by Alley Ciz
“Fascinating story. Riveting…really.” I turn my face, using my cheek to shove his away a scant inch or two. “But your obsession with me still doesn’t give you the right to be here.”
A humorless chuckle rumbles inside his chest, the sound vibrating against my greedy nipples.
“Oh…that’s where you’re wrong.”
He touches the tip of one finger to the small black diamond hanging from a delicate silver chain that sits in the hollow of my throat, dragging it down my breastbone, between my now-heaving-in-an-effort-to-increase-airflow breasts, over the bare skin of my tummy, not stopping until it hooks into the buttoned waistband of my black skinny jeans.
“Just because you’re a race rat for a Royal, that doesn’t give you any actual power.”
Relief that he didn’t actually figure out my true connection to the Royals has my body sagging into the car, the unyielding metal frame digging into my shoulder blades. The band around my lungs loosens, but if I don’t extract myself soon, I’m at risk of having to pull my inhaler out here. The last thing I want is for Jasper to know about my asthma.
Having asthma doesn’t make me weak by any stretch of the imagination. Hell, all the treatments I’ve gone through prove I’m made of tougher stuff than most, but Jasper is the type that would exploit it to his advantage if he knew about it.
“The only power you have is your pussy’s ability to make a dick wet, nothing more.”
I lick my lips, my nostrils flaring with my next inhalation. “If that’s what you want to think, who am I to tell you you’re wrong?”
He swallows, and I watch how his Adam’s apple bobs up then down with the action before flattening my palms against his chest, ignoring the hardness of it as I shove him back for space.
I manage to get three steps away before his deep voice has me spinning back to face him. “No need to be sad that you’re nothing but a street slut to them.” His expression is arrogant and annoyingly sexy. I want to punch it. My hands ball into fists to prevent myself from giving in to the urge.
“Excuse me?” I arch a brow.
“It’s okay.” Jasper holds his arms out as if to say, Don’t shoot the messenger. “You rats serve a purpose. There’s no better way to work off the adrenaline from a race than with one of you on your knees.”
“You’re so fucking off base it’s laughable.” I start toward the back of the SUV, only to spin back around before I clear it. “But like I said earlier, you should leave before you embarrass yourself.” I wave a hand at his I’ll-never-admit-how-panty-melting-it-is Ferrari. “No matter how much horsepower Mommy and Daddy buy you, you’ll never beat a Royal in a race.”
Jasper’s features turn to stone, and in a blink, he’s closed the distance I’ve managed to put between us. His grip is hard as he pinches my chin in his fingers. I refuse to give him the satisfaction of flinching.
“Wanna bet on it?” It’s his turn to arch a brow.
“Isn’t that kind of the whole point of all this?” I circle a finger in the air, indicating the Royal Ball as a whole.
“I’m talking about a little side wager just between us.”
I do my best to swallow past my dry throat—another symptom presenting itself. I need to go but instead say, “What did you have in mind?”
Victory shines in his gaze. “I do have a caveat, though.”
“Isn’t that the definition of a side bet?”
The pressure of his pinched hold increases until my lips separate and purse. “What did I say about this mouth?” His thumb stretches up, slipping inside the space he created, the taste of salt landing on my tongue.
I will the saliva to form to wash away the desert-like situation I have going on and the essence of him he’s trying to imprint on me.
“If you really aren’t just another race rat like you claim…it should be easy for you to have them switch the docket tonight.”
Around us, the crackle from the bonfire, the seductive rasp of Kehlani playing from the speakers, and the low comments from his boys fade until all that’s left is Jasper and me in this bubble of clashing wills.
Jerking my face to the right, I shake off his hold, arching my spine to create a few inches of precious space for my upper body. “Scared to face King?” I taunt, knowing my brother’s undefeated record.
“No.” Jasper’s long fingers wrap around my nape, tugging me straight again until I’m forced to push onto my toes to ease the pressure on my neck.
