Dirty Brawler: A Bad Boy Sports Romance (with bonus novel!)

by Teagan Kade

  The mechanics look at each other nervously. Calling them to this meeting without the drivers present was a risk, but it needs to be done. Klaus looks around at the dark garage. “A bit Tinker Tailor, don’t you think, Steven?”

  “This matter needs some discretion,” I start, smiling, letting them know I’m one of them. I start to pace, hands behind my back. “One thing we can’t have in this team, gentlemen, is insubordination. We’ve been here before. I’m sure you know what I’m talking about.”

  “Andy?” fills in one of the junior techs.

  Did I fucking ask your opinion, cocksucker? I force a smile in his direction. “Yes, Andy.”

  “What do you want us to do, Steven? Cut his fuel lines?” adds Klaus.

  Yes.

  “No,” I laugh, “but something needs to be done. Am I making myself clear?”

  The mechanics look at each other oddly. I’m losing them. “Look, we all have to make hard decisions here for the benefit of the team. Do we agree on that?”

  Make them say yes, to anything. That’s the first step.

  They nod, murmur in agreement.

  “Rest assured whatever happens I personally will bear the responsibility,” I continue. I won’t allow any harm to fall upon your shoulders, but there will be rewards for those that bring this team back into line.”

  “Steven,” starts Klaus, cautious.

  I cut him off. “Think about it. That’s all I’m asking.”

  Andy

  It’s balmy out the back of the pits, the Singapore Big Flyer slowing rotating, floodlights turning night into day.

  I lean against the transporter. “Fucking spit it out, Klaus. What happened?”

  He steps closer. “There was a meeting, with all the mechanics working on your cars.”

  “My cars?”

  “Yes.”

  “Not Carl’s?”

  “No.”

  I can’t hide my frustration. “What the fuck about?”

  Klaus looks behind his back again, lowers his voice so I have to crane to hear it. “Steven was very clear. You are not to win the championship. He wants us to do whatever we can to stop you without being obvious.”

  That motherfucker. “Those were his exact words?”

  “In a manner of speaking. My English isn’t perfect, but I, how do you say it, got the gist.”

  My anger gets the better of me. I grab Klaus. “His exact words, yes or fucking no?”

  He slaps my hands away. “I’m trying to help you here, Andy, because you are the best and I do not think this is right, it’s not racing.”

  I turn around, look to the lit circuit so quiet before the storm of cars to come. “You’re damn fucking right about that. And what happened? Are the others going to do what he asks, sink to his level?”

  I can see the worry on Klaus’s face. “Jan and Niklas, no, but Tom and Jannik? Maybe. It would be easy.”

  I pick up a discarded bottle and heave it in the direction of the garage. Something else breaks inside. “Fuck!”

  “Andy,” says Klaus, “I’ll keep an eye out, but you should know there’s a target on your back now”.

  He’s right. He could have kept his mouth shut. He’s going out on a limb here.

  I take his hand, shake, one hand on his shoulder. “You’re right. Thank you.”

  “Just win, okay?”

  I nod. “You fucking bet.”

  *

  Singapore is the only night race on the calendar. It’s physical, like most street tracks, but tearing around the city, the bright lights of the financial district in the background, gives it a unique, cosmopolitan atmosphere.

  I qualify in pole, Carl making do with third. Throughout the whole race I’m waiting for something to go wrong—a tire to go sailing, the car to split in half, but it remains in one piece. I play to my strengths, impressed by the visibility offered, not making a single mistake.

  The same cannot be said for Carl. He overcooks a corner and spins off, failing to finish and delivering him a big fat zero points.

  Everything is falling into place. I meet Sara at the after-party held in pit lane itself, street vendors bussed in serving everything from chicken rice to bak kwa.

  I can’t keep my hands off her, but we keep to the shadows.

  Sara’s shoveling down kaya toast by the pit wall, looking to the lights of the city.

