CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
*Lace*
Before Coty’s clenched hands flare out to strangle Chaz, I wrap my fingers around his wrists and pull him toward me. “He gets it,” I chuckle.
Coty sniffs indignantly. “Apparently, he doesn’t fucking get it.”
My gaze flicks to both Chaz and Zane, and I curve my eyebrows inward, silently pleading for them to leave.
When it comes to me, Chaz complies to my request far quicker than he does those from Coty. “We need to talk to everyone about the charity fundraiser when you’re done messing around with this fucker.” He pinches Zane on the earlobe like a disobedient child and yanks him up, dragging him toward the stage.
Coty tracks each step. When his attention returns to me, the lines around and under his eyes seem to have deepened and darkened.
Perhaps the ecstasy is to blame, or the environment, or the fact that all manner of thoughts are swimming through my drug-muddled mind, but for some reason now seems like the opportune time to remind him, “You don’t own me, Coyote. No man does. Especially not one who I only see twice a year.”
His jaw ticks and colorless eyes flash. I reach out toward him. Hard-pressed to decline anything I offer willingly, he only hesitates for a heartbeat before accepting my proffered hand. I pull him forward. “I like this game we play,” I whisper, dragging my opposite fingers through the short, silver hairs along the side of his head that, along with his equally silver eyes, helped him earn his nickname. “But every man who walks in the saloon doors has just as equal of a chance with me as you do. You know that.”
His fingers tighten around mine, excruciatingly so. He lets go, wedges himself between my thighs again, and cups my face, jaw still ticking with every passing thought. “This is not a damn game to me, Lace.” His fingers dig into the soft flesh behind my head.
My heart drops into my stomach, and I fight the dampness between my thighs that wants to dictate how I am supposed to respond. I am perfectly content with his rough grip, his body pressed against mine, and his claiming me.
But I don’t need that damn stack of bills sitting untouched on the bar top.
Instead of giving in this time, I wrap my fingers around his wrists again, pull his hands away, and change the subject, dropping my platforms off the footrest so I can step down. “Time to talk about Bike Week.”
“No.” Coty pins me to the seat and counter with his hip, that heady mix of scents from the outdoors and worn leather spiking my precarious need. His chest rises and falls rapidly under his jacket and hoodie layers. My gaze lifts to meet his silvery eyes, now more of a dull gray and darting back and forth between mine.
Coty swallows hard, his body practically vibrating between my legs. “Is that amount not enough?” The animal in him rumbles threateningly as his predatory gaze flicks accusingly toward the money and back again. “Name your price. I have plenty more where that came from.”
My eyebrows rise high before flattening into a line that challenges even the straightest one often gracing his brutal features. “You will not buy me.”
He lifts a single eyebrow perceptibly, anger morphing to disbelief and dark amusement.
Knowing some sort of lashing is brewing, I cross my arms over my chest, separating us the only way I can in this position.
His eyebrows straighten, striking across his forehead, and he lowers his voice menacingly. “That money is a kindness — a gift. Never ever mistake my generosity for weakness.” Coty uncrosses my arms and slips them around his waist, his cock grinding against the still-sensitive bundle of nerves between my thighs. “The transaction was finalized the day you sang to me for the first time, little siren.” He leans in closer, lips brushing against mine. “You set the lure. Now you must deal with the consequences that arise from enchanting a creature bigger and badder than you.”
Damn, I have it bad for this man. The creatively woven analogy using his special endearment for me stings. Dance is my song. The illusions of support and loyalty are my lure. But I am more loyal to myself. Always will be.
Little does he know, the siren song is nothing more than a hallucination.
This submissiveness he sees in me is a figment of his imagination.
Conversely, the obsession he has often masks itself as love in my eyes.
But hallucinations never last.
Eventually, they all disappear.
And there is a timer on ours.
Tick, tick, ticking away.
Just like this rally season…
…and my life here on the Gulf Coast.
“Money is not the issue, Coyote,” I breathe the words against his hot mouth.