He Remembers Me

~Valerie~

My eyes are literally devouring him. I can’t stop. I’m standing there like a fucking statue, clutching a plastic tray to my chest while my brain tries to process the man standing in front of me.

He remembers. He remembers. My brain can’t stop screaming.

I notice the words on his patch.

Vice President.

They’re are mocking me. All this time, all those nights I spent under my covers, rubbing myself raw to the memory of those amber eyes, he was right here. Not a ghost. Not a dream. He was a few miles away, tucked into the dark, oily heart of the neighborhood pack’s territory, running a goddamn empire alongside Ronan.

He doesn't just look at me, he looks through me. It’s like he can see the pulse thrumming in my throat and the way my thighs are starting to tremble. He lifts a hand, pointing a long, tattooed finger toward the far corner of the bar room.

"VIP Three," he says, his voice a low, sandpaper rasp that vibrates in my lower belly. "Bring me a bottle of Black Label and a clean glass. Now."

The VIP rooms aren't really rooms, they’re alcoves, private little dens carved into the walls, furnished with nothing but two leather couches and a low table. The only thing separating the filth inside from the chaos outside is a thick, dark curtain. Right now, the curtain to Room Three is pinned back, showing it’s empty. And ready.

"Yes, sir," I whisper. My voice sounds pathetic.

He doesn't wait for a reply. He just turns, his boots heavy and even on the floorboards as he strides toward the corner. I watch the way his back moves under that leather, the way his hips sway with a lethal kind of grace.

I turn toward the bar, and I swear to god, I almost collapse. My hands are shaking so violently the empty tray clatters against the wood. I’m on edge. Every nerve in my body is fucking screaming.

Just like the first time I saw him, that afternoon at my house when I was barely a woman, my body is reacting before I can even think. I’m close. I’m so fucking close to cumming right here in the middle of the floor. My pussy is a goddamn disaster. It’s drenched, soaked through my thin lace, and pulsing with a crazy, heavy vibration. I can feel the warmth pooling in my shorts, the rubbing of the denim against my wet lips making me want to moan out loud.

I’m messing myself up over a man who hasn't even touched me yet.

Mighty, the bartender pass me the bottle and glass before I even talk and my shoulders slag with relief. I don’t think I would have been able to make a coherent sentence without giving myself away.

I grab the bottle and a glass, my movements jerky. My skin feels too tight for my bones. I walk toward the room, the open curtain looming like a mouth waiting to swallow me whole. My heart is beating wildly, trapped in my ribs, and clawing to get out.

I step inside. The air in here is cooler, smelling of old leather and expensive smoke. He is already sprawled on one of the couches, his long legs kicked out, his head resting back against the cushions. He looks like a king waiting for his tribute.

I lean over, my hands still trembling as I place the bottle and the glass on the small table. My hormones are going haywire, the scent of him, woodsmoke, metal, and pure Alpha male. It’s thick enough to choke on.

"Is there... is there anything else you need, Vice President?" I ask. I try to sound professional, but my voice is thick with the lust drowning me.

He doesn't move his head. He just shifts those amber eyes toward me, pinning me to the spot. A slow, wicked glint enters his gaze.

"Don't play innocent with me, Valerie," he purrs. The sound makes my knees buckle. "I can smell you from across the room. I could smell you the second I walked into this room."

I gasp, my hand flying to my throat.

"You’re dripping, sweetheart," he continues, his voice dropping to a dark, private whisper. "You’re so fucking wet I can hear the slickness when you move. You’re about to come just from the sound of my voice, aren't you?"

My breath hitches, a soft, broken sound leaving my lips. I can't deny it. I’m right there. One more word, one more look, and I’ll be a puddle on his boots.

But before I can even try to find a lie, the curtain behind me is ripped back with enough force to rattle the rods.

The air in the room instantly turns to ice.

I don't have to look. I know the weight of that silence. I know the way the oxygen seems to vanish when he enters a room.

Ronan.

He doesn't even look at me. It’s like I’m a piece of furniture, a ghost in a tank top. His storm-gray eyes are locked onto the Vice President, his jaw set so hard I can hear his teeth grinding.

"Evander," Ronan growls. The sound is tight, shaking the very floor beneath my heels. "You’ve been back from the road run for twenty minutes. You didn't come to my office. You didn't report. You’re sitting in a VIP booth with the help?"

So that’s his name.

Evander.

I finally have a name to his image in my head.

Evander doesn't look bothered. He smiles, he actually smiles, a sharp, toothy grin that looks like a threat. He leans forward, his amber eyes dancing with a wicked light.

"Just doing my duty, President," Evander mocks, his tone light but his gaze dangerous. "Getting to know the new waitress. Checking her... just club duties. Making sure she’s up to the club’s standards."

Ronan pins him with a stare so hard it should have drawn blood. His nose flares.

Finally, Ronan’s gaze shifts. He doesn't look me in the eye. He looks at the top of my head, his expression cold and utterly dismissive.

"Get me a drink too," he commands. His voice is flat, devoid of any of the heat I saw earlier. "And make it fast, little girl. We have business to discuss."

Little girl.

The words hit me like a slap. My body hardens instantly. The lust is still there, simmering and raw, but it’s joined by a sudden, jagged surge of defiance. He’s dismissing me, again? He saw me in that storeroom and he knows, yet he’s doing the same things he always does best.

Fine. Two can play that game.

"Of course, Alpha," I say. My voice is steady now, iced over with a politeness that is its own kind of weapon.

I nod once, stiff and formal, and turn to leave. But I’m not going quietly.

I know they’re both watching. I can feel their eyes on me like hot brands. I deliberately slow my pace. I put every ounce of my frustration and my hunger into my hips. I sway them, slow, exaggerated, and heavy. I feel my fat ass bouncing with every step, the hem of my denim shorts riding up, showing the pale skin of my thighs and the curve of my cheeks.

I don't look back. I don't give them the satisfaction. But as I walk toward the bar, I can feel their gazes burning holes into my back. It’s heavy. It’s possessive. It’s either Evander, or it’s both of them.

And god, I hope it’s both of them.

I want them to watch. I want them to ache. I want them to realize that this little girl is going to bring them both to their knees whether they want to or not.

I reach the bar, my heart racing with a new, dangerous adrenaline. I tell Mighty the order, another whiskey, neat, and then wait for him to hand it to me. My pussy is still throbbing, still leaking, but now there’s a smirk playing at the corners of my mouth.

I take the drink and head back. This time, I don't hesitate. I puff my chest out, not so much that it looks desperate, but enough to make the thin fabric of my top stretch tight over my heavy breasts.

I enter the booth. It becomes silent instantly. Not even their breathing can be heard. They’re sitting opposite each other now, two predators in a cage.

I lean down, my head high, making sure I’m directly in Evander’s line of sight as I place the drink in front of Ronan. I don't look at Ronan. I don't look at his face. But as my hand nears the table, I see it.

Ronan’s fist is clenched on his lap. His knuckles are white, his muscles bulging under his leather vest so hard they look like they might burst. But he remains, silent and unmoved, though his hand already gave him away.

A low, vibrating growl comes behind me, deep and animalistic. It’s from Evander. The sound is so faint a human wouldn't hear it, but to me, it sounds like a thunderstorm.

I don’t bother with either of them. I straighten up, my expression perfectly innocent, perfectly blank.

"Excuse me, please, Alphas" I say softly.

I turn and walk away without a single backward glance. My skin is on fire, and the ache between my legs is becoming a torture I’m inflicting on myself as much as them.

But I don't care. Let them growl. Let them clench their fists.

I’m going to ruin them both. I promise.