Bad Boys Teaser: A Sizzling Bad Boys Anthology
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Bad Boys Teaser
A Sizzling Bad Boys Anthology
Rie Warren
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Bad Boys Teaser
Copyright © 2020 by Rie Warren
Stone, At Your Service
Original Copyright © 2014 by Rie Warren
Hunter
Original Copyright © 2015 by Rie Warren
Walker
Original Copyright © 2016 by Rie Warren
Million Baller Baby
Original Copyright © 2017 by Rie Warren
Cry Mercy
Original Copyright © 2019 by Rie Warren
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author except for the use of brief quotations.
https://www.riewarren.com
Warren, Rie.
Bad Boys Teaser/ Rie Warren – 1st ed
1.Contemporary Romance—Fiction. 2. Alpha Male—Fiction. 3. Crime Fiction—Fiction. 4. Erotica—Fiction. 5. Suspense—Fiction. 6. Thriller—Fiction. 7. Mystery, Thriller, & Suspense—Fiction. 8. Romantic Suspense—Fiction. 9. Dominant Male Romance Possessive—Fiction. 10. Enemies to Lovers Romance Kindle Unlimited—Fiction 11. Organized Crime—Fiction 12. Heist—Fiction 13. Action & Adventure—Fiction 14. Possessive Alpha Male Romance—Fiction 15. Dominant Biker Romance—Fiction 16. MC Romance—Fiction 17. Possessive MC Romance—Fiction 18. Dark Romance Enemy—Fiction 19. Dark Romance New Releases—Fiction 20. Dark Romance Prime Reading— 21. Second Chance Romance—Fiction 22. Sports Romance—Fiction I. Title
Contents
Stone, At Your Service
Stone
1. Full Service Friend
2. Tuesday: Gamecocks and Henpeckers
3. Wednesday: Y Chromosome and Testosterone Overload
4. Wednesday: Ride It Out
5. Wednesday: It Takes Two to Tango
6. Thursday: Mm Mmm (Not) Good
7. Thursday: Hung Up and Strung Up
8. Thursday: Balls to the Wall
9. All Fuckin’ Mine
10. Friday: Magic Mike Nightmare
11. Friday: Second Dance, Last Chance
12. Friday: Thrown a Bone
13. Saturday: Book Fair Fiasco
14. Saturday: Sex Shop and Write-Offs
15. Saturday: Big Bang Banquet
16. Not Romancing the Stone
17. Hell in High Heels
18. Stone: At Her Service
Did you love Stone?
Hunter
Hunter
Author’s Note
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Can’t get enough of the Bad Boys of Retributions?
Walker
Walker
1. Somewhere over Lebanon, February 2015
2. Goddamn Beirut
3. Bloody Fucking Beirut
4. Beirut Can Suck My Cock Already
5. Stuck in a Hot Tin Can
6. Undisclosed Location, United States
7. Divine Retribution
8. Casa De Hell
9. Beneath the Sheets
10. The U. S. of A. On the Run
11. Hell’s Kitchen, and a Whole Lotta Bitchin’
12. Fight Night or Fuck Night?
13. No Pain, No Gain
14. Hide and Heat Seeking Missile. Oh, Wait. That’s Just My Cock
15. Daredevil
16. SITREP: My Nads are Frozen
17. Location: Middle of Nowhere
18. He Who Dares . . . Wins?
19. Sacred Mountain, South Dakota
20. Lost
21. Lust
22. Truth
23. Found
24. Love
25. Desperate Warrior
26. From Beirut. Not With Love
27. Kill. Them. All
28. Fight
29. Life
30. Death
31. Circling the Drain, Mt. Not-So-Pleasant, SC
32. The Spy Who Loves Me
33. Back in My Saddle
Would you like to read more from this series?
Million Baller Baby
Million BALLER Baby
A very quick author note
1. Dropped the Ball
2. Already Played
3. Mac Daddy
4. Deep Woods
5. Deep Shit
6. Baby Face
7. Game Face
8. Nurture . . . Bullshit
9. And Barbeque You Too
10. Playa of the Week
11. Pey Day
12. Fam Day
13. Bikini . . . Boing!
14. Sneak Attack
15. The Quarterback’s Sack
16. Foxy Fox
17. So Not a Booty Call
18. The Way We Fall
19. Ragin’
20. Surprise! You’re a Dad! Ugh
21. Baby Steps
22. Daddy Swagger . . . Gah
23. Daddy Duty
24. Game Day
25. Pey Dirt
26. Playmaker
27. For the Motherfucking Win
28. Holy Fuck. Yes, Please
29. Sexual Blitz
30. Total Freakin’ Bliss
Want more Bad Boy Ballers?
