Throttle: A Bad Boy Sports Romance

by Teagan Kade

  “She does, but the scandal, it would—”

  “Still worried about the damn scandal, after everything’s that happened.”

  I’m losing my grip. I need another hit. “I thought you came here to support me.”

  “I am. I do.”

  I’m winding her up, letting it happen, even when everything is crashing down, when I’m losing her for good.

  “You know what? I’m going to go and speak to her,” she says.

  “Who?”

  “The Queen. Fuck. Lizzy, of course.”

  “It won’t do any good.”

  But she’s set, stubborn. “We’ll see about that.”

  “Why do you care?” She’s tearing up, and it’s killing me to break her, but it has to be done.

  “Because I don’t want Lizzy’s life ruined!” I scream at her. “I don’t want those kids swallowed up into this bullshit. I care about them, certainly not about my fucking brother.”

  She can’t reply, cowering before me.

  All I can see is red. “You want to know the really funny thing about all this? The real clincher?” Do it. Do it. “He’s not even my brother. I’m not even a fucking royal.”

  She laughs. “Yes you are. You’re Prince Spencer of Westshire.”

  I grip the banister. “No, I’m not.”

  “This isn’t the right time for joking around.”

  “My mother had affair with one of the Palace guards right behind my father’s back while he himself was off fucking his mistresses. She never told me. I only found out because the poor bastard left me a letter when he died. He laid it everything out. All those years and he didn’t tell a damn soul, died with fifty quid in his account.”

  She’s working out whether to believe me or not. “No.”

  “Yes. Why doesn’t anyone see it? For Christ’s sake, I don’t even look like my father. I’m the black sheep of the family for a reason… because I don’t fucking belong. I don’t belong anywhere.”

  “What did you do with the letter?”

  “I was young, mad. I burnt it.”

  “A DNA test would…”

  “Yes, but who would consider it, and why? Only my mother knows, and she’s never going to tell.”

  “Spencer, I don’t know what to say.”

  “Don’t say anything. I’ll say it for you. This cannot work.”

  “Why not?”

  “You know why. Our worlds cannot coexist.”

  A single tear runs down her cheek. “Fuck you. I’ve already given you everything I have, things I promised I’d never give up so easily.”

  She looks away, unable to face me, unable to face what she knows that deep down.

  “I’m a junkie, Grace. I’m fucking useless.”

  Now she’s mad. “You want to be with someone like Abigail, someone who understands your world, how to act prim and proper? Is that it?”

  This has all become so completely fucked. I don’t know how to fix it. “I don’t want a glorified handbag, some trophy wife to swan around charity events and preschools with. That’s insulting. But think about it. Imagine what the press would make of us? Your life would be turned upside down. Could you survive that, absolutely everything you do scrutinized and picked apart?”

  She wipes fresh tears away. “I don’t care, Spencer. Let it all come out. All that matters is that I’m with you. I’ve seen you the real you. He deserves a chance. I know you took the fall for the Club at that pub. I know about your charity work, the way you play with Gregory and Elisa. You’re one of the good guys.”

  I collapse onto my knees in front of her, drag her down the carpet with me. “I can’t. I’m shit.” I break down, everything unwinding and falling apart. I clutch at her for what seems like a lifetime, pull her to me and bury myself in her hair.

  She breaks away and looks at me, eyes puffy, pools of the sky itself. “We can do this, but I need you to be strong. Can you do that for me?”

  I nod, but I don’t know if I can.

  “Good.”

  A silence grows where all we do is look at one another.

  “What do I do?” I ask, standing and holding her close. “What’s the first step?”

  She stands on her tippy toes and kisses me on the cheek, the floral notes in her hair turning me stiff even during this, my darkest hour. “Go to the Savoy. Keep the bed warm.”

  “Where are you going?”

  She puts on a smile. “The hospital.”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  GRACE

  In Spencer’s arms, the world seems whole again. I don’t know what the future will bring, but I’m excited about it, excited as I’ve been about anything in a long time.

  I didn’t spend long at the hospital. I wanted to get back to him, back to comfort.

  We shared something deeper than sex last night. It was a catharsis, for both of us, a purging. There was no spanking, nothing you’d pull from the Kama Sutra. We simply laid there in each other’s arms, talking, whispering, keeping each other close.

  “Morning, gorgeous.”

  Spencer rolls over, a sliver of morning light across his face. His cock’s hard against my leg. As much as I want to spread my own and welcome him inside, he’s got a big day ahead, meeting the heads of various charities and organizations—his idea, not mine. Step one of getting his good name out there, and it will help, work against all this shitty press and build him back up. The public love that, cutting celebrities down and cheering when they rise stronger. Spencer will rise. I will make it so.

  I brush his hand off my thigh and roll off the bed. He watches me walk to the window and take the curtains in hand. I’m just about to pull them wide when he shouts, “Wait!”

  I turn curiously. “So, you are a vampire?”

  “The paps.”

  I peer into the slit between the curtains and, sure enough, the swarm of bloodsuckers remain out the front of the hotel. “I swear there’s more of them.”

  Spencer takes his phone and swipes to a news site. “There are.”