  “Most people have that for breakfast, you do realize.”

  She takes another bite, the coconut custard sweet and fragrant. “Honestly, all these time zones, I don’t care anymore. It’s damn delicious and I’ll eat it whenever I want.”

  I brush her hair back, place my lips against her ear. “Can I eat you whenever I want?”

  She slaps me on the shoulder. “You are shameless. Like you’re not getting enough already.”

  “I could never get enough of you.”

  “Andy.”

  Luca, the PR kid, is running up to me with a clipboard. “Did you forget about the hot laps?”

  “Shit.” I’m supposed to be running VIPs around the circuit in the Goodall tandem car, give them a little taste of what being in an F1 car is like, give them a little adrenaline rush. It’s tedious, but any excuse to hit an open circuit is fine by me. “When’s it supposed to start?”

  Luca looks nervous. “Five minutes.”

  “Better warm up my race suit then.”

  I take hold of Sara. “Meet me at the grid in half an hour.”

  I take off with Luca.

  “Andy?” she calls, confused.

  “Just be there.”

  *

  We only run the tandem car at two circuits, at Monza for our European friends and Singapore for our Asian sponsors and corporate high flyers. It’s always the same response as they step out of the car behind me, usually shaking. “That was fast!” they say, while I laugh inside. That was only half throttle.

  My last victim is walking duck-legged back to the pits when Luca walks Sara over in a fresh race suit, helmet tucked under her arm.

  “He forced me,” she says.

  Luca shrugs. “Actually, Andy said if I didn’t get you over here I’d be out of a job, so…”

  “Did he?” she smiles. “I guess there’s nothing for me to do but to hop into this death machine.”

  I motion to the rear seat. “Hop right in, partner.”

  Luca helps her pull her helmet on and she collapses into the narrow confines of the cockpit.

  I speak into the headset. “Can you hear me?”

  “Yes, asshole,” she replies, loud and clear.

  “You ready?”

  “For what?” she laughs.

  I smash the throttle to the floor. “For this.”

  She’s so terrified she can’t even scream.

  I don’t hold back. I come into Turn One sideways, keeping on the gas and hooking us inches from the wall.

  She finds her voice, a constant string of expletives unleashed into my ear that barely make any sense, all ‘fihts!’ and ‘motherfuckhole!’. If only she could see the grin I’m wearing under this helmet coming into Stamford Road.

  I keep her pinned in her seat, driving as fast as this rust bucket will allow.

  By the time I pull up all I can hear is her erratic breathing.

  I help her out, unable to hold off the laughter any longer. Poor thing can barely stand.

  I take her helmet off, her hair matted to her face. “So,” I query, “did you come?”

  *

  We’ve got the entire fiftieth floor to ourselves, the entire penthouse at the Marina Bay Sands to cover before sunrise.

  I take in Sara’s prone and flushed form on the dining table. My finger runs down the side of her neck into the valley of her cleavage, only the city lights and those from the infinity pool below for illumination.

  I lift up the swell of a breast, sweep around the nipple in soft circles. Another finger joins the first to pinch and flick it. It grows and fills, standing as pink and erect as the cock tapping
against my chest.

  “How do you want me to take you tonight?” I ask.

  “Like I said, however you want,” she replies, words rushed.

  I move my fingers to the other nipple, drawing it into a similarly stiff pillar.

  “Close your eyes,” I command, moving to the bedroom and returning with a small vial. I remove the cork and apply the substance to my hands, rubbing the liquid into her body, a fragrance of sandalwood and rosewater lingering.

  “What is it?” she asks, eyes shut.

  “A local balm.”

  I dab the oil over her nipples, apply it to the crook of her neck and behind her ears—everywhere but the hot space between her legs. No, I leave that to last.

  When my fingers finally work their way down her thighs, she stiffens, sucking air in through her teeth.

