Page 52 of Until Mayhem

I don’t think she’s a bunny.

Maybe she has family at Elder Oaks?

Rhys left for the bar, returning a few minutes later with beers, a Jack and Coke for Glitch, and a pineapple upside down cocktail for me.

I took a tentative sip.

And then I downed the whole thing before Rhys had even left the table.

“Another?” he asked with the no-judgment expression of a man who’d been behind the bar for a long time.

“Please.”

“Me, too,” Scythe said. “I want extra cherries and an umbrella in mine.” I’d thought he was joking, but when I met his eyes, a large smile curled his scarred lip. “What? You chugged, it must be good.”

Rhys walked away, getting stopped a few times in the short distance.

Leaning close to Judge, I asked, “He’s not Mayhem?”

“Not officially. He’s… nomad. Welcome when he wants, but free to roam. He doesn’t like other people’s rules.”

Jury snorted and muttered, “You can say that again.”

Which, for whatever reason, made Hollywood choke on his beer.

After Rhys dropped off two cocktails each for Scythe and me, everyone settled in, drinking and talking. Okay, I mostly drank and listened, the men—including Jury, surprisingly—stopping to explain whatever bike term or background info I needed to know to understand.

Maybe it was the alcohol, but I felt warm inside at their inclusion.

And I felt hot in other places because Judge spent the whole night standing next to my stool.

Resting his hand on my leg.

Or on the back of my chair, his fingers absentmindedly playing with my hair.

Or on my leg again, but gripping my upper thigh tightly, his fingertips digging in and making my mind go crazy with thoughts of him using that hold to spread my legs so he could push between them.

He could’ve easily pulled up another stool to sit next to me, but he didn’t. His stance was possessive and protective, blocking people out while keeping me close.

And I couldn’t say I hated it.

After I knocked back the last of drink three, Judge kissed my forehead, his lips trailing down to my ear. “There go my plans for the night.”

I turned to look at him. “What plans?”

But I knew. Even tipsy on my way to drunk, there was no mistaking the lust in his gaze. Still, he made it extra crystal clear by doing what I’d been hoping for. He twisted me in my stool and used his hold to spread my legs before positioning himself between them.

His hard length pressed against me, and a surge of wetness rushed to the spot.

I wanted him. Badly. Beyond all reason and common sense.

“We haven’t even kissed,” I whispered, partially to him but mostly to myself.

Speaking quietly, he said, “Once I get a taste of you, I’m not stopping ‘til I’ve tasted everything. Your flavor is gonna be permanently on my tongue and the feel of you permanently on my dick. When I’m done, neither of us will be able to remember what it felt like before.” He pushed himself closer, grinding his cock against my fabric-covered pussy. “‘Cause nothin’ else fuckin’ mattered before.”

I gasped at the contact but didn’t move away.

No, I clutched his tee at his sides and tugged him closer. “The night’s not over.”

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