Cry Mercy
Cry Mercy
Author Note
1. Angel
2. Mercy
3. Angel
4. Mercy
5. Angel
6. Mercy
7. Angel
8. Mercy
9. Angel
10. Mercy
11. Angel
12. Mercy
13. Angel
14. Mercy
15. Angel
16. Mercy
17. Angel
Want more from these big, bad New Orleans bikers?
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Stone, At Your Service
Carolina Bad Boys
Stone
At Your Service
Carolina Bad Boys, #1
RIE WARREN
One
Full Service Friend
MY PHONE JITTERED ON the nightstand, dragging me from a fitful sleep. “What?” I croaked into the receiver.
I was used to getting woken up at all hours of the night by JJ’s soft little snuggles or—more often—his screaming wide-awake nightmares that seemed to get worse with every year his mom was gone. One look at the name flashing across my phone screen and I knew this call had nothing to do with the kid though, and everything to do with a dumbass obligation I’d made to my best friend, Nicky.
I’d barely yanked a bundle of sheets from under my ass when Nicky spoke with suppressed laughter, “This is your call service, sir. I’m to remind you you’re settin’ off to Atlanta, Tuesday morning, nine sharp.”
“Yeah, whatever. I’ll be ready. Don’t get your panties in a wad, Nicky.”
Speaking of wad, I hopped from the sheets bunched between
my ball-sack and armpits. The cotton entanglement mimicked the death-by-python thighs of the chick I’d fucked earlier in a fit of I am the man mentality.
It happened every Friday night.
I liked to screw; ladies liked my looks. Love ’em and leave ’em was my style, and Friday was my only night off without the kid. With him safely getting spoiled by my ma until his little milk teeth probably ached from a sugar overdose, TGIF was the one time I got to indulge in a little indiscretion. And I took full advantage.
Being ball-and-chained for thirty-one motherfucking months to Crazy Claire had taught me two things: expect the unexpected and keep your heart to yourself. She’d done a runner on me, our son, and our marriage. No way in hell was I ever letting anyone in enough to walk out on me or break the kid’s heart again. No way was I going to risk the small slice of a comfortable life I’d carved for us through sheer hard work and long, long hours. But that didn’t mean I didn’t take care of business.
“I bet you look like shit, Josh. Hope you clean up some over the weekend.” Nicky’s voice carried over the phone, and I considered whirlpooling it with a fast flush in the toilet once I’d tripped into the bathroom.
“Let’s put it this way. If your gaggle of girlfriends is expectin’ pink oxford shirts, pressed chinos, and goddamn penny loafers, they’re outta luck,” I joked.
“You fucked her, didn’t you?” Accusation dripped from Nicky’s tone. He referred to the woman I’d made eyes with at Richard’s Bar and then made love to for several hours afterward.
And following approximately fifteen minutes during which I’d caught my breath, blinking back a few conscience-driven recriminations, I’d slipped from the woman’s clingy embrace. I’d swept my arm toward the bathroom door, thinking that was at least one gentlemanly thing to do, giving her some privacy to clean up after our fuck-fest. Before I gave her the signal to clear out.
“Nah, I baked her cupcakes, painted her nails then made her a strawberry daiquiri.” ’Course I fucked her. Tits out to there. Legs up to here. Ass tight enough to withstand my smacks and writhing back for more . . .
“Name?”
I jiggled the loose toilet handle. “Heh?”
“What was her name?” Nicky pressed.
“Julie, Janey, it’s all the samey. Who cares?”
“I care, since you’re gonna be my boyfriend for the week.”
Filling the sink with hot water, I wiped the last red lipstick stains from my chest, my abs, from my cock. “Damn, you get bitchy when you’re not gettin’ serviced regularly.”
With my disposable razor in the crapper after one day’s use, I tore open a new package with my teeth and jetted foam into my palm.
Nicky heard the aerosol can go off. “Shaving?”
I slathered my upper cheeks and lower throat just enough to maintain the five o’clock shadow I never shaved off. “Nope. Puttin’ frosting on those cupcakes I told you about.”
“Do your nads, too.”
“No fucking way.” A razor was getting nowhere near my balls.
“If you’re gonna be my boyfriend, I need the tail feathers and drop-nest gone. The twinks like it that way.”
My morning boner deflated like a balloon with a pin stuck through it. “I gotta do this?”
“Yup. Save my ass so I can sodomize yours.” Nicky—Nick—Love, my best bud and best-selling paranormal romance writer, chuckled at my expense.