My hands fall to his sides to steady myself, fingers curling and bunching the fabric of his T-shirt to keep from making direct contact with his hard body.
Those envious lips lower to mine, not quite kissing but skimming with his next words. “I want the added satisfaction of Prince knowing he was the one who lost to me before I claim my prize.”
My breath hitches, but this time, it has nothing to do with the pending asthma attack I need to get under control ASAP. Why? Why the hell does he affect me? Why do I give in to his taunts?
“Your prize?” His grip turns punishing, but I’m still able to manage to shift enough for his lips to land on my cheek instead of my mouth. “We don’t race for pink slips. Here it’s all about the Benjamins, bay-bee.”
Against the curve of my cheekbone, his lips stretch into a smile. “The only pink slip I’m interested in racing for tonight is the one between your fine-ass legs.”
CHAPTER 10
Samantha tries to hide it, but it’s impossible to not feel how she trembles in my arms. If I have my way, later I’ll be feeling all the ways her body can shudder while her cunt milks my dick.
Crossing an arm over my body, I latch onto her opposite wrist, my fingers sliding across the leather encasing her hand as they overlap, emphasizing how easily I could break her. If she doesn’t learn to toe the line, that’s exactly what I’ll do.
She thinks she can tell me what to do? Not happening.
She thinks I’m scared of her? That’s cute.
She’ll learn the error of her ways as soon as she realizes she’s not the hunter but the prey in this story.
The silky strands of her hair hit the skin of my neck, and I whirl her around and tuck her tight to me, her back flush with my front. I bend the arm connected to the wrist I have manacled and shove it into the cleavage of her boatneck collar—fucking thanks, Mom, for me even knowing something like that. Using her own body against her, I secure her almost like a seat belt would.
When she tries to wiggle free, I bring my other hand around and flatten it to her belly. The softness of the pale skin exposed between the jeweled hue of her purple shirt and her black painted-on skinny jeans only increases the hardness in my pants.
I revel in the way her breathing is labored. She can deny it until she’s blue in the face; I know she wants me.
I came here tonight to teach her a lesson. Like the puck bunnies at school, race rats get a certain type of consideration, but like Arabella, Samantha has made the mistake of thinking because she spreads her legs or opens her mouth for someone at the top of a social hierarchy, it gives her power. It doesn’t. Hell, it doesn’t even mean she falls into the hands-off category. I’ll take great, ball-emptying pleasure in teaching Samantha what a grave miscalculation she made when it comes to me.
I may have zero intention of keeping her, but it won’t stop me from taking her. Beating her precious Prince to do it will be an added bonus. And if I can knock her down a peg or two by proving she’s just another hole to fill by doing precisely that, then fucking her on the hood of my Ferrari, well…
I give a quick check, but the Royals can’t see me playing with their toy.
Burying my face in the curve of her neck, I trail my nose down it, inhaling the sweet lime on her skin. The vein visibly pulsing there is impossible to ignore, and I drag my tongue and the ring pierced through it along the vein and bite down. Her gasped moan and hip wiggle have me grinding my hard-on into her as a preview of what’s to come.
“Now, why don’t you be a good girl fo
r once and go tell them the only Chevrolet we want to see in the race tonight is the Camaro, not the Corvette.”
He may have beaten me the last time we were in a race together, but this time Wesley Prince will be the one seeing my taillights through his windshield. Then, because I’m sure I’ll be feeling generous after my win, I’ll let him watch as I make Samantha scream in ways he never could.
Samantha stumbles as I release her, body swaying as I step away. After a beat, she whirls on me, hands encased in badass fingerless gloves going to her hips. She pauses instead of doing what she’s told. “Listen, dickhead—”
“Now, now”—I tick my finger back and forth—“don’t go talking dirty to me early.” Her eyes narrow, and I slide in close again, swiping a finger over her bottom lip. “But if you do what you’re told for once, I promise you’ll get very acquainted with my dick’s head.” I love how that slight hitch to her breathing gives away how affected she is by me when I know it most likely kills her that she can’t hide it. “And”—I bring my mouth to her ear—“if you’re a really good girl, you’ll get to meet the rest of my cock while you’re choking on it.”