  I take it out of his hand and skim read. “That bitch.”

  “Yes, it seems like Abigail Hanover can’t live with the fact I’m dating a commoner.”

  Spencer sits up and I’m instantly thrown back to our first, awkward encounter at Cambridge, but now the child is gone, the prankster and playboy. His eyes are only for me, his body my sole domain.

  I take a seat on the edge of the bed. “What do I do?”

  Spencer smiles that same slack, cheeky grin that won me over from the start whether I was willing to admit it or not. “Walk out, shoulders back giving precisely zero fucks.”

  “What will the Queen make of it?”

  “Granny?”

  “I can’t believe you still call her that.”

  “Well, ‘the Queen’ would be entirely too formal, wouldn’t it? Besides, you’re my queen now.”

  I push him down back into the bed, straddle him knowing I’m already wet. “And what’s my first order of business, Your Highness? A good dicking? Is that what you Brits say?”

  “I prefer ‘rodgering’.”

  I run my hand between his legs, wrap my fingers around his manhood. “We do have a few minutes before my inauguration. What do you propose we do?”

  He smiles below me, the scent of lime and spice, comforting, intoxicating. He takes me by the hips and rolls me over, sliding in to the hilt from the first stroke. “Everything, Your Majesty.”

  Wait ’til Mom hears about this.

  *

  Spencer leaves first. I watch him go from the window. He cuts through the pack below with ease.

  A quick call downstairs from His Highness and the Savoy is kind enough to let me use the service exit out back. I know right then my life will never be the same.

  My phone rings non-stop—Amanda, Mom, seemingly every TV station, paper and two-bit magazine in the world looking for the exclusive. Notifications turn my home screen into a slot machine. I switch it off. They can all wait, maybe forever.r />
  Marcus sneaks me into the Palace. Spencer has a bag out on the bed.

  “Going somewhere?” I question.

  “I have a small estate in Salton. We can ride this out for a few weeks up there. I had intended to show you the countryside, after all.”

  It’s crazy. I’m supposed to be flying out in a few days, but this whole thing has gone tits up at lightning speed. I certainly won’t have a job to go back home to. What’s the harm spending an extra week or two with Spencer, a bear rug, fire…

  I walk over to the dresser. “I’ll help you pack.” I reach for the first drawer.

  Spencer jumps towards me. “No!”

  It’s too late. I’ve opened it. What I feared most stares back at me.

  I hold the baggie of coke up. “I thought you got rid of it all?”

  “Grace, wait—”

  “You gave me your fucking word!”

  “I’ve tried before, Grace. A week and I’ll be back on it, but it’s okay. I can control it, honestly. You never knew, did you? I can hide it.”

  I’m thirteen again listening to my Dad, Johnathan later down the track. “You’re right. I never suspected, but how long do you think it’s going to be before it takes you completely? It’s poison. It will take you in the end and I’m not about to stand around with dick in hand waiting for that to happen.”

  He lowers his head, fingers combing through his hair. “So what? You’re going. Is that it?”

  “No, I’m not going, Spencer, but if you want to be with me, you’re going to have to stop taking this shit once and for all.”

  “How?”

  “I’ll help you, as long as it takes.”

  “Help me do what exactly?”

  “Detox.”

  He laughs. “Been there, done that. It didn’t work.”

  “We’re going to the estate now, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is it private?”

  “Naturally.”

  “Then it’s the perfect place. Marcus and Richard will help. I know they will.”

  “And what makes you think you know anything about detoxing?”

  The memories invade, hammering down my defenses. “Because I’ve done it before.”

  I neglect to tell him it didn’t work with my father. He still drugged himself to death.

  But not Spencer, not my Spencer.

  No, this time I won’t fail.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  SPENCER

  TWO WEEKS LATER

  She was there, the whole time, but I’ve never been so alone. Seventy-two hours in and I was starving, irritable. I’m amazed she didn’t throw in the towel then. I slept for two days straight, lashed out at her on day four. I went through every ‘ia’ there is—paranoia, insomnia, dysphoria… Hell, I didn’t know who or what I was, drowning in a pool of my own sweat.

  But it improved, just like she said. A week in and I started to feel better, think of the gear less. I started to believe, believe I might finally shrug this demon off my back once and for all. Things still sucked, but I was on my way. They say after week two the cravings can return, but they never did. I only craved her.

  We watch the people parade pass by the Thames. It’s early, everyone too focused on their Fitbits and sneakers to pay any attention to us. I start to believe it’s because I have Grace by my side, because God forbid Prince Uncharming would ever settle down, find himself a real girl.

  I kiss the side of her neck. “What do you miss most about America?”

  “Not the gun-happy hillbillies, that’s for sure, but I miss Mom, my friends, Crabby Joe.”

  “Who?”

  “My cat. I thought you did your research?”

  “The Palace has a private jet, you know.”

  “What would the taxpayers have to say about you getting around with your latest fling at their expense?”

  I put on a look of shock. “Fling? Come on, you’re a good romp at the very least, maybe even a dally.”

  “Don’t think you’ll get rid of me so easily.”

  “I’ve already written our break-up letter.”

  “Really, and what does it say?”

