Bad Boys Teaser: A Sizzling Bad Boys Anthology

by Warren, Rie

  No second chances.

  It didn’t hurt any Rafe was like a bronzed athletic god when he had that ball in his hands. He could throw a pass with the narrowest margins, hit the receiver like the pigskin was magnetized. When his entire body coiled, sweat-slicked and hard-muscled all over, he was a perfectly poised statue in that moment before snap and release.

  Absolutely mesmerizing. Completely winning. Utterly Gripping.

  A fantasy.

  When we arrived at the Air Force base, our red and white colors decorated the parking lot, and our nation’s men and women came out in force with their spouses, their partners, parents, and kids. The crowd was amazing, surging forward to meet the team, the cheerleaders, the coaches who made it all happen.

  I watched from afar. No one knew who I was unless they followed the sports news, and I wasn’t the big draw anyway. Rafe was. Time and time again I saw him snatched for a selfie, snagged for an autograph, caught for a few minutes to talk about NFL stats.

  Through it all, he wore the same easy smile, shaking hands, giving hugs. He signed everything pushed under his nose like he hadn’t just put in a grueling, ball-busting, man-killing eighty-hour week of taking shit and training hard.

  He was—simply put—awesome. Of course. And gorgeous. Obvi. Complete eye candy.

  Apparently I wasn’t the only one who thought so.

  A woman in dress uniform slipped him a piece of paper he folded in two and shoved into his pocket. He caught me watching, and our eyes locked together. He frowned before glancing at the woman whose number he’d just scored. The frown deepened, and he spun away from me, moving off into the throng.

  Was that guilt? Embarrassment? Did he even know what he did to me?

  I couldn’t blame the woman for making a move on him. Who wouldn’t want to get off with an NFL quarterback, especially one with Rafe’s looks?

  Not me, I reminded myself.

  Inside the hangar, the atmosphere was just as electric. Our event organizers had outdone themselves. Big balloon arrangements decorated the place. Giant posters of the team and individual players and the cheerleaders hung in every direction. People converged at the tables set up with premium swag for all while Rafe and the other men signed autographs until their Sharpies must’ve dried out.

  Akoni was another big draw for fans. Everyone loved the giant teddy bear, even more so when he strutted onto the stage set up in the middle of the hangar. He’d changed into shorts and stood barefoot and bare chested as beaming lights swung to him, illuminating him in red. And when the crowd quieted, he began his performance.

  With stomping steps and strong movements that made his arms swell, he gathered all attention for the haka. A chill shot down my spine as his booming voice melded the native Polynesian warrior’s words together. His chants grew louder, the motions more and more powerful, raising the atmosphere another notch. And he mesmerized everyone with the intricate black tats standing out on his chest and biceps.

  Marquis, Paul, Brooklyn, Rafe, and a few of the others leaped up to join him when Akoni gestured to them. They performed beside him with the same fierce intensity that made my knees quiver. Clearly the guys had been practicing the haka in private, and they were nothing short of incredible.

  Their last chant rang out into echoing silence then the crowd exploded with shouts. Cheers. Whistles. Round after round of applause.

  I couldn’t stop smiling as they jumped off the stage to be mobbed once again.

  Some time later the cheerleaders bounded up, waving and smiling. In immediate formation, they had the crowd riveted even before the pop song blared from the speakers. They were all amazing, their fast-paced routine intricate, engaging, fun. And every one of the Crush cheerleaders was gorgeous. Somehow they managed to balance wholesomeness with a side of sex appeal that never crossed the line into raunchiness.

  I was impressed. Lord knows I could never dance like that. I was pretty sure my legs would cry mercy if I even tried.

  One by one they hopped down, slinking into the audience to continue a more free-spirited routine. Even the footballers got involved. Rafe was snagged by one of the new cheerleaders—Kelley-Anne. All of twenty-one, she was the full package. Perky. Blonde. Pretty. And pretty damn flexible considering the splits and kicks I’d seen her do.

  Rafe sure didn’t seem to be complaining as she twisted all around him.

  Argh.