She scoffs, an actual sound of disgust rolling around in that spot at the back of her throat my dick aches to ram against repeatedly.
“I’ll arrange your little—”
Her eyes drop down to my belt, her lips kicking up at the corners as if she has X-ray vision and she’s making a dig about what she sees behind my fly. Sorry, baby. The only thing little going on there is the amount of free space in my boxer briefs. A fact only emphasized by the blood flowing south.
“—bet.” She flicks the cleft in my chin with her finger. “But I’m only doing it so that when you lose, I’ll win my freedom from having to deal with you.”
I give her a half nod, allowing her the illusion of control.
With one more of those death glares she seems to always have on hand for me, she puts a hand to her chest and walks away. Something catches my eye near her spine, but it’s too dark to make it out. Instead, I focus on the way her ass swings with each purposeful stride.
“What’s the plan, brother?” Duke steps up to my right, his own gaze on Samantha’s retreating form.
“We wait and see just how special she is to them.”
We put up a good front for Samantha’s benefit, and yes, this isn’t the first time we’ve come to Royal territory, but we know where the line is. Okay, so maybe we like to play jump rope with it when the mood suits us. I’m not looking to make an enemy out of the Royalty Crew, but that’s not going to stop me—win or lose—from playing with their toy.
“Fuck me,” I curse when Samantha bypasses the Royals and heads straight for Carter King’s residence, pulling something from her back pocket and stepping inside. Hmm, maybe she is as connected as she claims if she has a key.
“Isn’t that what you bet her to do?” Duke holds a fist out for me to bump.
As Wesley Prince and Carter King follow behind Samantha, a frown tugs at my lips, the latter pausing when a redhead runs to join them.
“Is it wrong that it doesn’t surprise me to see Tinsley here?” Banks takes his place on my other side when she disappears with the redhead.
I think I answer him, but I’m not sure, all my focus on the building, wishing I was the one with X-ray vision to see what’s happening inside.
It’s a solid five minutes later when the door finally opens, and out steps Wesley Prince. He makes a quick detour to confer with the other Royals still outside then heads straight for us.
The partygoers have watched us since we pulled in, but with the exception of Samantha, none of them have approached until now.
Rolling my shoulders back, I stand up straighter, finding that perfect balance between I don’t give a fuck and I’m ready to throw down if needed.
Dark eyes flit up and down my body, dismissing me as quickly as it took to complete their inspection. That familiar flare of anger at the disrespect sparks to life. One would think after experiencing it every day with Samantha, I would be immune to it. Unlike my recently acquired pain in the ass, Wesley is one of those balancing acts with the line I was talking about earlier.
Keeping myself in check, I do my own slightly more thorough inspection of the number two of the Royalty Crew. He’s what you’d expect: black T-shirt, ripped jeans, backward hat, ink running down his arms onto his hands and knuckles. The thing that sets my teeth on edge is his devil-may-care attitude and the taunting smirk that says he could take us despite being outnumbered five to one. I would never admit it out loud, but considering that his reputation in the underground fighting circles might be more revered than the one he has as the other Royal to drive in these races, it’s a distinct possibility.
“You’re a cocky motherfucker—I’ll give you that,” Wesley says, slipping his hands into his pockets, again taunting us by not holding himself at the ready for a fight.
“Does that mean you will or won’t be altering the race roster for tonight?” I fold my arms over my chest, waiting for his answer.
“Don’t you worry, rich boy. You’ll get your shot at the Camaro tonight.” It’s not the Camaro I want. It’s what’s between Samantha’s legs that I’m racing for.
I let my lips tug upward, matching his smirk with one of my own, wondering if Samantha told her precious Prince what is really on the line.
