Throttle: A Bad Boy Sports Romance

by Teagan Kade

  I take a sip. Shit’s tasting better and better. “It’s called ‘figging’.”

  She throws her hands up, almost knocking her tea over in the process. “Forgive me, oh knowledgeable Zen master. One good lay and you’re a sex expert, huh?”

  “Haven’t you read—”

  She cuts me off. “Enough, you hussy. Let’s start with the main attraction. Did Big Ben live up to your expectations?”

  “He did.”

  I’m loving dragging this out. Poor Zoe looks like she’s going to implode. “And?”

  “It was everything I imagined it would be and more. “He was,” but it’s hard to put it into words, “considerate.”

  Zoe scratches her neck. “Considerate, was he, pinning you to the wall with the world’s most famous cock?”

  “Window, actually.”

  “Forgive me. And… did you? You know.”

  “Come?”

  She’s getting pissed and it’s fucking hilarious. “Yes.” She spells it out. “Did. You. Come?”

  “I did, quite a few times.”

  “My god. How many times have you done it?”

  I hold up a hand. “Not that I’m counting.”

  Zoe rolls her eyes. “Next you’ll be doing the Jack Bauer.”

  “The what?”

  “You know, twenty-four times in twenty-four hours. Haven’t you ever read that sex games book Reddit loves so much?”

  “I can’t say I’m ready to pull out the whips and chocolate sauce just yet.”

  “You’d better be, girlfriend, because word on the street is this royal hunk of yours likes it kinky with a capital K. I’m talking ‘Get the fuck out, Fifty Shades’ kinky.

  Of course, I’ve read about Spencer’s fetishes, the BDSM clubs, the threesomes. I’m the last person to take what I read online for fact, but oddly I am curious. I do trust him. If he wants to move away from vanilla into something a little more exotic, who am I to stop him? I’m new to this, but I’m open. Hell, I might even enjoy it.

  My phone buzzes in my handbag, I pull it out and smile at the screen.

  Zoe reaches for it, but I yank it back protectively.

  “That’s him,” she accuses, “isn’t it? A booty call?”

  “He wants me to meet him at the Palace.”

  “Hedford Palace?”

  “Yup.”

  “Look at you moving up in the world.”

  “I doubt he’s looking to get laid there.”

  Zoe laughs. “You’ve got to learn, and learn fast, dear Grace. If the feeling’s mutual I’m quite sure he’ll take any opportunity to roll you in the hay.”

  I collect my things, excited by the thought of seeing Spencer again, even if he is clothed this time.

  Zoe almost seems sad. “Guess you’ll be going then.”

  “Sorry, I know I said we would spend the afternoon together. Will you be all right?”

  She smiles, unsubtly eyeing a business type in the corner. “I might be jealous, but I am happy for you, Grace. Just promise me you’ll be careful. I’d hate to see another Johnathan re-run.”

  I wink. “I’ll be fine. A flamboyant British royal, a bossy American journalist—what could possibly go wrong?”

  *

  I was wrong. Even Marcus was grinning as he led me to the Spencer’s chambers at the far end of the Palace. I couldn’t even look him in the eyes. What followed was, I imagine, a long way from Palace etiquette.

  I run my hand over Spencer’s chest, the distinct segregations of his abdominals, sweaty and glossy post-sex.

  It all seems so surreal—the four-poster, the mural of angels above watching over.

  I can feel his heart beating hard under my hand. “Do you know the heart is the size of a fist?”

  “I did not.” He takes my face in his hand. “As long as I live, I won’t let it hurt you.”

  “You can’t promise that.”

  “No?”

  “It’s been a week. I’m American, you’re British. I’m an intern at a newspaper. You are a bona-fide royal. I like black jellybeans, you like white.”

  He sits up. “How did you know that?”

  “Have you even Googled yourself?”

  “Have you?”

  “Maybe I have.”

  “And were the search results countless photos of your penis in various provocative positions?”

  “News flash, I do not have a penis.”

  He taps my head. “Not between your legs, at least.”

  I push him in the chest, but he barely moves. “Asshole.”

