I Need A Bad Boy: A Collection of Bad Boy Romances

by Sophie Brooks

  “Sure, may as well get started on securing the proud Steel-Clery lineage. Or should I say Steel-Holler lineage, eh, wifey?”

  I got up from my seat with a glare in Blaine’s direction. “You should say whatever you damn well please, because there’s not going to be any lineage-making here, I can tell you that much.”

  He whistled and took a swig from his glass. “Your daddy’s gonna be ever so disappointed.”

  I repressed a shudder at the reminder of my father and brushed past the two men, intent on getting out of there before I got any more reminders. The one good thing to come out of this disaster of a day was that I would never have to see him or the rest of my family ever again. The worst had already happened, and they’d have no more use for me now that they’d traded me in for better connections.

  I blinked as a thought hit me while I waited in the elevator for Blaine to exchange a few words with his groomsman before he joined me, glass still in hand.

  In an odd sense, I was free now. I would never again have to look over my shoulder out of fear that my family would find me. They already had, and now there was nothing more they could do to me. They had taken the life I had fought so hard for from me, but in doing so, they had given up their power over me as well. I didn’t know much about Blaine, but I did know that his family was the most powerful crime syndicate in London—or else I wouldn’t have been forced to marry him. Which meant that not even my father, the most brutal and ruthless man in Belfast, would have the power to ever touch me.

  For better or worse, I was a Steel now.

  And my family could never hurt me again.

  Blaine made a sound of protest when I grabbed the glass out of his hand and downed the remaining liquor in one swig. Whiskey. It burned my throat, but I relished the fire. When it hit my—empty—stomach, a pleasant wave of euphoria mixed with my already present anger into a weirdly exhilarating combination of… of power. For the first time in a very long time, I felt strong.

  No one was ever going to push me around or make me cower. Yes, the worst had happened, but I was still standing, still alive. And I was free.

  “So you lie to your patients about your name. What kind of a quack are you, anyway?”

  Well, sort of free. I gave Blaine an irritated look. “My name’s Mira Holler, and it will always be Mira Holler.”

  “Well, it’ll be Mira Steel from today,” he said, shrugging as the elevator doors slid open and revealed the penthouse floor of the hotel we were at. I hadn’t had the presence of mind to notice its name on our way here.

  Blaine led the way to the only set of doors on the floor, found the key card in his tux pocket, and let us in.

  I trailed after him, having nowhere else to go, and paused at the look of the suite once the door closed behind me. Everything was glass, gold, and white, with fresh flowers adorning all surfaces. Along the far wall, massive windows displayed a striking view of London and the Thames, the curtain of night interrupted by the multitude of lights from the city.

  Blaine didn’t give the luxurious surroundings so much as a second look. He went straight for the mini bar and filled two glasses with liquor and ice. He held one out to me while taking a long draw from his own glass.

  I walked over to him and snatched the offered glass out of his hand. The burn of whiskey on my tongue was oddly comforting, and I drank deeply. Too deeply, for someone my size who up until today drank maybe once in a blue moon, but I didn’t care much at that point. Getting hideously drunk seemed like a perfectly reasonable response to everything that’d happened.

  “You’re not going to like being married to me.” Blaine leaned back against the bar and looked at me with something akin to a challenge in his stormy eyes.

  I snorted. “No shit.”

  “It’s not too late to get an annulment.”

  A jolt of excitement shot through me. “You’d do that?”

  “Me? Fuck no.” He downed the rest of his drink and poured himself another, eying me over his shoulder as he did. “If that’d been an option I’d have just said no to this whole bloody arrangement to begin with.”

  I stared at him, the anger making itself known again with a heated rush of blood to my cheeks and chest. “You think I would have gone through with this if I’d had a choice? This may come as a shock to you, Mr. Steel, but you’re not exactly Prince Charming. I would quite literally rather marry the homeless guy who reeks of moldy cheese and asks me to suck his cock every time I pass him on my way to work than I would you, but here we are!”

  Blaine snorted, emptying half his glass of whiskey in one swig. “Here we are indeed, Mrs. Steel. Guess you’ll just have to get used to sucking my cock instead, huh?”