An hour later, I’m finally sitting behind the wheel of my Ferrari, the supple leather of the bucket seat cradling my body like a lover as we wait for the race to begin.
I drum my thumbs on the prancing horse emblem in the center of my steering wheel as Duke secures the GoPro camera to the dash. He waits until our view of the empty lot in front of us shows on the gigantic projection screen that hangs on half of Carter’s residence. This is the draw of what King does. None of the quarter-mile races you can participate in at tracks around the state. Instead, his are usually a route, given through pre-programmed GPS units. They take about thirty minutes to complete, all while being broadcasted back to those at the party to watch.
With the change to the lineup, the race itself was pushed back an hour. Unlike what I thought, King wasn’t on the docket for tonight. Increased buy-ins had to be collected, and the odds of the bets needed to be adjusted to reflect a Royal now being one of the racers.
The few grand I had to pay for entry is small potatoes compared to the bigger races those from BA are invited to participate in, but the purse isn’t why I race. I do it for the adrenaline rush. Adding a little pocket change is only a bonus.
All through the paying, betting, breathalyzing for safety, license plate covering, and camera setup, I didn’t once see Samantha again. The fact that I register this pisses me the fuck off. The only reason I know she didn’t dip out is because when Cisco Cruz—the Royal in charge of the GPS units—passed us ours, he did so with a comment about how she’ll have a front-row seat to my demise. I can only assume that means she’s the one riding shotgun with Prince.
Engines rev, and the final-minute countdown starts to sound from the GPS.
Gripping the steering wheel, my knuckles turn white as I wrap my hands around the leather, turning my head to the matte black Camaro idling beside me. The damn tinting is too dark for me to see inside, but I can feel her eyes on me regardless.
At the thirty-second warning, I press the button to lower my window and blow two kisses in a promise of what is to come for the prize I’ll be claiming.
Determined, I flick the button up. Glass back in place, I crank up the radio and stretch my fingers until they curve around the gear panels at the side of the steering wheel, readying myself for having to switch gears on a dime.
Ten. Nine. Eight.
A glance at Duke shows his nod that he’s ready too.
Seven. Six. Five. Four.
The muscles on my right leg tense in preparation to lift off the brake.
Three. Two. One.
The throaty purr of the V8 engine in the back roars to life, and w
e take off with the other cars making up the half dozen participants.
The start of the course is like a typical drag race from the back of King’s lot as drivers jockey for position to be the first one to pull out onto the road.
The torque and horsepower of my Ferrari are greater than the souped-up Camaro, and I manage to edge in front of Prince to be the first to pass the threshold free of other traffic thanks to King’s Corvette blocking the road.
The navigation’s mechanical voice guides me down a short straightaway before directing me to take the next right turn.
The skinny rectangles of the Camaro’s headlights disappear as its front bumper inches closer to my rear one.
The suspension of my supercar hugs the road as I follow a series of curves and turns through Blackwell until I’m instructed to take the entrance ramp for the highway.
At midnight on a Saturday, the roads aren’t packed, but they aren’t anywhere close to being empty either. This is another thing that sets the Royals’ races apart from the rest. Horsepower and spec-wise, only King’s Corvette should be a match for my F8, but these races are more about the driver’s skill versus if they have a NOS unit under their hood.
Periodically Duke calls out those in the closest position to us, with the Camaro and a Mustang the only two able to challenge me for the win. I ignore how my dick perks up thinking of all the ways we will use Samantha to celebrate when we do.
We’re halfway done with the race, having completed a loop of an exit ramp followed by taking the next right onto the entrance ramp that will take us on the southbound side of the highway, when the flash of purple under-lighting becomes visible in my side mirror. Prince.
“Oh shit,” Duke curses, and I drop a gear, swinging into the lane to my right and around a slow-moving SUV to maintain my lead.
I’m not fucking losing this race.
My back loses contact with the seat as I straighten, keeping one eye on the road and using the other to make sure I don’t give him the opportunity to pass.
