He must have looked evil, he thought, when a couple licking each other’s faces in front of him did a double take and then jumped aside.

Whatever worked.

“Stop fighting me,” he growled at Sophie as she tried to lead the way. “You want my cock inside you or you want to have a fight about who’s in charge?”

She looked over her shoulder at him, her mouth a little crook of defiance, and God help him, she was going to bring him to his knees. How could he know that and not give a shit? What was happening to him?

“I don’t think I really have to make that decision, Sean. I think I can do both, and I think I still win.”

“It’s a question of how soon, babe.” His hand tightened around the back of her neck, and because this was Sophie, she laughed at him and leaned into it. And he fucking loved it. “You want to talk about your feelings? You want to lecture me on how I should treat you? I’m still gonna fuck you, you’re right about that. But I might not let you come, just for pissing me off.”

She laughed again, harder, and it made her green eyes sparkle and what the fuck was the matter with him that he felt that like a blow job from some other bitch?

“Liar,” she said, like she knew something he didn’t, and Ajax had zero desire to explore that pounding thing in him that agreed. That definitely agreed. “You live to make me come.”

She wasn’t wrong about that, which was another thing he had no plans to analyze. But he noticed she shut the fuck up and turned back around, and then she let him steer her where he wanted her to go. Sure enough, he was flipping a few twenties at a bouncer and pushing her out into an alley in about two minutes flat.

He let go of her as the steel door clanged shut behind them and she staggered forward a foot or two on those fucking hooker shoes of hers before she caught herself. She straightened, a lot like she had that night in her living room, but this time, she turned back to face him.

He almost didn’t recognize her then, her eyes were so dark. So serious.

“Did you follow me tonight?”

Ajax laughed. “Half of Bourbon Street followed you with their tongues hanging out, slamming into each other like a fucking boner festival. Figured that was your goal.”

“You must have followed me.” She eyed him. The alley was at least fifteen degrees cooler than that mess of a bar, but he didn’t think that was why she had goosebumps everywhere. “Why?”

“Why do you think?” He shook his head. “You wear that joke of a dress for someone else?”

“Anyone else.” Sophie waved her hands in the air in a little arc that could have contained the whole of the French Quarter. “Everyone else.”

“You have shitty luck then, babe. Because one more man touched you in there? I was gonna take him apart. You’re lucky you stopped dancing when you did.”

“And again.” Her voice was quiet, but not cool. Not with that look in her eyes, burning him up from across the few feet of darkness that separated them, burrowing deep beneath his skin like a bruise. “Why?”

Ajax didn’t want to answer her. He didn’t want to acknowledge that roaring thing inside him that was rattling in its cage, fighting to get out. He didn’t want to admit that he’d almost flipped the table when she’d walked out of the Priory in that fucking stripper outfit. That he’d come this close to punching his brother Cash in his face because he happened to be standing there, not even wearing his cut, as further insult. That he’d shouldered his way out into the chaos of Bourbon Street and had followed her.

Oh yeah. He’d actually followed her.

Again.

Like her ass was a homing beacon and he was fucking powerless to resist it, and there wasn’t one goddamned thing he liked about that. Not one.

He’d followed her across the Quarter once already, when she’d been nothing to him but a sweet butt in gold hot pants. Tonight he’d followed her as she’d dodged drunks and ducked out of unwanted embraces, never looking back to see the trail of devastation she left in her wake. That being Ajax, who’d come along behind her and dispensed a little biker justice to every motherfucker who’d dared touch her or even look at her too long, by his estimation. A drunk pushed face-first into a wall here, a tourist tripped and shoved to the street there.

Sophie was his. No matter how naked she seemed to want to be on the streets of New Orleans—and he couldn’t argue with that, given that body of hers was a work of fucking art. But she was his all the same.

And no matter if she was the only one standing in this alley right now who didn’t get that.

Ajax wasn’t going to say it. He didn’t know how to say something so contrary to everything he was and anyway, he’d been pretty fucking eloquent with his fists and his temper for the past few hours. He was done talking.

His cock was a far better negotiator. Time to let him out.

“Shut up,” he told her, his voice so low it was almost a part of the city itself, late-night sin and the far-off kick of jazz in the air. “And show me that pussy you’ve been teasing the whole fucking French Quarter with all night.”

Her throat worked and he expected more smartass remarks—but maybe she’d learned something here. Or maybe the look on his face was as fucking ferocious as it felt.

Either way, Sophie licked her lips, and he felt that in his cock like a slap. He forced himself to stand still. To watch as she spread her legs wider apart and stood there a moment, the stretchy fabric of her ridiculous fucking dress tight over her thighs. And then she reached down and pulled the dress up, rolling it back to expose those smooth, sweet thighs. Then higher, so it was hard to breathe. Then higher still, until the dress was bunched around her waist and her pussy was fully exposed to the night air.

And to him.

The animal inside him almost broke the chain and lunged at her, but Ajax held it back. Somehow. He held himself very, very still, though he could see the way her gaze dropped to move over his hard cock pressing against his jeans. And God knew he wanted to fuck that smart mouth of hers, but he knew that if he did, that would be the end of this.

He wanted more than to bust a nut. And Ajax didn’t feel like psychoanalyzing himself on that one, either.

“Make yourself come, Sophie.”

It came out hard. Guttural. An order.

She jerked. “What? Why?”

Ajax wasn’t playing.

“Fuck yourself. Here. Now.”

She licked her lips again, and she really was going to kill him. She was halfway there, and that was before she tilted up her chin and ran her hands down her thighs, then moved her fingers around to her own sweet cunt. He could hear her breath pick up. He saw her chest move like it was an effort.

And then her hands began to move in that deep V between her thighs, rocking one palm over her clit like a gentle wave and holding the other there. Just holding it.

“You only need one hand to play with your clit, babe,” he gritted out. “Those other fingers belong in your pussy.”

She made a soft, broken little sound that almost made him come in his fucking jeans, like a goddamned kid, and her eyes were dark with a specific sort of distress when they met his. He loved it.

“Do it, Sophie.”

Her face flushed red. She made that noise again and she swayed slightly on her skinny little heels. But then she blew out a breath and moved that covering hand, reaching down beneath to thrust up into her own pussy.

She panted, and stood there, lewd and fucking gorgeous, her hands full of her own sweetness. And he let her.

For a second or two.

“Don’t just stand there,” he told her, his voice a dark, taunting thing, a rasp against the night, as if they were the only two people in the whole of the French Quarter. “I told you to fuck yourself, not cop a feel like this is high school. You know what to do.”