Beg For Mercy

Chapter 2: 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'd known Tyler, even when we were teenagers, he 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-fuelled 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 ear to her throat, giving her an edgy, yet still feminine, look. A scar, maybe? Or is it just a glint of her light blonde 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.