  I blinked. Twice. He was obviously as unhappy about this forced marriage as I was, yet he still found the energy to be a grade-A prick.

  “You’re a pig,” I hissed. “Don’t for one second think I’ll put up with any of your crap just because I’m forced to live with you.”

  “You’ll put up with exactly what I say you will.” He was angry too, his eyes flashing darkly at me. “I’m your husband now, whether you like it or not, so you better get used to doing as you’re told.”

  The same urge to slap him as I’d experienced in our disaster of a therapy session made my palms itch, but despite my—partly alcohol-fueled—bravery, I wasn’t dumb enough to test my luck. Instead, I grabbed the bottle of whiskey from the bar next to him and stomped toward the white-and-gold painted door I presumed led to the bedroom.

  “I’m going to bed,” I announced, before I slammed the door behind me with a satisfyingly dramatic bang.

  * * * *

  Chapter 5

  Mira

  To my great relief, someone had filled the bedroom wardrobe with clothing, and upon closer inspection, it turned out that half of it was mine. Perhaps I should have felt violated that someone had gone through my personal belongings without my knowledge or consent to bring it here, but it seemed so insignificant compared to everything else my family had done that I was just grateful I could get out of the uncomfortable wedding dress my mother had picked out and into something soft and familiar.

  When I walked into the en-suite bathroom and caught a look of myself in the mirror, I was suddenly extra glad I had my own clothes available—I looked like a big, poofy nightmare. My mother had decided on puff sleeves, a full skirt that accentuated my already rounder-than-ideal hips, and so many sequins it looked like a fairy had had an acute round of diarrhea all over me.

  But it wasn’t just the dress that composed the horrifying image that stared back at me from the mirror. It was also my face.

  It wasn’t so much the makeup—I never bothered to wear much, if any, so the lack of pizazz wasn’t unusual—as it was the red rims underneath my eyes and the pale, taut look of my skin. I looked like an abuse victim—all that was lacking was a badly covered bruise or two.

  Angrily, I tore off the dress, ripping it in my haste. I wasn’t a victim—not anymore.

  I took a swig of the bottle I’d hijacked from Blaine, and then I went to work.

  There were bottles of tonics and lotions on the shelves next to the sink, and I didn’t hold back. I washed and scrubbed and sprayed and smeared until my skin glowed rosy and the woman who looked back from the mirror was closer to who I’d become in the past eight years rather than who I’d been for the first eighteen of my life.

  When I loosened my hair from the tight braid it had been in all day and ran my fingers through it, some of the tension in my shoulders finally melted away. My chestnut locks fell over my shoulders in unruly waves, encircling my breasts and upper arms.

  I grazed a hand over the white scars on my soft belly as I looked at myself in the mirror. Not that any amount of scrubbing would ever make those go away. The permanent reminder of who I’d been—the unbreakable proof of my inherent weakness. I hated them almost as much as I hated the people who had put them there.

  Fighting a shudder, I pulled the nightie I’d
brought from the closet over my head and slipped on a pair of panties before taking a final slug of the whiskey. Dwelling on that was not what I needed right now. Blaine Steel was a dangerous man—I knew that on a near-instinctive level, but I couldn’t fall back into my old patterns. I had to be strong enough to get through this, just as I’d somehow made it through the night I’d gotten my scars.

  The bedroom was dark when I finally stepped out of the bathroom. I frowned into the shadows, not remembering when I’d turned the lights off, but I was a bit too drunk to give it a second thought.

  Instead, I fumbled my way to the large bed I could vaguely make out in the small bit of light that made its way through the curtains, intent on falling into a deep, dreamless sleep. Tomorrow was a new day, and I was planning on spending it teaching Blaine that he wouldn’t be pushing me around.

  I found my way to the big bed without stubbing my toes on the wooden frame and—with a bit more fumbling—located a nightstand where I dropped off my glasses and the bottle of whiskey, and then climbed in.