  My phone jingled in my pocket, and I answered one-handed. “Yeah.”

  “Gurrrrrl! What’s the what?”

  Philomena. Dr. Phil. A pill. “I’m at that event. Remember?”

  “With Rafe?”

  “With the whole team.” I sighed.

  Meanwhile Rafe was getting full-body rubbed-on by Miss Leggy USA.

  “And Rafe,” Phil said with a noticeable amount of interest in her voice.

  “Don’t know why you keep talking about him.”

  “Because you never talk about him.”

  Somehow Rafe managed to disentangle himself from the cheerleader’s flirty grip, and he started ambling my way. His eyes dark, his lips moist, his suit a little off-kilter.

  And my heart beat a little bit faster in my chest.

  He stopped right in front of me, that slight smirk of his tilting one corner of his delicious looking lips.

  “Can’t talk right now, Phil.” I shut off the phone as soon as she started squawking in my ear.

  “Would you dance with me?” Rafe asked, adjusting his tie.

  “Doubtful.”

  Leaning in closer so his lips hovered near my ear, he slipped a hand around my waist. “Why not?”

  “You’re a player and I’m your boss.” I reeled on impact from his touch—again. But I wasn’t gonna be his game.

  Not this time.

  “The only thing I play at is football. Not women.”

  “Rafe, we can’t do this here. Not in front of everyone.”

  Catching my fingers inside his, he towed me quickly from the hangar. Outside, around a corner, he boxed me against the wall. His chest lifted and fell rapidly, and I knew it wasn’t because of the dancing.

  “Peyton.” His voice was rough, his hands, too, as he slid them up my arms to my shoulders.

  But.

  Player.

  His mouth moved closer, but I turned my head before he could kiss me. “What’d she give you?”

  “Who?”

  “The officer lady earlier.”

  “Her?” He pulled his head back, that frown once again creasing his forehead. “Her son’s at Parris Island. Marines. She asked if I could send him a signed photo.”

  “Yeah. That’s . . .” I blushed, feeling immediately stupid. “You should definitely do that. Of course.”

  “You thought I took her number to get with her?”

  I blinked up at Rafe. “About that. You and Kelley-Anne—”

  “Kelley-Anne?”

  “The bouncy blonde cheerleader.”

  With a warning growl, he lowered his mouth near mine. “Only woman I wanna get with is you. And you fucking know it.”

  And Rafe’s absolute rawness was just what I needed.

  The silent tension multiplied. Frustration and . . . sheer want rolled off him.

  A hot shot of lust poured down my spine. My back arched, and I grabbed his shoulders.

  “Peyton . . .” His lips barely touched mine. “Tell me I can kiss you. Fuck. Please.”

  I felt his entire body tensed against mine. Straining for mine. For more.

  I clung to him, wanting so much to push up against him. “You know there’s a no-fraternization policy with the cheerleaders.”

  “I was making friendly. Like you want me to do with the new blood.” His hand curled around my neck, rough palm, soft touch . . . the way I remembered.

  “Maybe you took my advice too far.”

  “Oh yeah?” Getting up close, crowding me, Rafe took my earlobe between his teeth for a light bite.

  Enough to make me tingle.

 
“And who the hell is Phil?” His ragged timbre brushed the corner of my lips.

  “Phil?” Rearing back, I started giggling.

  Rafe stared at me with narrowed eyes. “Yeah. Phil.”

  Eleven

  Pey Day

  Rafe

  PEYTON LAUGHED LONG AND loud while my scowl deepened.

  The woman had a damn nerve getting on my case about Kerry-whatever when she was flirting on the phone with who-the-fuck-ever this Phil asshole was.

  “Phil?” She sputtered again, swiping at her eyes.

  “Yeah.” Pinning her against the wall, I hit her with a hard glare. “The guy you were giggling with on the phone when I walked up?”

  “Phil is . . . Philomena. Jackass.”

  “Phil’s a woman?” Color me happy.

  She pulled a pic up on her phone and shoved it beneath my nose.

  The black woman was stunning but still no match for Peyton. Especially when she tucked the iPhone away and flashed her gaze at me.