“We’re really gonna play gay at your writing convention?” I tucked the phone against my shoulder, smearing shaving foam all over it.
“It’s for my career.”
I groaned and resumed shaving, my face only.
Viper growled in the background from Nicky’s end. Talk about a man-hungry bitch. Viper the Rottweiler ate shoes, carburetors, car fenders for supper. So sweet as a puppy, such a pain in the ass as an adult—typical female.
“Nine a.m. Tuesday, Josh. Get your Glee on.” He hung up on me with a final laugh.
I dipped toward the mirror, scowling at my slightly furred chest, stomach, and balls. If Nicky got me started manscaping the undercarriage, the bastard wouldn’t stop there.
“I am not shaving my gonads,” I muttered, tossing the barely used razor into the trash can.
On Tuesday morning, the thought of leaving town without a final look at the kid almost made me cancel the whole trip. Instead, I took a detour to my ma’s on the way to work. She’d kept him since my Friday night with “Julie, Janey, samey” so he could get settled in, because Ma and I were both a little wary. This would be my first time away from him since Claire pulled up stakes a year and a half ago.
Letting myself into the house, I bypassed the creaky floorboards I’d memorized from years of sneaking in and out as a teenager. In the room decorated especially for JJ, I scowled at Viper—also a houseguest for the week—and gingerly stepped around her bulk at the side of the bed.
Mostly hidden beneath the quilt, only JJ’s sweet little face was visible, along with the index finger he always sucked to sleep. I slipped onto the bed and gently folded myself around him. He scooted into me like I was his own personal teddy bear, which I suppose I was. At three years old, he still felt so tiny to me. I feathered my fingers across his brow and his nose wrinkled. Combing the dark blond hair aside—the color he got from me—I nuzzled my face against him, breathing in the baby and boy scent. I cuddled with him a while longer, careful not to disturb his sleep, thankful it was peaceful for once.
Even with my side trip to Ma’s, I was at work almost at the crack-of. The garage was quiet, nobody else due for another hour. I walked through the first three bays whistling through my teeth as I inspected the cleanup from the previous night. My dad would’ve been proud. All the tools were tidy in their cubbies, the cars left inside the night before swathed in cotton-flannel covers, a touch that never failed to impress the customers. I walked past the office into the reception area, flicking on the computers, faxes, and two flatscreen TVs on the way through. I replaced the out-of-date magazines with a new batch Ma had delivered yesterday. Motor Sport, Garden & Gun, Charleston Magazine, Cosmo . . .
Stepping out the opposite side of reception, I surveyed the last two bays of Stone’s Auto Service. We specialized in tires, but we could hook up just about anything. Stone’s had stood in this exact spot on 17 North in Mt. Pleasant, South Carolina, since my dad’s father—Billy Stone—had opened the doors in 1960.
I’d spruced the place up a bit, added perks for the clients while never losing the down-home family appeal from my granddaddy’s day. We were kid friendly for the moms waiting for their cars with children in tow. The female customers also didn’t mind hanging around with a nice glassed-in view of the bays as they watched the guys at work. I’d modernized as new technology became available, but we still worked to the same standards. It was all about doing your best, keeping your crew and customers happy, and having some serious fucking pride in your work.
Yeah, Dad would be happy.
I looked down at the white badge with Stone embroidered in red on the chest of my coveralls. It was the same nametag my dad had worn. I’d painstakingly snipped it from his uniform three weeks after his death and stitched it onto my own with shaking hands and falling tears that made me take half an hour on a five-minute job. Because I was taking up the helm of Stone’s Auto Service a good twenty years before I expected to, and it wasn’t because Dad had retired early.
We still gave out a single red rose to every female customer, a tradition my granddaddy had started. Grandmothers, cougars, snooty princesses, gawky teenagers, and even little girls . . . it didn’t matter. The smiles on their faces—after coming in pissed off and impatient—were worth it. Of course, it didn’t hurt none that our smooth move collected a few phone numbers in the process.
The phone stationed on the wall in front of me rang. I answered, “Stone’s, at your service.”
Chicks eat this shit up.
I listened to the customer, moving to the computer when the door jin
gled open. Squinting at the monitor, I raised a hand in greeting as the guys streamed in. Red-haired Mick, young gun Javier, big, black Gerald, who was built like a plow horse and could probably bench press a Jetta—maybe even my ’94 Ford Bronco—and Ray, as handy as a mechanic as he was with the mathematics. The squat blond man was my second-in-command. Another ten strolled in, hitting the Mr. Coffee and the Krispy Kremes before heading out to the bays.