  The soft embrace of the mattress and duvets was heaven. I sighed at the feel of cool sheets wrapping around my body, and again as I rolled over to bury myself good and proper in the middle of the luxurious sensation.

  And that’s when my hand hit something hard and warm and decidedly skin-like.

  I’ve never shrieked quite like I did then. The mixed shock of realizing I wasn’t alone in the room—or even the bed—and the unexpectedness at touching someone made me lift at least half a foot off the sheets.

  “What the actual fuck!” I rolled to the bedside table and searched wildly for a lamp until my fingers finally connected with a button and I illuminated the room.

  Blaine—topless Blaine—squinted at me from the other side of the bed. “Fuck, you could deafen dogs with that scream.”

  I stared at him, mouth halfway open, as my addled brain tried to process the situation. Which unfortunately included the full view of Blaine’s ridiculously chiseled, tattoo-covered torso. I couldn’t stop my eyes from following the pattern of swirling lines until he cleared his throat demonstratively, and I realized I’d been ogling him for a good thirty seconds at least.

  “Changed your mind about that shag, then?”

  It was impressive, really. He had a gift for sounding equal parts annoyed and smug, and the result was absolutely infuriating.

  “Get out of my bed!” I was all too aware of the heat in my cheeks, but I did my best to push the embarrassment aside and focus on the indignity of finding him near-naked in bed with me. I pulled the duvet up to cover my chest, but regretted it the next second. Apparently, he wasn’t just near-naked.

  “Jesus Christ!” I clamped my mouth shut, but not before my startled exclamation made it impossible to pretend like I hadn’t seen anything.

  As if it wasn’t bad enough that I was now staring at his cock. No, it was made so much worse—and it was freaking enormous. And semi-erect.

  Blaine stretched out, folding his arms behind his head. He was obviously enjoying my flustered state. “I’m not going anywhere. This is my bed too, if you remember—wifey.”

  “You’re not going to sleep next to me, you creep!” I hissed, doing my best not to look below his navel again. The problem was that restriction either left me with his hard abs and chiseled pecs, or his smirking face. With as much dignity as I could muster I turned around so I could no longer see him at all. “There’s a perfectly good couch in the lounge.”

  “Sorry love, I’m gonna be way too hungover tomorrow to wake up on a couch. You’re just gonna have to deal with it.” He yawned and stretched in what I was certain was the most provocative way possible, making every defined muscle in his body roll. “Turn off the light, will ya?”

  “No! Get out!”

  “Not a chance. But no one’s stopping you from sleeping on the couch, are they?”

  There was just enough challenge in his rumbly voice to make me see red. Perhaps in hindsight, I should have just given in and slept on the damn couch, but his arrogance—and possibly the vast amounts of whiskey—got to me. And it got to me good.

  “You’d like that, wouldn’t you? I’m telling you right now, you’re not going to boss me around in this marriage, you absolute… twat!” I gave him a baleful glare, which I immediately regretted when my eyes caught sight of his absurdly huge cock again. Either I was hindered by my lack of glasses, or the damn thing was even bigger now than it’d been before. My cheeks flushed with heat, and I quickly tore my gaze away and flopped down on my back, arms folded over my chest. “I’m staying here—and you need to leave.”

  “Whatever you say, love.”

  The bed creaked, and for a moment I thought he was actually getting out. My rush of victory proved short-lived. Before I could blink, Blaine rolled over on top of me, only barely keeping off of me by resting on one arm a mere inch above the duvet. The other arm he extended out so he could turn off the lights.

  I got a full view of his strong body as he hovered over me before the lights went out—just long enough for the more carnal parts of my brain to awaken.

  Heat spread from low in my abdomen, racing all the way up through my body and down my thighs until I could feel my pulse throb everywhere he would touch if he lowered himself that small inch to press down on top of me.

  Looking back, my body’s mutinous reaction wasn’t all too surprising. As much as I hated him for who he was, Blaine was so perfectly male and ruthlessly handsome most women would find it hard to breathe with him up close and personal like this—especially when he didn’t have a shred of clothing on. The fact that he was as dangerous as they come seemed to have been erased by my drunken state, and the result was perfectly predictable.