  “Hang on. Isn’t that Coach D’s daughter?”

  “Uh huh.” Peyton nodded.

  “Why didn’t you just say that?”

  “I like to watch you squirm.”

  “That ain’t nice.”

  “Who said I was nice?”

  Growl. “Peyton.”

  “You can back off now.” She pushed at my unmoving shoulders.

  “Not gonna happen. Not even a little.” I smirked, moving even closer with her caged against the wall.

  My hard frame hit her soft curves, and I would’ve given my left nut to feel her against me totally naked.

  “Rafe.” Her voice dropped, her breathing ragged.

  “Peyton.” My grin widened.

  Totally getting to her.

  She cleared her throat, a nervous habit I’d picked up on.

  “Anyway.” She began rubbing little circles on my shoulders and stopped immediately when she realized what she was doing. “She’s my best friend.”

  “She is, huh?” I twirled a strand of Peyton’s loose red hair around my finger, watching as she shivered from the lightest of contact.

  She gulped. “And she’s a lesbian. Well, bisexual. A little. Sometimes.”

  I dropped the tendril of hair. “Wait. So you’re playing for the pink team now?”

  “Ugh.” She leaned her head back against the wall. “You’re jealous?”

  “You’re jealous of that cheerleader!”

  “You’re a flirt,” she hissed.

  “You’re—” Leaning away, I let my gaze caress her from head to toe.

  That blazing hair I couldn’t get out of my head. The silky yellow tank top baring her shoulders, hugging her tits. The tight skirt and all those legs.

  Raising my eyes again, I cupped the back of her neck. “Beautiful.”

  “Rafe,” she breathed out.

  I watched her through heavy-lidded eyes, my lips so close to hers. “Mmm?”

  “You forgot about me,” she whispered.

  “Not for a single goddamn minute. Not ever.” I was two seconds away from kissing the holy hell out of her. “This has been building for weeks.”

  “Don’t you mean years?”

  “Yes.” I dragged her up against me, my lips coasting to her temple. “All those years I want back. With you.”

  “Not gonna happen. Not even a little bit.” But her hips swiveled closer to me, and she moaned.

  “You sure about that?”

  She whimpered . . . once. “I have to go.”

  “No. You don’t.”

  I pulled Peyton to me, and our lips met, opened. Our tongues touched, twined. Immediate hunger and sudden slick greed electrified us.

  Curled around one another, we clung together. Grabbing. Grinding. Gasping.

  Groaning.

  She pulled back, nibbling at my mouth while her hands sought my ass.

  I jerked her to me, coiling around her.

  I loved the way the top of her head only reached my shoulder when I held her against me. How she lifted her face to glide her mouth against mine, her tongue seeking mine.

  How her curves hit me just right.

  How single-minded and stubborn she was.

  “Peyton. Peyton Fox! Time to motor!” Coach D’s disembodied bellow broke us apart.

  She looked at me with startled eyes then wriggled from my arms.

  “Pey, wait!” I grabbed her hand, but she slipped free.

  “Not gonna happen, Rafe.” She started stalking away.

  “Not even a little bit?”

  Spinning around, her red hazy hair whipped across her flushed cheeks. “No chance.”

  But she looked even less convinced by the words than I was.

  * * *

  After the Armed Forces event, Peyton put up an even bigger wall between us. Definitely no one-on-one training with her busting my ass anymore.

  So that sucked, but I wasn’t gonna let it stop me. Especially when she was always there at the training camp, on the field, watching.

  You’re damn right I made sure to put on a show for her. Rushing yards to avoid quarterback sacks. Fifty, sixty, seventy yard passes straight down the chute. Marquis and Brooks kept delivering clean catches with Velcro fingers.

  The team started coming together as a well-oiled machine—the machine that got massacred last season.

  Even Deacon Cross—fresh from retirement—stepped up as defensive tackle, and Calder Malone—fresh from the drug debacle—handled himself as center lineman.

  Peyton wanted a dream team.

  I was prepared to deliver.

  On more than just the field.