  I take two hands and spread her thighs wide, applying the oil directly to her clit. I rub in a circular motion, the heat from my fingers running into her skin and spreading out through her entire body until I sense the orgasm building in her core.

  “Andy, god…” she mews.

  I play with the smooth folds of her labia, run my fingers up and down her lips, letting them slip through my fingers like a roll of silk. “Your pussy is exquisite,” I tell her.

  She jars at the word, bucks against my hand as I rub a little firmer.

  I come up to the side of the table and lean over it, kissing her hard, kissing her like this is our very last day alive.

  I tilt her head sideways and place the crimson head of my cock against her lips. She opens her mouth, allows me to run the slick body of my cock inside, lets it slide back and forth across the porous surface of her tongue.

  Once I would have kept going, cared only about my own orgasm, but it’s different with Sara. The thought of getting her off is so much more appealing.

  I climb onto the table, straddling her breastbone before slowly dropping down her body. I can almost feel her wet sex tingling with expectation, her hands reaching out to grip the sides of the table.

  Lying between her thighs, I press my tongue against her wet flesh. I open her with my thumbs, bury my tongue deep into her hole. All I want is to feel her come, slip away from reality if only for a moment by my hand, by my lips.

  I whisper into the hot juncture that splits her pussy, my tongue flicking and curling and constantly working against her folds until her entire body is begging for my cock, jerking and twisting, trying to find relief any way it can.

  My thumbs drop. I separate her ass cheeks and brush the tip of my tongue against her taint. I press against it lightly, testing its resistance before drawing my tongue back up and spearing it deep into her pussy.

  Her head snaps up off the table, a hissing exhale leaving her lips. “I want you inside me,” she pleads. “Please.”

  I replace my mouth with fingers. They steal into her folds, her thighs slippery now with perspiration and slick arousal. My own breathing is labored, the reward so close.

  I screw my thumb to the bottom of her depths, the pad of another working against her clit.

  Her excitement builds, a physical, viscous thing around my digits as they jam together inside her. My fingers move quicker, pressed together and shoveling into her with speed as I nibble on the inside of her thigh.

  “Please!” she screams, lifting and bowed.

  It’s enough.

  I let my fingers slide away and crouch, flipping her over and bringing her to her knees. I take hold of her hips, holding her into position.

  “Please!” she begs again, head hanging loose, her shoulder blades drawn together as bony peaks.

  Okay.

  I take hold of her hips and ram forward, driving almost my entire member balls deep into her soaking pussy. She groans, long and loud, as I draw back and thrust forward again, penetrating her as powerfully as I can, using the full measure of my cock to drive over and over into her sopping hole.

  Her breasts swing back and forth under the assault. I can smell our union, the earthy scent of her split body.

  I place a hand against her lower back and press down, her sex stretching around my cock.

  Soon she speaks only in short rasps against the slap, slap, slap of our bodies meeting, my fingers digging into her ass as I try to run deeper, giving her all I have.

  We build together. I reach forward and bunch her hair together, drawing it into a ponytail and pulling back until her head rises up between my shoulders, her open eyes staring back at me from the mirror on the wall. She looks so small dwarfed by my cut body, my toned physique carved out from the spectral lights of the city and the thin layer of perspiration that coats it.

  I use the makeshift ponytail as leverage to pound faster into her pussy, her own hips shifting to fuck back against me, the sensitive nerve-endings buried deep in her coming to life.

  My fingers twitch, balls tight. I won’t be able to hold off much longer. I feel it everywhere, the pleasure building and coiling at my core.

  “God,” I stammer between thrusts, losing it.

  “Fuck me,” she replies.

  I grow into a frenzy at her words, spearing into her pussy, filling one hand with a rounded ass cheek and holding her hair with the other. The sensation builds, a patchy bloom spreading across her back.

  “P-please,” she stammers, close to tears, “please”.

