Kicked: A Bad Boy Sports Romance

by C. M. Stunich

  We sit in silence while she finishes her food and then stands up, plate in hand.

  “I could use a glass of water,” she says and I nod, rising to my feet and following her out to the kitchen. The dogs have dotted the floor with muddy paw prints, raising their heads from their bed in the corner to stare at us. When it's obvious nothing interesting is happening, they relax, flopping back down with a sigh.

  Lyric puts her plate on the counter and I lay mine on top, grabbing a glass and filling it with ice from the fridge. While I wait for the cup to fill up, I watch her as she slides the back door open and takes a deep breath of the cool, salty air, shivering a little as it washes in and mixes with the warmer air of the dining room.

  “Here,” I say, setting her glass on the table and grabbing my jacket off the back of the dining chair. I help her slip her small arms into the leather, smiling as it engulfs her tiny frame. “Perfect fit,” I say as I hand her the water and she takes a sip, slipping out the backdoor and sitting down on the wood swing, her feet barely touching the wood of the deck.

  “Don't you just love the air here?” she asks, lifting her head up to look at the thin sliver of moon in the sky. I keep my gaze on Lyric, the cold air teasing my bare body as I step outside and move over to sit next to her.

  “No place else like it on earth,” I say as she turns to look at me, our eyes meeting as I reach out and slide a stray strand of hair behind her ear. “Well, I've only lived here and in London, so I suppose I don't have a lot of room to talk.”

  Lyric smiles.

  “Well, you've got me beat. I've only ever lived here.”

  I open my mouth to say something ridiculous like maybe one day I'll show you the world, but then I catch myself and run my hand over my face. I'm getting caught up in some strange masculine urge to make this girl my own, and it's freaking me the bloody fuck out.

  “What time is it?” Lyric asks finally as I sit back and slide my arm around her shoulders.

  “Eager for the night to end?” I joke.

  “Not exactly.”

  We exchange another look, one that says we both know it's going to eventually. Shouldn't be a big deal, right? I've had plenty of nights with beautiful girls that I was sad to see end, but end they did and we said our good-byes, no harm done. Why the hell should this be any different?

  But then I look at Lyric, swimming in my jacket, her dark hair framing her pale face and I know in some small way, it is. If she were any other random girl, I'd probably ask her out a few more times, see if this feeling I'm having is a fluke, just some side effect from having mind blowing sex with a girl that I actually find interesting.

  I turn towards her then, leaning forward, my mouth hovering over hers. I really should shut this shit down before I get myself into trouble. Mayor's daughter. What a load of rubbish.

  I start to pull away, but she catches me again with those big green eyes and those sexy curved lips of hers. Ah, bugger it. I wrap my finger's in Lyric's hair and kiss with reckless abandon, like I'm a man with nothing to lose, no responsibilities, no ties. Even though that's a lie, it feels fucking fantastic, especially when she leans into me, making small sounds in the back of her throat. God yes. I could live for this shit.

  After a few moments, she comes up for air, scooting away from me and standing up, the black cotton fabric of my shirt just barely covering those bride-gone-bad white lacy panties of hers. I sit back and watch as she lifts the hem up and grabs hold of her underwear, sliding them down and dropping them to the wood of the deck.

  “Do you like what you see, Royal?” she asks, mimicking me. There's a slight hesitation there, like maybe some random bloke at some point made a comment he shouldn't have. If I ever found out it was that blond douche FBI agent, I'd hunt him down myself and make quick work of him.

  “Are you taking the piss?” I ask, eyeing her up and down, my cock hard enough that it hurts. Lyric gives me a weird look and I grin. “I'm asking if you're joking, you daft Yank.”

  “Screw you,” she says, but she's watching me watching her, cheeks flushed with desire, pupils dilated. When she takes a step towards me, I stand up, too, dropping my drawers to the deck and smiling as she sweeps my body with her gaze.

  “Like what you see, Pint-Size?”

  “You must be taking the piss,” she mimics and I laugh, reaching out and grabbing her around the waist, pulling her against me as the shirt rides up, exposing her bare ass to the evening air. We stare at each other for a moment longer and then I step away, sitting back down on the wood swing and dragging her onto my lap so that she's straddling my thighs.

