressing your dick into me,” I mumble, realizing that my speech is just that much off.

“It's not on purpose, love,” he says, leaning in, his breath hot against my hair as he tugs me closer. “I'm just checking out the talent.”

“What the hell does that mean?” I ask as Royal slides his fingers up to the nape of my neck.

“Dance with me,” he growls, his voice taking on a deep, animalistic rumble that curls my toes and makes me shiver. “Just one dance and we can talk shop.”

I should say no.

I should.

“Okay,” I say, my own voice dropping into a near whisper. My fingers move up Royal's chest of their own accord, curling over his muscular shoulders and drinking in the hard perfection of his body as he scoots us back into the crowd, letting the rumble of the music guide our bodies into the center of the room. This time, when a small bubble forms around us, I'm pretty sure it's not me that everyone's avoiding; it's Royal.

The rock music above us blares, loud and crude, the bass shaking the building with each pounding beat as I relax into Royal's touch, letting his tattooed hands keep me on my feet, his arms like steel bands around my waist.

The way he looks down at me … I'm not surprised that Toni Gladstone lost her skirt.

His eyes are so dark and deep, just waiting for someone to dive in and discover what's hiding underneath. This close up, I can see his eyelashes, nice and thick and dark, especially for a guy. Holy crap. Is that a tattoo? A bit of color peeks up above the neckline of his T-shirt, teasing me with a hint of hunter green, an invitation to reach fingers up and tug fabric down.