  “Like I said, I’ve been called worse.”

  I look down and see he’s hard. “Does that Google superstar of yours ever go soft?”

  “Does the sun rise in the east?”

  I throw off the sheets and take hold of his cock, swinging myself over his waist and guiding him inside me, sinking until I’m completely full. I’m getting the hang of this sex thing.

  I moan out in release, lifting myself up and down as he lies back on his pillow with his hands behind his head. “I could get used to this.”

  I think I hear Marcus’s voice. “Your Highness, you can’t…”

  “Shit,” utters Spencer, going to lift me off him, but it’s too late. I hear the door swing wide. Someone enters room.

  “Spencer, I was hoping we could…”

  I turn, the fucking Duke of Walden, Spencer’s father, standing there fixated on my ass. I scream, jumping off Spencer and pulling the sheets to myself.

  Spencer doesn’t even bother moving. “Father, have you met Grace Everett? She’s writing a piece on me for the Times.”

  “For God’s sake, cover that thing up!”

  Spencer replies by spreading his legs, the Duke turning in disgust and the door slamming closed.

  He reaches for me.

  I slap his hand away. I don’t think my cheeks are ever going to go back to their natural color again. “Holy fucking shit, the Duke of Walden just saw me naked.”

  Spencer laughs, certainly not grasping the full reach of the situation. “He saw a lot more than that, I’m afraid.”

  I punch him in the chest. “This is not funny!”

  He’s still hard. “Oh, come on. It is a little bit funny, wouldn’t you agree?”

  I’m so hot I’m sure my head is about to combust. “I’ve never been so embarrassed in my entire life.

  He rolls us over, placing himself against my opening. “At least dinner won’t be boring.”

  He strokes in to the hilt and I gasp out against his shoulder, fingers drumming on his back. “Dinner?” I huff.

  Spencer seems surprised. “I thought I told you?”

  *

  “Miss Grace Everett,” one of the Palace guards announces. All eyes are on me as I enter the dining room, and there’s the Duke. My god. This could not get any worse.

  Spencer leads me to my seat. He’s loving this.

  The whole family is here—Prince Alexander, Spencer’s mother and father. Thank fuck the Queen is absent. I think I’d literally fall to my knees and start digging a hole out of here.

  As I make my introductions, the Duke smiles. I can’t make eye contact with him. Still, he seems more amused than angry now, though it’s hard to tell with these British. Most seem to have two expressions—glum and apathetic.

  I look at the Duke’s feet and curtsy. He takes my hand, leaning over to whisper in my ear. “A pleasure, Miss Everett,” turning to smile at Spencer, who blows him a kiss.

  It’s a small miracle I have Lizzy on the other side of me. She’s a sweet slice of normality in this Ronald Dahl world of surrealism.

  Bread rolls are served. I dig into one immediately, anything for a distraction.

  “Is everything okay, Grace?” queries Lizzy. “You look awfully rosy. I do hope our Spencer hasn’t been working you too hard.”

  I choke on the bread, managing to swallow it down with wet eyes. “I’m… fine, really.”

  “Splendid.” She leans over, whispering
, “And don’t worry about the Duke. He’s a pussycat, really.”

  I sure as hell hope so. Amanda won’t be impressed if I’m unceremoniously ejected from the UK halfway into my assignment.

  We’re deep into third course, spatchcock, when the Duke decides to shine the spotlight on me. “So, Miss Everett, how are you enjoying London?”

  Speak, Grace. Speak, damn you! “Um, very well,” I splutter.

  “I’m afraid it can be rather gloomy at times.”

  “Yes, Your Highness.”

  “Makes one want to bunker down in bed and… you know.”

  Another coughing fit arrives. So he does have a sense of humor.

  “Spencer,” says the Duke, “do help the poor girl.”

  Spencer slaps me on the back. I brush him off.

  But the Duke’s not done. “How is your piece coming along, Grace? I understand you had full access to our Spencer here.”

  I almost choke again. “Yes, sir.” I turn to Spencer, ‘help!’ written all over my face. “He’s quite the enigma.”

  The Duke places his fork and knife down. “Do tell.”

