Hot Shot (The King Brothers Book 3)

by Teagan Kade

  Teddy remains calm. “Not at all, but I’m just a lowly officer. I don’t have much say in the matter. They wanted to transfer me, actually, but I sort of begged to stay.”

  I’m fuming, but Teddy’s right. There’s no use taking it out on him. I want to take it out on someone, definitely, but not Teddy. Nothing useful would come from that.

  Teddy takes off his cap, runs a hand through his hair. “Look, normally I’d have to write you up an infraction, but I can ignore it this time. As I mentioned, I can’t guarantee the others will be so lenient, so you’ll need to be on alert.”

  I breathe as best I can and try to calm myself even though I’m raging red inside, a bull looking for the closet soft spot to bury its horns.

  Phoenix reaches out and shakes Teddy’s hand. “Thanks for the heads-up.”

  “Anytime,” replies Teddy, looking to me.

  I exhale but it doesn’t do anything to bring my temper down. “Thanks, Teddy.”

  He walks backwards towards his patrol car. “Be careful now.”

  “We will,” says Phoenix.

  Once Teddy’s gone, Phoenix stands in front of me. “We should go.”

  I step around him and head towards Gordy. “Not a chance in hell.”

  Phoenix is on my heels. “You heard what he said. You want to go to prison for this?”

  I stop and face him. “I’m not going to stop doing the right thing just because someone else tells me to. Fuck that.”

  That earns me a smile. “Said with conviction, and that’s the way you want to play it?”

  “Hell yes,” I reply, stomping away towards Gordy, Phoenix matching my stride.

  “Count me in then,” he says.

  Gordy stops what he’s doing when I approach. “I take it the long arm of the law doesn’t want us here?”

  “More like the mayor’s office.”

  Gordy looks to the distance shaking his head. “This again, huh?”

  It’s not the first time something like this has come up, but it does seem to have more serious undertones to it. “You want a hand?”

  Gordy starts to smile, nodding towards Phoenix. “And you, son? You know what you’re getting yourself into?”

  “Yes, sir,” Phoenix replies, moving between us to grab a box of casseroles from the back of the van and preparing to hand them out. He winks to me. “And I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

  I see the change in Gordy, the shift in understanding. He grabs a box himself and joins Phoenix, handing out what they can. I stand back and admire the sight, the two most important men in my life working side by side. It’s a beautiful thing. I’d be lying if I said there wasn’t a certain sense of relief that follows, but it’s juxtaposed by what Teddy said.

  I know the mayor, or at least I know his type. They’ll steamroll over anything—no matter how good—for their own personal gain and not give a flying damn about who suffers in the process. It’s wrong and it’s ugly and it’s not going to stop me doing what needs to be done.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  PHOENIX

  We spend the next couple of weeks organizing for the auction and drawing closer. I do my best to sneak Heather into my place and keep her away from my brothers, though Titus seems busy with that tutor of his of late and Nolan, well, he’s completely MIA.

  I did fuck up by expressing my disapproval of Heather distributing food in the current police-state climate again. She hasn’t asked me to come along again since. I know that’s a thorny issue between us, but I don’t want it to upset the equilibrium by pushing her on it. I hope she’s stopped, but I doubt it. She seems more determined than ever to stick it to the man. I just don’t want her ending up behind bars because of it.

  I find her making short crust, kiss my way up her shoulder until she stops. “If you’re looking for my secrets, I ain’t giving them up.”

  I reach between her legs. “I’m sure you’ll break under interrogation.”

  She continues to knead the dough. “I have more mental fortitude in my pinky than you have in that whole gorgeous body of yours.”

  I scoff. “‘Mental fortitude’ is basically embossed into the King family crest at this point. I kid you not when I tell you our father had us doing pushups before we could walk.”

  “Sounds like child abuse.”

  I keep rubbing at the hump of her sex with the butt of my palm, the denim growing damp and hot underneath my hand. “He called it ‘concreting’.”

  She laughs. “What?”

  “You know, concrete, as in ‘Harden up, boys, I want you unbreakable.’”