  “You look so fucking hot in my jacket, babe,” I say, reaching in and pulling out a condom from the front pocket. Always be prepared, that's my motto.

  “I bet you say that to all the girls,” she whispers, but not like she's jealous, just stating a fact. I think about that for a moment and then shake my head, shrugging my shoulders.

  “No,” I tell her honestly, “I really don't.” Because I don't really just shrug my cut onto the shoulders of any random girl. Goddamn it. Dober was completely and utterly correct; I am a fucking dumb shit.

  I ignore that train of thought because tonight, this is all we get. Her world, my world—oil and water. I tear open the wrapper and enjoy knowing that Lyric has a front row seat right now, watching intently as I roll the latex down my shaft with a groan. I really am hard enough that it hurts, like there's an ache in my body that'll kill me if I don't quench its thirst.

  Settling my hands at her hips, I help her lift up on her knees and position herself against my cock, our eyes locked as she slides down the length of me, pressing our bodies together with a small gasp of pleasure.

  “Ride me, Lyric,” I say as she settles her hands on my shoulders, nails biting into my skin as she squeezes tight, moving her hips in a slow rhythm that gently rocks the porch swing. I keep my hands tight on either side of her waist, groaning as her pussy strokes my cock, drawing pleasure out of me in waves. With the sound of the ocean and the sliver of moon in the night sky as our backdrop, I think this is the most romantic thing I've ever done, and I don't fucking do romance.

  “Lyric,” I moan her name again as she closes her eyes, a bead of sweat trailing down the side of her face. When I lean forward and lick it off in a single stroke, she cries out, dropping her right hand down to her clit and rubbing the swollen flesh with her fingers. Lyric's muscles tighten around me like steel bands, squeezing me tight and refusing to let go, pausing her movements with just the head of my cock inside of her. She freezes there, panting as she tries to catch her breath. I keep hold of her waist and ease her back down, drawing a pleasured cry from her throat as I grit my teeth and feel my own body fighting for release.

  I don't feel like my usual self right now, like someone who knows what he's doing, who decides when and where and how the sex goes down. I just feel like a man trying to get closer to his woman, trying to hold her, to make her feel good, to possess her.

  I slide my hands forward and up Lyric's smooth belly to her full breasts, grabbing them in rough fingers as I try to get a hold myself, to bring the usual Royal back to the forefront of my mind. But then she cries out, a little more pained than pleasured and I fucking snap, wrapping my arms around her waist and yanking her as tightly as I can against my chest.

  When we come, her hips bucking and thrashing against my cock, we come together.

  A couple hours later, I'm standing on my front porch watching the sun come up, a cigarette clutched in one hand and a girl in my bed. I don't usually bring them over here. There's no need, really. I can have as many club whores as I want back at the compound.

  But they never make me feel like this—like a confused, moody asshole.

  I watch the ocean for a while, waving at my eighty-seven year old neighbor with a single extended finger when he makes the sign of the cross at me. When I first moved in, the old bastard tried to start a petition to remove all convicted felons from the neighborhood. Joke was
on him when I did a background check on myself and dumped the paperwork on his front lawn.

  I've never been convicted of shit.

  I take a drag on my smoke and pause, hearing the bike before I see it. By the time Dober pulls up in front of my house on his silver and black bobber, I'm stabbing it into the ashtray next to the wooden swing, a perfect match to the one on the back porch.

  “What the hell do you want this early in the goddamn morning?” I ask, raising my brows and getting another cig from my pack. I like to smoke when I think. I have a lot of fucking thinking to do this morning.

  “I was on my way in when Janae called,” Dober says, climbing off his bike and slipping his helmet off. One glance at my bagger and I can tell he knows I have a guest. “She wanted me stop by and wake your lazy ass up, remind you that you have a meeting with the mayor's daughter this morning.” I freeze, my smoke halfway to my lips, lighter still clutched in my hand. “But I can see that won't be necessary because the boss is a goddamn dumb shit.”