  Finally, I start to sharpen up. “The local media portrays him as a philanderer, a wealthy blueblood run off the rails.”

  “And you disagree?”

  “I think there is a greater story to tell.”

  The Duke laughs. “Don’t dig too far, my dear. I’m not quite sure you can handle what our Spencer’s hiding.”

  The innuendo is killing me, but no, fuck it. I’m a god damn American—king of the world and all that. It’s time to stand up for the U S of fuckin’ hey. “Actually, apart from a brief bout of unpleasantness at the start there, Spencer has been nothing but a gentleman.”

  The Duke seems surprised by my sudden upswing. “Is that so? You’ve become well acquainted then?”

  “Intimately,” I smile. Take that.

  “I’m glad to hear it. I do so love the can-do attitude of Americans. But I will warn of one thing, if I may, Miss Everett.” The table grows silent, not a single utensil in motion. Here it comes. “Do watch out for Spencer’s love of rap music. It’s so very… common, don’t you think?”

  Everyone laughs, the mood easing. I send a silent prayer to the heavens. Thank you.

  The Duke turns his attention to everyone’s favorite son. “How goes Chelsea this year, Allie? I confess I missed the first game.”

  Allie? It’s an odd nickname for a full-grown man.

  Talk of soccer soon bores me, but my senses light up again when I feel Spencer’s hand on my leg. I turn, give him my infamous Eyes of Doom, but he just smiles and nods at the conversation, even adds in his own opinion as he pulls my panties aside. The tablecloth is long, hides away this grand intrusion.

  Oh god, no. Not here.

  I should snap my legs closed, but for whatever reason they remain slightly parted. I keep eating, try to remain focused as my knife rattles against the plate.

  “Actually, I thought Chelsea was in a bit of a rut last season, wouldn’t you say, brother?” says Spencer, finger slipping between my folds.

  I gasp.

  “Grace?” questions Lizze, concerned.

  I smile back at her as Spencer eases a finger inside, drives it in to the second knuckle, curling it up against the sensitive roof of my pussy.

  My hand quivers again, but as of yet my state has gone unnoticed.

  Spencer slides his finger in and out, in and out, curling and teasing inside me. Now I squeeze my legs together, capturing his hand, but he won’t be stopped.

  I’m so wet it’s ridiculous, can faintly smell my own arousal building.

  Spencer continues as if nothing is happening. “I thought the Chelsea striker—what was him, name?—did a fine job in the first match. His game was so, what’s the word, tight.”

  I arch my back off my chair as Spencer’s thumb presses against my clit, drawing it out into the open, the pressure upon it just right.

  “I think everyone’s going to have a hard time penetrating Liverpool’s defenses this season,” replies Alexander.

  For a moment I think he is in on the joke as Spencer builds, finger-fucking me steadily below the table.

  “Penetration is the name of the game,” Spencer smiles, running his finger somehow deeper, the pressure on my clit unrelenting as his thumb slowly circles the tender nub. My nipples strain against the silk of my evening gown. It’s enough to draw the Duke’s eye, but he soon turns back to the conversation at hand, Lizzy eating away blissfully.

  Spencer leans over, lips wet against my ear, uses my own weapon against me. “Come,” he commands.

  I have to close my eyes momentarily, force my wrists against the edge of the table to stop myself exploding.

  He circles my clit faster, harder, finger hooking up against my g-spot, the bottom of my cunt growing slack and slick.

  I won’t be able to take much more. With shaky hand, I bring a forkful of spatchcock to my mouth, but it slips over as a wave of sensation rattles out from my core.

  I squeeze tighter, bear down with everything I have clamping his hand hard between my thighs.

  Oh no.

  I can’t stop it.

  I close my eyes and feel the release, let it take me from the inside-out, quivering quietly in my seat, fork and knife held aloft.

  “Grace?” queries Alex. “Are you okay?”

  My eyes snap open, my orgasm still coursing through my body, pinpricks of white sparking in the corner of my eyes, pussy convulsing around Spencer’s bent finger.

  “Grace?” Alexander repeats.

