I've had enough whiskey that I start to do just that before I realize my hands are moving.
“Whoa there, Pint-Size,” Royal says, catching my hand in the act and pulling it away, kissing my fingertips with his soft lips, the roughness of the stubble on his chin a startling contrast. “I think you've had a little too much to drink.”
“I just need to work it off,” I say, letting him pull me even closer, sandwiching the softness of my body against the hardness of his. My breasts squish against the muscles in his tummy while the bulge in his jeans rubs up against my dress, making the fabric bunch up and drawing the hemline up a few precious inches that it can't afford.
I reach down to tug it back into place, but Royal beats me there, sliding his hand to my ass and massaging my cheeks with rough fingers.
“Holy fuck,” he groans, like the words are involuntary, ripped from his throat like the riffs from the guitars blaring above our heads. When Royal leans forward and runs his tongue along my lower lip, the spell breaks and I jerk back like I've been slapped.
Only that's not it at all.
I suddenly want his lips on mine, his tongue in my mouth, his hands … everywhere.
I feel like I've been drugged with a heavy dose of Royal McBride. But if I take another hit, I'm afraid I'll be addicted. And I can't. This man is bad for me in so many ways.
“I need to go,” I say, untangling myself from his grip. “I already rescheduled our meeting with your secretary.” I take a deep breath of leather and wet earth, tasting Royal's scent on the back of my tongue, watching as his eyes roam over my face, searching for something that I'm not sure I'll be able to figure out until it's too late. “Make sure you're not busy this time.”
And with that, I turn on my heels and walk away.
What the hell happened last night?
I've been asking myself that question all goddamn day, and I still can't figure it out. Lyric Rentz is screwing with my head and I haven't seen or heard from her since last night. Thing is, her car's still parked in front of my clubhouse. I'd be worried if Smoky hadn't told me she'd called a friend to come and pick her up.
How responsible.
It's not at all a trait I'd normally apply to the girls I date. I like fun, flirty, wild. Lyric, she doesn't seem to be any of those things, so what the hell came over me last night? I was drawn to her like a moth to flame, one who's completely and utterly aware that if he gets too close, his wings will fall to ash. The mayor's daughter. Not a woman I should play around with.
But I can't stop thinking about her, and I went to bed alone for the first time in a long time last night.
Interesting.
“You have a new meeting scheduled for Friday at eight fifteen,” Janae says, bringing me back to the present. She gazes up at me with raised black brows and a million questions dancing in her eyes. “Did you need to reschedule again?” she asks, and I shake my head.
“No, that's fine.” Three days away, but fine. I have other shit to worry about right now—like swearing in my new VP. Time for church. “Let me know when she comes to pick up her car,” I say, pushing open the door to the office and stepping into the brief splash of sunshine warming up the compound. Won't last though, not in February. Trinidad's as gray and bleary as bloody London. Worse, actually.
I slide a cig from my pocket and light up, closing my eyes against the brightness for a moment and then opening them to find Smoky striding towards me with a scowl blooming across his pale face.
“Bad day?” I ask as he pauses next to me and leans his head back with a sigh.
“One of the hang-arounds dropped an entire case of beer and flooded the kitchen floor. I swear to Christ, I'll let him clean it up, but then he's out. We're not prospecting some clumsy asshole who can't carry a box from the van to the goddamn kitchen.”
“You know, everyone looks at you and thinks with those freckles and that ginger colored hair of yours that you must be a pushover. In truth, I think you're the biggest asshole I've ever met. Let's go. We're late.”
“You're late. I came out here to grab you. Stop stalking the mayor's daughter and remember, you're still the president of this club.”
“Fuck off.” I flick my cigarette at him and head towards the clubhouse, watching in grim satisfaction as a couple of hang-arounds struggle to clean up last night's mess. If they ever want to be a part of this club, they'd best go at it with a smile on their faces.
“You said she was plain,” Smoky remarks absently as we move up the steps to the deck and towards the front doors—two big slabs of solid wood carved with a pair of wolf heads. A little gaudy, not quite my style, but the former president was a bit of a showman.