  “Watch yourself, Dober,” I say, gritting my teeth a little. “We all know how you got your name off some snippy ass little black and tan dog, but there's no need to reinforce the notion.” Dober ignores me and strokes his hand down his beard in thought.

  “You fucked the mayor's daughter.”

  “Indeed, I did.” I smoke my cigarette in silence for a few moments.

  “Do you need a speech from your VP? Something about putting the club first and all that?” I squeeze my smoke in tight fingers.

  “I always put the club first,” I say, my voice cold and empty of emotion. Landon. I put the club above my best friend, above the boy who'd made me feel at home in a foreign country, the one who'd taken me on my first ride, who'd dragged me to the Alpha Wolves Compound and somehow got me tangled up in becoming a hang-around. We'd prospected together, patched in together.

  “Then how about something uplifting?”

  “I'm listening,” I say, glancing at Dober in his cut, a hammer hanging at his side and a slight smile working its way onto his lips. This is not a man who smiles often, believe me.

  “Glacier dug up some shit on that Brent guy and found out he's on paid leave with the FBI, pending some sort of internal investigation.”

  My mouth twitches.

  “Now that is bloody good news,” I say, glancing over my shoulder as the cracked front door swings open and the dogs pad out, their nails loud on the wood of the porch. My heart did a little jump there when I thought it might be Lyric. Fuck me sideways. “What else do we know?”

  “We know that this guy, Brent, is good friends with an old buddy of ours.”

  “That so?” I ask, perking up at the news. Whatever this shit is with Lyric, I can't figure it out right now. But club business? I'm damn good at club business. “And who might that be?”

  “You remember Clayton Moore?”

  My stomach tightens at the mention of the president of the Mile Wide Motorcycle Club. If that bitch was listed in the dictionary, he'd be there under greedy motherfucker. I've never known a man to go so far or fight so hard for so little.

  “So Brent's in bed with Mile Wide, huh? Didn't see that one coming.”

  “Glacier's got more he says, but he wants us to come in and hear it straight.” Dober raises his bushy brows at me.

  “Why the fuck didn't he call me directly and tell me any of this shit?” I ask on an exhale as I watch the dogs play bow at one another, tails wagging so fast they're nothing but blurs.

  “He did,” Dober says, getting out a cig of his own and lighting up. “But some girl answered in a sleepy voice and asked if he wanted her to wake you up. He figured you must be pretty busy if you'd let some chick touch your cell.”

  My mouth curves up in a smile before I can stop it. Dober notices and gives me another look. Like I need that shit from him. I know better than anyone that Lyric's off the menu, that she should've never been on the menu in the first place. The last thing the club needs right now is some overprotective father waging a political war against the Wolves. We've got an FBI man in bed with a rival MC and internal problems that almost make me miss my days of running drugs for the previous pres.

  But shit, she had the bollocks to pick up my cell phone and talk to Glacier? Not many girls around who'd be brave enough to even touch the damn thing.

  “Time to get dressed and haul ass to the clubhouse then,” I say, my voice tinged with regret. Dober, noble bastard that he is, at least has the good grace to pretend not to notice. Lucky him. If he'd said one word, one damn word, things might've gotten ugly.

  I snub my cig in the ashtray and whistle for the dogs, holding open the door as they rush inside.

  “Meet you there in twenty?” I ask and Dober nods, dropping his cig to the cement.

  I leave him out there and close the front door behind me, moving down the hallway in my bare feet and pausing at my bedroom door. Lyric's still asleep, dark hair tousled and sexy, her breathing deep and even. I want nothing more than to wake her up and fuck her until she screams, coming in my arms like she did last night. Over and over and over again. Think even I might've broken one of my own records last night for most orgasms in a single evening.

  “Shit.”

  And this is the first and last time I'll ever have her in my bed.

  The thought pisses me off and I know for my own sanity I have to get the hell out of there.

  I toss on my riding clothes, write a quick note and leave the keys to my truck on the counter.