  I can’t hold off any longer, my cock a blur between us. “I’m going to—”

  She puts a hand up. It quivers in the air, evangelical, before slamming down into the tabletop as she comes, flailing and flapping around, her pussy squeezing and releasing my cock in rapid fire.

  I cry out and drive forward until my balls are mashed against the bare lips of her pussy. I pull tight, unable to breathe, before I crest into oblivion and release.

  Her sex spasms in return, teasing out everything I have.

  We collapse as one, rolling onto our sides, fighting for oxygen.

  As I climb off her, Sara lies there in mild shock trying to recover her breath, a heat and glow spread over her skin. My cock is still bent and streaked with cum, my spent balls burning with the embers of my orgasm. All I can smell is sex, her. It’s beautiful.

  We move to the plunge pool next. Poor bed doesn’t even get a look.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN: MALAYSIA

  Sara

  Word spreads quickly. We haven’t even been in Malaysia a day before it comes to a head. Steven went off at the mechanics over Carl’s accident last race, threatening their jobs next season if they couldn’t pull things together. Half of pit lane heard him at it.

  I thought it might be thrown out of proportion at first, given Andy and I were locked away in my hotel room working our way through the Kama Sutra, but after speaking to some of the mechanics it seems it was played down. Steven’s on the war path. It’s no longer a secret. He wants Carl to win at all costs.

  I’m fresh out of the shower, the vee between my legs still tender from the attention it’s been receiving over the last twenty-four hours. Andy Fortes—best jetlag cure ever. If only I could bottle him, I’d make millions.

  Even high up here at Kuala Lumpur’s Mandarin Oriental it’s humid. There’s no breeze, only the sound of the city, the tolling of temple bells. The Petronas Towers dominate the skyline. There’s a certain mysticism and spirituality I’ve been drawn to when it comes to Asia. There are people from school back home who still haven’t been out of the States, whose idea of ‘seeing the world’ is ordering sesame chicken. It’s sad, really. There’s so much to be seen and experienced.

  If you ever get out of the hotel room.

  The door opens and Andy wheels a breakfast cart in. He’s wearing a matching robe. “I’ve got everything here—from chocolate croissants to nasi lemak.”

  “You walked down to the dining room in your robe?”

  He shrugs. “Thought wearing my birthday suit would have caused too much commotion. Couldn’t have the female staff fainting at the sight of my monster package.”
/>   “It is a generous serving,” I jibe.

  He comes over and places his arms around me. His cock’s hard against the underside of my butt. “But you take it so well.”

  I turn and push him away, playing with the belt of my robe, swinging it around like a cowboy’s lasso.

  He falls back onto the bed, his robe opening enough for his cock to poke out like a police baton. He looks down. “See what you’ve done? How am I supposed to eat with this thing in the way?”

  I crouch down and separate his knees, blowing lightly on the tip. “Hmm, guess you’ll have to go without.”

  *

  We lie in bed surrounded by plates and crumbs. Andy exhales. “I don’t think it gets any better than this.”

  I crawl on top of him, rubbing myself against his manhood. “You heard about the drama down at the track?”

  “I heard Steven gave the mechanics a mouthful.”

  “He did. He’s dangerous, Andy.”

  “You don’t think I know that?”

  “Be careful. That’s all I’m saying.”

  Impossibly, he’s growing hard again. I reach down and roll my hand around the bulbous knob of his cock.

  He sighs, head collapsing back into the pillow. “It’s not my problem. He wants to shout at the mechanics? Fine. At least he’s not shouting at me for once.”

  “He’s up to something, Andy.”

  “Of course he’s up to something.”

  “You’ll keep your eyes open? Pay attention?”

  He grabs me by the hips and rolls us over. “I always do.”

  *

  Andy leaves for the track. I’m throwing on clothes when my phone rings.

  It’s New York.

  I pick up.

  “Olivia? Everything okay?”

  Her voice is light, far too jovial. “Fine, fine. I’m only checking in.”