  Unfortunately for me, I wasn’t at all prepared when my abdomen seemed to melt, the liquid proof moistening my panties in a warm rush.

  My first instinct was shocked humiliation that a man I hated could make me soak my panties just by being on top of me. Then, thankfully, came the fury.

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” I slapped my hands up, both palms connecting with his pecs with a satisfying smack. “Get off me!”

  Above me in the darkness, Blaine hissed at the impact. “Don’t ever hit me again.” It was a warning.

  Perhaps if I’d been sober, I would have taken his threat to heart, even through my own fury. Too bad I was anything but.

  “Or what, you’ll beat me bloody? Slit my throat? Exactly how much violence do you need to inflict to feel like a tough guy?” I shoved his shoulders in an attempt to get him off me, but all that accomplished was to make him lose his balance so he fell down on top of the duvet, pinning my body to the mattress with his.

  “I’d never harm a woman—even if she is the most obnoxious little bitch I’ve ever met.” Blaine raised up on both arms this time, and I could sense him hovering above me as close as before. “But if you push me again, you’re going to be sorry.”

  I pushed him. Hard. Because fuck him—and the horse he rode in on. “I’m not afraid of you!”

  He moved above me, quick as a snake, and I scrambled to get out from underneath him. Sadly for me, he was much faster—and stronger—and before I’d gotten more than a leg out from underneath the duvet, he’d pinned both my wrists above my head with one hand. The other he pressed firmly against my chest, just below my throat. Not hard enough to make me struggle to breathe, but certainly so firmly I couldn’t move my upper body.

  “You should be.” His voice was rough, and to my great annoyance, something in its pitch spoke to my core—the part of me that was whispering excitedly about being pinned underneath him. It only angered me all the more.

  I kicked out with my free leg and got it hooked around the back of his hamstrings, digging my heel into the back of his knee as hard as I could muster. “Get off!”

  “Ow!” Blaine flinched and pulled back, which gave me enough momentum to rip my wrists out of his hands and twist around to my stomach in an attempt at
getting out from underneath him.

  “You little tramp!” Just as I clawed my way halfway to the other side of the wide bed, large hands grabbed my shoulders, and Blaine clamped his knees around my thighs tight, stopping me mid-flight. I kicked out again and caught something solid with the flat of my foot.

  Blaine grunted, undoubtedly from pain. “Fine, if you want it like that...” He slid his hands down my sides along my nightie from my shoulders to my hips, pausing only for a second before he grabbed my hips and pulled me up on my knees so my arse was in the air, my face still pressed against the mattress.

  He wouldn’t…! I gasped in scandalized protest as a sense of foreboding set in, but it was too late.

  Blaine let go of my hip with one hand, and in the next moment, he brought his palm down against my upturned backside. But when it connected with my panty-clad flesh, it wasn’t pain that made me gasp out. The light must have made him misjudge his target, and when he spanked me, his hand slapped fully against the puffy lips of my sex rather than my arse.

  He had obviously planned on proving who was boss rather than cause me any pain when he swung, because if it had landed on my fleshy backside, it wouldn’t even have really stung. But, as I realized while I lay there in shocked silence, there’s quite a bit of a difference between your arse and your private parts, and the feel of his hand still seemed to vibrate through my now molten flesh. Every inch of my skin down there was alive with sensation, and I could feel my clit throbbing hard between my lower lips.

  I’d never been so turned on in my entire life.

  “You’re dripping wet.” The hoarse note was back in his voice, even more pronounced now.

  Oh fuck. Of course he would have noticed that.

  Only my still-present anger kept complete mortification at bay.

  Angrily, I pulled free from his grasp and turned around so I could glare in his direction.

  “I am not! I swear to God, don’t even think about touching me again!”

  “Or what? You’ll beg me to fuck you?” Whatever anger had been in Blaine’s voice before, it was gone now—overtaken by that smug self-assuredness I’d come to loathe already, along with something else. Something quite a bit more appealing, if my ovaries were to be believed. It made the heat from my sex spread up through my stomach and underneath my skin.