  “And your brothers went along with all this ridiculousness?”

  “I don’t need to tell you we can be quite competitive at times.”

  I draw my hand up and attempt to slide it down the front of her jeans, but my hand is slapped away and I’m shoved aside. “Later, dumbass. This is delicate work.”

  “Ouch,” I reply, feigning injury.

  “Make yourself useful and pass me your favorite rolling pin.”

  I hand it over. “I take it physical labor wasn’t part of your childhood experience?”

  “My abuse was of the more traditional variety,” she says, rolling out the short crust until it’s smooth and thin.

  I resist the urge to touch it. “Shit. Sorry. Didn’t mean to take you down that road again.”

  “The first thing a psychologist will tell you is to talk it out in detail, start at the beginning and recall as much as you can. ‘Name it to tame it,’ they say.”

  “You’ve seen a psychologist?”

  “Gordy’s actually a psychologist by trade, believe it or not. He used to work for the police force. Cops in the specialist branches see a lot of evil shit. They have mandatory evaluations and appointments. It was his job to make sure they could not only handle what they saw on a day-to-day basis, but process it, too.”

  “Sounds heavy.”

  She looks at me, hair done up into a loose bun, a streak of flour on her cheek I can’t help but brush away. “Heavy enough for him to give it up and pursue something a bit more nourishing for the soul.”

  “The soup kitchen,” I fill.

  “Right. He gave up that cushy government job with big benefits to do it, had to downsize and basically sell everything he owned.”

  “Where did he learn to cook?”

  “His mother. Dementia took her years ago. From all accounts she was a great lady, and an amazing cook.”

  Finished, Heather places the rolling pin down, bracing her hip against the side of the counter, eyeing me. “Why don’t you go to culinary school?”

  I can’t help but laugh until I see her expression. “You’re serious?”

  “Why not?”

  “Because my father would have a fucking heart attack and cut me off, plus it’s…” I can’t quite word it.

  “It’s… what?” she presses. “Don’t tell me the mighty Phoenix King is afraid of what people will think.”

  “No,” I reply, thoughts unsteady. “I’m hardly good enough.”

  “That’s what a school is for—to teach. Here’s a better question: Do you enjoy it?”

  I wasn’t prepared for this line of questioning. “Cooking? Yeah, I guess so. Sure.”

  “Would you rather cook or play basketball? The truth.”

  I take hold of her and pull her to me. “Enough talk, boss lady.”

  “Less talk more action, I suppose?”

  I pop the top button on her jeans. “Bingo.”

  *

  The following day I manage to sneak into Heather’s apartment while she’s on shift at the dining hall. I dump the bags of groceries on the counter and take stock of my surroundings, clapping my hands together. “Let’s fucking do it.”

  I switch on the old radio in the corner and start to prepare. I’ve been planning this for days, but there’s still a lot to do. It’s our two-week anniversary. A dozen roses wasn’t going to cut it.

  I’m going with a baked sea bass with lemon
caper dressing for main, a raspberry mille-feuilles for dessert. Raspberries were especially hard to come by this time of year. “Looking to impress someone tonight?” the cashier queried, no doubt piecing it together, her smile fading when I informed her it was for my girlfriend.

  Girlfriend.

  It sounded strange being vocalized, but on the way back to Heather’s the word grew on me. Every minute I’m without her is a minute too long. She occupies my every thought and action.

  Two hours later I stand back and admire my work.

  Holy shit, I think. You did it.

  All those YouTube tutorials and nights of Googling have paid off, not to mention the practice I’ve been putting in. What’s in front of me could easily pass for a professional’s work.

  Or maybe you’ve just got blinders on, my head fires back.

  I suppose Heather will have to be the judge of that.

  “My, my, we have been busy.”

  I spin around in shock, didn’t even hear her come in. “Ah, surprise?”

  She places her bag down and surveys the meal. “Impressive, and I am hungry.”

  “I haven’t had a chance to set the table yet.”