  Next time I see Lyric, it'll all be business and no pleasure.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Lyric

  Royal's gone by the time I wake up, eyelids fluttering open as I stretch my arms above my head and yawn. My entire body is sore, but in the best possible ways, each movement a memory, a feeling, a sensation that travels straight down from my head to my toes.

  I'm smiling, too, like a cat who got the cream, happy and extremely satisfied. It makes me wonder for a moment why I was so hesitant to agree to this. It's probably one of the best decisions I've ever made. And one of the most temporary.

  A frown creases my lips as I sit up.

  Business.

  That's what I need to focus on now. Last night was what I gave myself, and now it's over. I glance over at Royal's bedside table and have to blink three times to register what it says on the clock.

  Twelve thirty?!

  Holy crap. I haven't slept in past ten since I was a teenager. Even on the weekends I get up early and try to be productive. I missed our meeting! I fling my feet out of bed and pad down the hallway.

  “Royal!” I call, getting an enthusiastic greeting from Lake and Alloy when I come into the living room. But their master, looks like he's long gone. “And he didn't even bother to wake me up,” I grumble as I look around and spot the note on the dining table.

  Thanks for last night, Pint-Size. You were beyond brilliant. Truck's in the garage. Take it and I'll pick it up later.

  Royal.

  P.S. I like your tits. Cheers.

  I shouldn't smile at the note, but I do anyway, leaving it and the keys on the table while I go in search of my clothes. My usual self would be freaking out about missing an appointment—even one with a guy I just spent all night fucking—but I'm having a really hard time letting my anxiety get the better of me today.

  “I'll just head over to the compound, get Royal to sign the papers and then head home to change.” The dogs follow me around as I gather my panties from the back deck (embarrassing!), my shirt, jacket and bra from the living room and the rest of my clothes from Royal's bedroom. Their ears are perked up, eyes focused on my face while I talk to myself. “If I come into the office with the agreement signed, Mr. Rentz won't even think about the fact that I've been missing all morning.”

  I change as quickly as I can and head into Royal's garage, giving each of the dogs a kiss on the nose before I close the door to the house behind me, get in the truck and head over to talk shop with a man I can
never have.

  “What do you mean he's busy?” I ask Janae in my calmest, most professional voice. It's not her fault that Royal left me alone at his house to sleep in, probably purposely avoiding our scheduled meeting time. Her pale brown eyes take in my clothes with a raised black brow and her thin lips curve into a small smile, like she knows something that I don't.

  “Club business,” she says with a shrug, her red lipstick and sugary sweet voice making her smile that much more frustrating to look at. “I don't often ask. Sometimes it's better not to know, even if they would tell you about it.” Janae shrugs as I steal a quick glance at her wedding ring. I can only guess she's married to someone in the club. I wonder what that's like?

  No. No. No, I don't.

  “Can I wait here for him to not be busy then?” I ask and Janae shrugs her tiny shoulders. I think she's even shorter and smaller than I am. It's not often I run into someone like that.

  “Sure. I can put a note on his schedule if you want, maybe try his cell again?”

  “That'd be great,” I say, putting my hands on my hips, not nearly as comfortable in my leather outfit in the bright light of day as I was last night. “Is it okay if I walk around? Maybe I'll run into him?”

  “Of course,” Janae says. “I'll call you over the loud speaker if I hear back from him. All of the public areas are marked. There's even a small park around the corner from the auto shop for customers waiting on their vehicle. There's plenty of signage outside to help you find it if you want to take a look.” I nod and leave the office with a murmured thanks. Stupid Royal, and his stupid club with their perfect books and their paid taxes and their park.

  I should be surprised that a bunch of burly dudes in leather with motorcycle fetishes have their own park, but I'm not, not really. I'm sure they use all of this as a facade for whatever illegal activity that it is they're involved in. I mean, come on. They have an auto body and service shop, a motorcycle repair business, and a showroom full of gleaming bikes, all located on the same piece of property as their clubhouse. They fix minivans for soccer mom and sports cars for trophy wives, and then turn around and sell their husbands ridiculously expensive motorcycles that they barely know how to drive. It's all legit and perfect and clean and welcoming.