Own Me (The Wolf Hotel, #5)

“Single malts?” Merrick gives Margo’s hair a playful ruffle. It’s friendly, almost brotherly.

“I’d like to see what they have.” Warner moves for the bar, his lush hair flowing free again. He winks at a group of women at a nearby table. None of them would imagine he had his “date” tied up in ropes last night and was jamming his cock down her throat for an audience.

My gaze flitters back to Merrick to find him watching me with an enigmatic smile. My cheeks flush. At least he’s not avoiding me, I guess. “What about you, Daddy?” he asks in a mocking tone.

“Lagavulin and fuck off.” Henry sinks into the spot on the couch next to me. His cheeks carry a pinkish hue.

As Preston and Margo start a conversation, I lean into Henry’s side, inhaling his spicy cologne, craving his touch. “I take it you told them?”

“I did.”

“And?”

“They were as shocked as I was but supportive. More so than I expected, to be honest. But they’ve also been calling me that all night,” he adds.

“What? Daddy?” I tease, meaning it to be light and flirtatious. It stirs an unexpected feeling in me, though, one I can’t quite put my finger on.

“Don’t you start too,” he warns.

“I would never. But out of curiosity, would you rather I call you Daddy or cutie pie?” I squeal as Henry seizes my hips and pulls me onto his lap, tucking my legs together against his hip. He grips the back of my head and pulls me into a hard kiss before whispering against my lips, “Which one would you rather be screaming tonight when I’m fucking you?” Beneath me, I feel him getting hard.

Henry’s not normally this affectionate in public, so either he’s drunker than I realize, or he’s emboldened around his friends.

Or he’s reached the point of not giving a damn how the CEO of Wolf Hotels should act.

I curl an arm around his neck and appreciate the closeness for a moment before asking, “Did you hear from your real estate guy about the house yet?”

“Alex? I did. He sent one of his Philly guys over to look at the house and run the numbers this afternoon. It needs some work, but not much. Maybe fifteen thousand. But they can get at least fifty grand more than what Howard told me Barbara’s sister is offering. Possibly more.”

My jaw drops. “So Violet was right.”

“Violet was right.” A pensive smile touches his lips. If I didn’t know better, I’d say it might be pride.

“What happens now?”

“I shared the numbers with Howard and told him they’re getting robbed. He’s going to decline.”

“Good.” My shoulders sink with relief. “And Barbara?”

“They signed a contract with her, but it’ll be easy to get out of it this early in the game, especially given her unethical behavior. They’re going to sign with Alex’s company to represent the sale and I’m going to handle her.” There’s a cold calm in his tone that almost makes me feel sorry for the woman. Almost.

“Have you told Violet yet?”

“No. Howard and Gayle will.”

I shake my head at my beautiful, complicated man who can tackle multimillion-dollar business deals but hasn’t figured out how to handle one teenage girl.

His forehead wrinkles with confusion. “What?”

He doesn’t get it. “This is your excuse to reach out to her.”

“I guess.” But his lips are pursed. He doesn’t look convinced.

“Go on, text her!”

“Right now?”

“Yes. Right now.” I dig his phone out of his pocket for him. “I sent you her number.”

“You did.” He opens his phone and finds in her name—he didn’t waste time adding it to his Contacts list, I note—and begins typing, but stalls immediately on the “Hello, Violet, it’s … ” introduction.

“Daddy?” I say in a sultry tone.

“Just for that, you’re not reading this.” He slides me off his lap and back onto the couch.

I miss his warmth instantly, but I don’t push it, enjoying my champagne as he sends his message to his daughter.

“There. Done,” he declares, tucking his phone in his pocket. “How did all the dress stuff go?”

“Good, I think?”

“Superb,” Margo declares, butting into our conversation as Preston takes a phone call. “You will have the most beautiful bride of the year.”

“I’ll have that no matter what she wears.” He sets his hand halfway on my thigh, his thumb drawing slow circles over my skin. The same way he always teases my clit.

Margo’s eyes trace the movement and mischief dances across her beautiful face. “Especially with Joel as your wedding photographer?”

Henry’s hand stalls. He wasn’t part of last night’s conversation, and I know what he’s thinking because it’s the same place my mind went.

“He showed me his portfolio. Not that one,” I add quickly. “He’s incredible, Henry. His photos are magazine quality.”

“He is the best,” Margo chirps. “At many things, but capturing moments is a specialty of his.”

“I’ve seen those moments,” Henry says wryly. “If that’s who you want, Abbi, then that’s who we’ll have.”

My head bobs. “That’s who I want.” And that was easier than I expected. Maybe Margo is right. Sometimes Henry has to be told rather than asked. I set my jaw with determination. “And I’m asking Ronan to be my bridesman.”

A low groan escapes Henry. “We’ll talk about it later.”

But the copious rounds of drinks have given me courage. I hook my fingers over Henry’s leather belt, my thumb dragging along his zipper where his erection from a few moments ago still lingers. “It’s important to me that I have my closest, most trusted friends there.”

“I don’t trust him.”

“Yes, you do. You would never have allowed certain things to happen if you didn’t.” I arch my eyebrows pointedly, though I don’t need to emphasize any part of that sentence.

His lips purse with reluctance. How can he argue with that? Unless he suspects what Margo insinuated earlier, about Ronan’s feelings for me. Even so, that doesn’t change our friendship.

“Henry. He brought me back to you. I’m having him there.”

He sighs heavily. “As long as he doesn’t disrupt the ceremony.”

“Why would he do that?”

But Henry doesn’t answer me, his eyes narrowing on Margo. “I suppose I have you to thank for this?”

“And so many other wonderful things in your life.” She blows him a kiss and then says something in rapid French.

“No.” His tone is sharp. “Absolutely not.” He fires something back at her and then glares at me with exasperation, his affectionate touch gone. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me, Abbi.”

“What?” What now?

“You are not going to Ibiza with Margo and Ronan for your bachelorette party.”

“I don’t even know where that is!” The emphasis on Margo and Ronan catches up to me. “And why not? You don’t trust me?”