  “It’s very simple. It says, ‘Sorry, I can’t spend my life with someone who doesn’t like Yorkshire pudding’.”

  She leans over and whispers in my ear. I raise an eyebrow. “Can’t have Big Ben getting burnt now, though I am open to experimentation.”

  “Will you stop calling your penis Big Ben already?”

  “You have a better name in mind?”

  She squints, thinking. “How about ‘Gracie’s’?

  I raise the other eyebrow. “It’s a dick, my dear, not a diner.”

  A tourist boat floats past, eager morning passengers snapping away. My, the surprise they’ll get when they find us in their pictures. “You never told me how it went with your friend at the hospital.”

  “Zoe?”

  “That’s the one.”

  “It was surprisingly easy to forgive her. She knows what she did was wrong. I’m not going to keep it as a noose around her neck her whole life. Besides, I need someone to discuss our kinky sex life with.”

  “You did the right thing.”

  “You think?”

  “I know.”

  “And what about Alexander?”

  Fucking Alex. “I’m afraid that’s ongoing.”

  “William?”

  “Moving to Scotland. Marcus didn’t exactly give him a choice in the matter. I believe he gave the same message to your friend Jonathan. I don’t think he’ll be bothering you again somehow, and if he does there’s an AVO in place… and my fist.”

  “But the Club hasn’t broken up, has it?”

  “You’re back in reporter mode again, aren’t you?”

  She shrugs. “So sue me.”

  “Disbanded, for now, but it will rise again like the proverbial phoenix. It’s been through worse.”

  “With your help I can expose them, all of them. I mean, William’s father is the freakin’ police commissioner. That’s a start.” I can clear your name.

  I squeeze her thigh, my thigh. “I thought you liked it when I was a bad boy?”

  She smiles back. “Only in bed.”

  I run my hand between her legs. “Speaking of which, shall we?”

  “It’s the middle of the day.”

  “Contrary to popular belief, that’s playboy peak hour, my dear.”

  *

  There’s something about a midday quickie that’s intensely satisfying, especially when it’s inside Palace walls.

  Grace has the sheets pulled up to her chest, eyes on the door.

  I laugh. “If you’re expecting the Duke to walk through, don’t worry. I made sure I locked the door. Besides, he’s skiing in Austria. The whole drug scandal was a little too much for him, I’m afraid.”

  “I thought the Palace spin doctors did a great job of turning that around, painting the whole thing was a set-up, discrediting William.”

  “It wasn’t a set-up, but I will admit the shot was good timing. My eyes were closed.”

  “And just as well.”

  “How did it go with your boss?”

  “As expected. Ignoring her calls for a week didn’t help, obviously.”

  I don’t know how it’s possible, but I’ve changed in these short three weeks. I feel like a leader, a man of the people. It’s all because of her.

  Grace eyes me curiously. “Something amusing?”

  “I assumed you would have… trouble, with your boss, which is why,” he says, “I took the liberty of setting you up a meeting with the editor of The Guardian.”

  “That’s sweet, Spencer, really, but I’m afraid my boss has a lot of clout in the world of publishing. There won’t be a paper in the world that will want to take me once she’s done.”

  I remain smiling. “Everyone has enemies, Grace, even your esteemed boss. You see, the editor of The Guardian absolutely loathes Amanda Merit.”

  “He does?”r />
  “She, to be precise. Your esteemed boss Amanda was once a junior too, remember, even worked here in London. Let’s just say her scruples back then didn’t extend very far.”

  “Wow.”

  “So you’ll go?”

  “Of course.”

  “It means you’d have to move to London, of course.”

  “I was sick of New York anyways. Not enough drizzle.”

  I take her around the waist. “Not enough excuses to stay indoors, you mean?”

  “What about my mother?”

  “She can come too. There’s a nice little apartment in Bayswater I can set her up in.”

  “You’ll have to meet her.”

  “You don’t think I can charm her?”

  She runs her hand under the sheets, jerks me to attention with her hand. “I suppose you did charm me.”

  “The perpetually impenetrable fortress that was Grace Everett, yes. I did, didn’t I?”

  “Stop being so smug before I bend you over my knee and spank you like the schoolboy you are.”

  “My god, what is this monster I have created.”

  She grins. “Indeed.” She sits up against the headboard of the bed. She’s spreading herself for me, her fingers splayed in her mons, the hot mouth of her sex waiting.

  I watch her masturbate, the way her toes twitch and mouth moves from a flat line to an oval. Her eyes remain closed right until the end, whereupon they snap open while her features slacken, glassy and spent.

  I reach down to her sodden cleft, run my finger into the creamy groove of her cunt, let it swallow and suck it in.

  She looks at me and there is that smile I know so well, my comfort, my everything. “So,” she says, testing her jaw, “you think I can fit both your balls in my mouth?”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  GRACE

  We lie there in the afterglow, columns of morning light beamed above us from the ancient windows of the Palace, home to royalty for almost three-hundred years. I watch my chest rise and fall, drops of sweat dotted over my skin.

  I’ve still got Spencer’s cock in my hand.

  “You know,” he says, looking up at the ornate mural above, “this was actually George IV’s bedchamber.”