  She takes the plates with the sea bass and moves them to the breakfast bar. “Screw the table. Let’s keep it casual.”

  We eat and I can’t help but glance over when she takes her first bite, a few nervous seconds passing before she moans her approval. I don’t know what I prefer, this or an actual orgasm.

  “Good?” I ask casually.

  She nods. “Pretty. Damn. Good.”

  “And mille-feuille for dessert. That must have been tricky.”

  “You have no idea,” I laugh.

  She slides another forkful into her mouth. “How am I ever going to pay you back?”

  “How indeed,” I smile.

  Even washing up is enjoyable when I’m around her. We laugh and act like teenagers.

  The kitchen clean, we sit on the sofa staring at the wall.

  Heather looks to me, eyes heavy with lust. Her voice is scratchy when she speaks. “I believe I owe you for dinner.”

  I’m instantly hard at the hint of sex. “What did you have in mind?”

  “Your cock,” she purrs, “inside me. What do you say to that?”

  “I could think of worse ways to finish the night.”

  She smiles back and it’s so good to see, so fucking gorgeous I wonder where she’s been all my life. She exhales, hot breath tickling the side of my neck.

  I want to taste her, to consume her completely, but I bide my time. This is one meal I intend to savor—every minute morsel.

  Her eyes widen when I move forward and take her mouth. I press my lips to hers and slide my tongue between them. My cock tightens, desperate to be free.

  I take hold of her and pull her close, want her as close as I can get and won’t take anything else.

  We strip there on the sofa refusing to break the kiss, clothes piling fast on the carpet. I help her work her pants off. She wiggles free of them and tosses them away, taking hold of the bottom of her shirt and pulling it over her head, her breasts dropping with the motion full and heavy.

  It’s a beautiful thing.

  I take a second to admire her, breathing hard. “Christ, you’re beautiful.”

  “You’re not so bad yourself.”

  She gets up onto her knees and reaches forward, taking down my fly and pushing my jeans down. “Mmmm,” she purrs, “I wonder what we’ll find in here.”

  The sound of her voice goes straight to my cock, the memory of the honey-cinnamon taste of her sex returning to me and igniting a new, profound urgency to take her.

  I strip away my T-shirt, her hair swishing against my skin undoing me further, a shiver cork-screwing its way up my spine.

  She undoes her bra and lets it drop between us, sitting back with a pout. I reach up to hold her face, let my fingers dance through her hair. It flows liquid-like between them, slippery and cool.

  I grip her hair tighter and tug her forward gently.

  “Oh,” she breathes out, a punctuated expulsion of air.

  I lie back and bring her with me, position her with my free hand until she’s on top of me, grinding down against the thick length of my cock.

  I close my eyes and start savoring, the faintest of moans leaving my lips. “God, that’s good.”

  She grinds down a little harder, rocking her crotch against me. It twitches against her, shocks of pleasure running from my taint to my balls and back again.

  I pull her down to me, the kiss we share concealed by curtains of hair—our own secret space.

  Breathless, I take hold of her hips and shift her back. She traces the length of my hardness with a finger, lets it settle of the milky pearl of pre-cum at its tip. It’s almost enough to put an end to this before it’s started.

  She rubs her fingers together. “It’s silky,” she says, bringing her fingers up and sliding them together into her mouth, sucking. “Mmmm.” They come glistening. “Delicious.”

  I reach for her panties, taking hold of them at the waistband and pulling until they tear down the center. Her mouth opens in shock, but I need her, and I need her fucking now. I’ve never seen anything so hot in my life.

  My breathing’s run away from me. It’s ragged and raw and desperate. Skin to skin, the wet vise of her pussy sandwiched around my cock, I let my hands run up her ribs, can feel the steady pulse of her heartbeat in overdrive.

  Her nipples are hard, tight twigs on her chest. There’s no question she’s excited. All I want to do is take hold of her and sink deep into the tight heat of her body, but I restrain myself. I want to taste, to touch first, make her come so hard the ceiling falls upon us.

