Beg For Mercy

WREN

I knew women were approaching our table thanks to Tyler’s salacious grin; he isn’t one for subtlety.

In the twenty years I’ve known Tyler, even when we were teenagers, he’s always had women falling at his feet.

He would take home a different one every night if the opportunity presented itself—which it often did—when we went out together.

His promiscuity doesn’t discriminate, so finding willing partners comes easy to him.

Ever since his ex cheated on him with some doctor, he’s been sowing his wild oats throughout New York City.

One day it’s going to bite him in the ass, and when that day comes, I’ll be on the sidelines laughing.

Personally, I couldn’t give two shits about bedding a different woman every night. I have no patience for desperate females, and to put it bluntly, that’s what most women are.

I’m not celibate or anything, but I’m fine taking care of things myself unless a particular woman catches my interest for more than a few seconds.

My wild, sex-fueled nights happened in my college days—back when I was a little more fun and a lot less rich.

Something about being a man with money changes the way women see you.

Instead of fucking because they’re into you, they want to date and get all serious, hoping to cash in on the royalties of having a real-life sugar daddy.

Despite both Tyler’s and my success with our company, he and I couldn’t be more different.

He loves the gold-digging women falling all over us, thriving off the thrill of being wanted by everything with tits and an ass.

Not me though. I don’t bother with those petty, superficial women; my standards are too high, and honestly, I’m a bit of an asshole.

Hence why I’m usually just Tyler’s wingman; his charming personality far outshines my broody, unapproachable one.

So when the two women get to our booth, I pay no attention until the words “Mind if we join you, gentlemen?” drift to my ears in the sexiest voice I’ve ever heard.

It’s throaty and low, like Stevie Nicks, but with a slightly more feminine edge.

A strange flutter settles in my gut, annoying and confusing me all at once. What’s wrong with me? A person’s voice has never captured my attention before now.

I hate to admit I’m insanely curious about the entire woman behind that sensuous sound.

And let me just say—she does not disappoint.

Her lips are lush, tinted a bright red, and she has a dainty nose, upturned slightly at the tip.

But her eyes…they’re unreal: a vivid turquoise, not blue like the sea or the sky, but a unique shade that’s hers alone.

There’s the faintest hint of a silver line running from her left cheek to her throat, giving her an edgy, yet still feminine look.

A scar, maybe? Or is it just a glint of her light blond hair? The silvery strands fall in soft waves over her shoulders and down her back, just brushing the top of her ass.

She looks like a goddamn bona fide angel.

My eyes can’t resist skimming her entire body, stopping to appreciate the soft swell of her full breasts, and the way her waist curves in and then back out at her ample hips.

My eyes travel downward to her legs. They’re long and tanned, toned in all the right places, and they’re bare to above mid-thigh.

Her tight red dress sinfully hugs her curves, leaving very little to the imagination.

The sky-high black stilettos on her feet prompt visions of her on my satin sheets wearing nothing but those heels, her long legs slung over my shoulders, thighs gripping my head as she screams my name.

The erotic image her body elicits in me sends all the blood rushing straight to my dick.

It’s embarrassing as hell, but I have to adjust my pants when I move over to make room for her to squeeze in beside me.

I don’t leave her much space to sit, wanting to feel the heat of her body close to mine without being too obvious.

My face doesn’t show it, but I’m fighting a smile when I see the slow blush peppering across her high cheekbones at the brush of her thigh against mine when she sits.

“Scotch? Gotta say, I’ve never met a woman who drinks the good stuff willingly.” Tyler chuckles loudly, breaking the sexual tension in the air.

“Well, then you’re hanging out with the wrong type of women.” Angel Woman laughs softly, shooting him a mischievous wink.

Fuck. I’m going to blow my load right here in my pants if she laughs like that one more time.

I scowl when I wonder for the second time in minutes what the hell is wrong with me. Why am I reacting to her so intensely?

“You always look so pissed off, or are we just crashing your party for two?”

I’m spun, my damn insides all twisting up in knots when that goddess calls me out in that sexy voice.

“He has a chronic case of resting bitch face. Don’t take offence,” Tyler answers for me, the remnants of his Scottish accent bleeding through the laughter in his voice.

“Anyway, what’re your names, lasses?”

