Ruin Me, Biker Alphas

He Remembers Me

~Valerie~

My eyes are literally devouring him. I can’t stop. I’m standing there like a f*****g 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 f*****g 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 f*****g close to cumming right here in the middle of the floor. My p***y 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 f*****g 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.