  I smile, bearing down as another wave of sensation takes me. “Yes?” I squeak.

  “I said,” he continues, “do you enjoy the game? Football, that is?”

  Spencer’s finger slides away, the slippery crotch of my panties slipping back into position.

  I breathe out, struggle to remain focused, to stop myself collapsing right here on the tabletop. “I don’t really know the rules, sorry.”

  Spencer pats my hand. “Not to worry. I’m an excellent teacher.” He runs the finger that was just inside me into his mouth, sucks on it before drawing it out and holding it for the entire table to see. “My god, this jus is exquisite. Finger-licking good, wouldn’t you Americans say, Grace?”

  All I can do is nod.

  “Do send our compliments to the kitchen, Father.”

  The Duke eyes Spencer. “I will.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  SPENCER

  I’m on a high—a natural one, for once—as I see Grace off. I was, of course, expecting to accompany her out of this hell hole, but Father insisted I stay for a nightcap, discuss ‘business’, as he likes to deem Palace matters.

  I find him in the west sitting room. It’s always been his favorite palace room. I always surmised it was because it was so close to the one of the Palace’s many secret exits, allowing his ‘special’ guests to come and go without stirring us.

  “How odd it must have been to grow up here,” Grace had said, but I don’t think ‘odd’ is the word. I never knew any different. It’s always been my house, a house that is home to a family, a family that is most likely the most dysfunctional in the entire United Kingdom.

  I notice my father has the good Scotch out, an ominous sign.

  I take a seat, the fire crackling, the mahogany walls of the sitting room turned golden, countless generals, dukes and kings watching down on our conversation with oleaginous eyes.

  My father passes a tumbler over before picking up his pipe and lighting it. I never quite got the whole tobacco thing, oddly never fixated on smoking. God forbid you should ever tell Father it’s harming his health. No, no, it’s distinguished, proper… gentlemanly. Simply being in his presence sees an itch develop behind my ear. Maybe I do need a fix.

  I sip the Scotch. It’s silky smooth. “This is all very theatrical, Father.”

  “Can’t a father chat with his favorite son?”

  I scoff. “We both know Alexand
er is the son of favor. My purpose is to make him look better. His foil? Isn’t that so?”

  “You’ve had every opportunity he has.”

  “Have I?”

  “You attended the same schools, mixed with the same crowd, but you don’t see Alexander being pulled from the gutter now, do you?”

  If only you could have seen him in high school, in the Chaos Club… “I can’t help that I tend towards the dramatic.”

  “You always have, even when you were a child,” he smiles. “My god, were the Palace staff pleased to see the back of you.”

  “They never did find that vase, did they?”

  “They did not.”

  We both laugh at this, at better times.

  “The thing is,” says my father, pausing to puff at his pipe and staring wistfully into the fire, “the Palace cannot afford another scandal.”

  I lean back, comfortable now the old man’s motives are clear. “So that’s why you summoned me here. It’s her, isn’t it?”

  “The American, yes.”

  “She has a name.”

  “Does she? I must say I was a little distracted on our first encounter. She has nice tits, though. I will give her that.”

  “Don’t talk about her like that.”

  “Defensive are we, Spencer? You’ll agree it wasn’t the ideal way to introduce your next fling, no?”

  I turn the tumbler in my hand. “Unfortunately, I agree, but you’ve seen worse.”

  My father stands and begins to pace. I hate it when he does that, more military than man. “I have, but at least I knew those maids and college girls were all one-offs, pussy and little more.”

  The way my father says ‘pussy’ always seems so at odds with his public persona.

  “I see the way you look at her, Spencer, and frankly, I don’t like it.”

  “Oh, you don’t like it. I’m so sorry.”

  “I’m quite serious, Spencer. Have your fill, your fun, and then send her on her way. There are pearls that glow far brighter to be found in the ocean, pearls much more… fitting for a prince.”

  I want to shove that pompous pipe of his right up his ass, but I hold myself back, fingers tight around the tumbler. “You don’t have any say over that part of my life—never have, never will. You want to use your influence to put me through Cambridge? That’s one thing, but this…”