  At the beginning of July, we were two short months away from starting the season. I decided it was time to step shit up with the traditional throwing competition.

  Especially when that dickhole Buckley fucking loitered way too damn close to Peyton as she scoured over the playbook with Coach D.

  He was practically drooling on her tits.

  The Young Buck was goin’ down.

  “Gather ’round!” I called out through cupped hands after ripping an ear splintering whistle. “Who’s ready for the tossing competition?”

  “Tosser more like!” Brooks made a slick motion in front of his groin like he was rubbing one out.

  I flipped him the double bird for being a double douchebag. “Come one, come fall. ’Cause I’m gonna wipe the field with your asses.”

  The idea was simple, and you didn’t need to be a brain surgeon to compete.

  Probably a good thing all things considered.

  We stood at the fifty-yard sideline with one turn each to hit the black barrel placed just inside the right corner of the end zone. Whoever made the bucket shot was the winner, and the winner won bragging rights until next week.

  The loser whose toss landed farthest away?

  Well, let’s just say the punishment was creative, to say the least.

  Akoni stepped up first. Last year he’d made one goal and lost twice. The fallout had been worth it.

  “The big kahuna has the football in hand,” Marquis commentated.

  “This big kahuna’s gonna make the play today.” Akoni drew his arm back, squinted his eyes against the glinting sunshine, and let fly.

  The whole team gathered:

  “AK! AK! AK!”

  The ball spiraled as if it had wings before it dropped like a dead pigeon just outside the end zone and several feet short of a bucket goal.

  The big dude had a surprisingly wicked arm.

  “Big kahuna, maybe. But you definitely got a big arm.” I slapped him on the back of his jersey.

  His belly laugh rumbled. “Not so fleet on my feet, though.”

  He jumped up for a chest bump with Paul Bunyan, and their impact might have caused a sonic boom.

  Brooks stepped up to the line next, tossing a ball back and forth between his hands then bouncing the oblong shape between his legs like it was a basketball. We watched his tricky moves—the pigskin rolled fro
m one hand along his arm across his back and to his other palm—until I smacked him upside the head.

  “You tryin’ to be the next David Blaine or somethin’?”

  “He couldn’t even be David Copperfield!” Marquis shouted in his John Madden voice.

  “I got this.” Brooklyn rubbed his fingers over his beard, loosened his shoulder.

  He aimed. Focused. Threw with full force.

  The ball sailed like it was fired by jet fuel, and Brooks impressed me, until the football nosedived like a kamikaze pilot on the ten-yard line.

  “Loser bait.” Wannabe golden boy Buckley shoved Brooklyn out of the way, definitely messing with the wrong man if he wanted to live to see another day.

  Brooks tussled with the young’un, taking him down to the turf with one arm cranked behind his back.

  “You are dead to me, dude.” Bigger and stronger, Brooks pressed hard on the back of Buckley’s head before rising off the ground.

  The bigmouth jumped up—almost unfazed. “Yeah? And I’m dead-pooling this ball,” he bragged, rubbing his hands together.

  Coach D passed him the football.

  Peyton observed it all, her clipboard clasped to her chest.

  She better not be betting on that little shit.

  I was the winner. I had big bragging rights.

  Crossing my arms over my chest, I prepared to take Luke Buckley down.

  Not until he went down in flames himself, ’course.

  He toed up to the line, tossed a grin at Peyton—my girl—then unleashed with all his power.

  I scowled as the ball zoomed through the air, a straight true arrow on mission.

  But then it started wobbling.

  The football barely coasted to the twelve-yard line before it lost all altitude, bouncing way shy of the barrel in the end zone.

  “AIRBALL, fuckwad!” Brooks rejoiced.

  “And Buckley with a shocking miss!” Marquis, the commentator, announced.

  Huh. Maybe the dude couldn’t fire under pressure after all. Interesting.

  Time to step up.

  Brooks rubbed my shoulders until I elbowed him away.

  Buckley glared.

  Peyton watched all with keen interest, her deep brown eyes never wavering from me as she shifted her shades to the top of her head.