  My hands explore her arms and shoulders, the cherry bomb tatt and flat plane of her stomach. I take hold of a breast, round and full, rising to suck at the nipple at its center. It hardens further in my mouth, sweet as candy.

  I switch breasts and continue to caress her, using my free hand to cup her sex and test her wetness.

  She mews, soon replaced by a low growling as I flip us over and press her into the cushions. My heart’s beating so hard I’m concerned it’s going to pound right through her.

  Her eyes are wide and glassy. She reaches for my hips, spreading her legs wide. “Take me. Please.”

  “Say it again.”

  “Please,” she pants. Her legs scissor up my sides, thighs trembling there against me.

  I reach between us and run an exploratory finger down the wet seam of her sex. Satisfied, I replace it with my cock, a single stroke sending me deep into the plush, hot pressure of her sex.

  She parts around my length before tightening, the velvety pull of her body too much to bear.

  I push further and draw back, slamming forward and sending her deep into the sofa cushions.

  Our voices meld and blend, her heels locking against my ass and urging me on with every vaulted thrust.

  “Yes,” she cries. “More. Give me more.”

  Her pussy’s on fire, a furnace around my dick. I know I won’t be able to take it for long, but still I give her everything I have and more, fucking her harder and faster, deeper and deeper, each thrust adding new pressure to her clit and forcing her to flap and jerk below me with the early signs of orgasm.

  I lift and ride her harder, her arms around my neck and her moan caught by my mouth, the salty taste of her lips as she gives herself to me.

  She bucks and straightens, a single convulsion before her pussy clamps around me like a vise and begins to palpitate.

  I draw away and hiss, my balls rising against her, a bolt of pure energy running through me so potent it’s as though I’ve been skewered by lightning.

  I let myself run as deep as I can go inside her and there I shatter, filling her as the pleasure washes over me.

  I wake from the spell still inside her, slumped to the side, the two of us doing our best to breathe. I twitch again and take her into my arms, cupping
her cheek. “How did I get so lucky?” I ask her.

  She looks down between us. “Having a big cock helps.”

  I have to laugh. “That it does.”

  “That it does,” I repeat.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  HEATHER

  It’s the night of the auction. I stand in disbelief at what Phoenix and Alissa have managed to accomplish. What was a fairly lackluster hall at the end of Main Street has been transformed into an area of such opulence it would rival the Met Gala.

  White silk falls from the ceiling, the walls lit blue and a who’s who of Crestfall’s elite making their rounds. I spot Alissa working her magic on a group near the auction items displayed in a cabinet running down the center of the room. The sequined ball gown she’s wearing reminds me of a peacock, feathers and all.

  It also makes me feel hideously underdressed. Peyton sent his wife Erin shopping with me earlier, at Phoenix’s request. It’s the first time I think I’ve ever been shopping with another female, definitely the first dress I’ve owned. Erin refused to let me see how much it was. I could get used to a BFF like that.

  “You must be Heather.”

  I turn to find the younger King brother, Nolan, approaching me. He hands me a champagne glass. “And you must be Nolan. It’s nice to meet you. You seem more,” I can’t find the right word, “guarded than the others.”

  He adjusts his bow tie. His features aren’t as defined as the twins, but that boyish King charm remains. “I believe the word you’re looking for is ‘quieter’.”

  “I don’t think ‘quiet’ and ‘King’ can exist in the same sentence. Seems like it might open a black hole or something.”

  He laughs, swirling the champagne around in his glass. Oh, to be so effortless with all this pomp. He leans closer. “You don’t need to worry, by the way. You fit right in.”

  “Really?” I reply conspiratorially. “Because I feel really weird standing here half naked.”

  He nods to a girl laughing with a group of students to our left. “If you’re half, god knows what she is.”

  He has a point. The poor girl’s running a slit in her dress so high it’s basically a bed sheet. “Not your type?” I ask.

  Nolan smiles and there it is again—that winning King grin. “I keep a much lower profile on that front than the others.” He looks to the girl again. “She’s a Ferrari, flashy and flamboyant.”