The short-haired blonde one beside Tyler pipes up, beaming. “I’m Lex! And this is Lyra.”

Shit, she’s as bubbly as a bar of lathered soap. Not my cup of tea. But this Lyra—she seems right up my alley. Hot, sassy as fuck, yet cool and collected.

And her name…I love it. Lyra, like the constellation. It’s as beautiful as she is. I want to tell her, but my mouth can’t form the words.

And even if I could speak, I wouldn’t. I don’t dole out compliments; I hate the concept of stroking someone else’s ego.

I curse myself for allowing my mind to fawn over a woman like this, annoyed to admit that she’s taken the breath right out of me.

I’ve never been on the giving end of this ridiculous instant attraction shit.

“Beautiful names for two beautiful women,” Tyler says, stealing the words right out of my thoughts. “I’m Tyler, and this is Wren.”

“Nice to meet you both,” Lyra answers passively, avoiding looking in my direction. Ouch. Her disinterest stings my oversized ego.

“So. Who wants a drink? This shit was expensive. Let’s not waste it.” She pours two fingers of scotch into each of the four glasses they brought with them, dispersing them between the lot of us.

“Salut.” She raises her glass, not waiting to clink it with anyone else’s before knocking it back in one go.

“Slàinte Mhath,” Tyler quips, offering cheers back in our native Scottish dialect.

I swig mine back and reach for the bottle, refilling my and her glass, not giving a shit about the other two.

She finally looks at me and smirks, bringing the rim of the glass to her mouth, her tongue flicking out to wet her lips before she drinks. Well, fuck me. Literally.

More unwelcome fantasies return; this time images of me dragging her to the public bathroom and fucking her in a stall—or maybe against the wall—flood my brain.

Suddenly her friend squeals, “Oh! I love this song!” and I visibly jump, ripped from my vivid imaginings like a baby from the womb.

The shrillness of her girlish voice is distracting enough to remind me that this jazz bar turns into a dance club at ten on Friday nights. She looks at Tyler and asks him to dance.

Ugh, Tyler, please say yes. Her happiness is raining on my broody parade.

“Are you two coming?” Lex—I think that’s her name—asks excitedly when Tyler agrees.

Lyra’s turquoise eyes swing my way, humor and a bit of annoyance flashing in their depths.

“So, what do you say, Big Guy?” she asks, and I’m left wondering if she isn’t as immune to my good looks as she lets on.

“Big Guy?” I raise my eyebrows, almost laughing. If only she knew what my “big guy” could really do. “I’m not much of a dancer.”

“Don’t worry. Just follow my lead.”

“I’m not much into following either, Angel.”

She rolls her eyes. “So, a control freak, huh? Well, then I’m afraid you may have met your match, sir.”

She’s fucking with me. Calling me “sir” in that tone is a challenge. If it’s her way of establishing dominance over me, it won’t work, even if my body is betraying me.

I won’t lie; her confidence is wildly appealing, but like fuck will I submit even an iota of control to her.

We stare at each other for a moment, alpha to alpha, before I half shrug. “Doubt it. Haven’t met a woman I couldn’t tame yet.”

Defiance flashes in her eyes as she bites back, “And now you have.”

With that, she slides deftly out of the booth and I’m left reeling at her sass as she heads toward the dance floor without a single glance back to see if I’m following her.

What the actual fuck just happened?

I’m not used to women talking back. Most of the time, they do whatever I please.

My dick twitches at the thought of her bold attitude, the fantasy of screwing her brains out in the bathroom coming back with a vengeance.

If it’s a sexual power struggle she wants, so be it; I’ll win every single time. I’m taking this as a challenge to have both her body and her mind submitting to my every whim by the end of the night.

I glide out of the booth and scan the dance floor for Lyra, my eyes finding her almost instantly. Her lithe body is moving sensually to the beat, the sway of her hips timed in perfect rhythm.

I’m fucking mesmerized by her; any semblance of self-control I have left flies out the window when she skims her hands up her slim waist to tangle in her hair, losing herself to the music.

There’s no question in my mind now; I have to have her.

Even though pursuing women isn’t my thing, something tells me this is a woman worth chasing—the kind you fuck once and think about for the rest of your life.

And like hell am I going to pass up the screw of a lifetime.

Game on, Angel.