Kicked: A Bad Boy Sports Romance (88 page)

“Why did you swear in a new vice president?” I ask carefully. “What happened to the old one?”
They probably killed him and dumped his body in the ocean.
Brent's words echo in my mind and send a chill down my spine. What am I doing here with this man? He's funny and he's handsome as hell, not to mention good in bed. I want another taste, just one more taste, but this is too dangerous. I need to walk away while I still can.
If
I still can.

“Putting two and two together?” Royal asks, tilting his head to the side. “Or working off information you shouldn't rightly know?” He doesn't look happy anymore, his smile gone and replaced with a deep set frown, the weight of the world hanging heavy from his shoulders.

“Brent said he was looking for the guy for you, that that's why he decided to stay in town a few extra days. Our police department hasn't nearly grown as fast as the city, and our resources are already stretched thin. A missing biker isn't going to get much attention from the department. He just wants to help.”

“And you're buying that crap?” Royal asks, raising his brows at me. “You think your little FBI boyfriend gives a flying fuck about my missing brother?”

“He's …” I'm failing here, miserably. But I can still salvage this. I'm in politics for God's sake. If there's a valuable skill to be had in that field, it's telling people what they want to hear without really saying anything at all, without committing. “Brent's a good guy, Royal.”

“Awfully defensive of a guy that dumped you,” he says, running his knuckles down my cheek. We need a change of subject, and there's only one other choice topic that I think Royal might be interested in right now: me. It's a strange thought to have—I'm not usually the focus of anyone's attention—but the way he's looking at me right now … It's like he wants to be distracted, like he doesn't want to talk about any of this either.

“Well, he came all the way out here to see my brother and me, so I guess I feel like I owe him a little.” Not a lie, not exactly. Royal's mouth twitches and something else shifts over his face, replacing the anger and the suspicion that was there a moment ago. “He wants to get back together,” I say, like I'm admitting a secret, using the fact that Brent asked me out on a date to bolster that little lie.
Maybe
he wants to get back together? Or maybe he just wants to sleep with me? I have no idea. “We'd make a good couple, I think.”

“That so?” Royal asks, putting his arm back around my waist and tugging me close enough that I can feel the heat radiating off his body, smell his rich scent—leather, oil, green things, wet earth. My body responds and I can feel the wetness between my legs growing.

“We would,” I say, biting my lower lip and looking up at him. “He's the exact sort of guy I always saw myself marrying. He's rich and ambitious and handsome.”

“So I'll ask you again: why the hell are you here in my arms and not in his?”

“Because I want to marry a guy like Brent, but I want my wedding night with a guy like you.”

Not a complete lie, not really. In fact, I think the latter's the more truthful portion of that statement.

Royal grins, nice and wide, the hard bulge in his pants proof enough that I've got him right where I want him.

I never thought I'd use sex to get my way—
ever.
But this is different. This, if I'm honest with myself, is an excuse. I'm not using sex to make Royal forget about our conversation; I'm using our conversation as a reason to sleep with him.

No guilt, no worries, no regrets.

Royal hands me a Budweiser from his fridge while I stand like an idiot in the center of his living room, my eyes darting from the dark stained wood moldings and casings to the comfortable but stylish leather couches, the promised black bearskin rug (I think it's a fake), and the … decorations. Royal has art on the wall—mostly black and white photographs of motorcycles—but the fact that he even took the time to hang anything besides posters of half-naked girls is a shock to me.

Royal McBride might be a biker and a bachelor, but it looks like he's also a grown-up.

I take a sip of my beer, letting the cool liquid soothe away some of the heat that's still prickling my skin. I thought that maybe we might go straight to the bedroom, but then I got lost looking around at Royal's place and ended up glued to this spot.

If he's in any hurry, he doesn't show it. I guess he did just ask me to spend the night. He must mean the
whole
night unless he plans on packing us both up on that bike afterwards and driving over to my place. I try not to worry about it; Royal's the kind of guy who says what he means. If he wanted to fuck and have me leave afterwards, he'd have told me that.

“How long have you lived here?” I ask as he lays out a package of steaks on the counter and chugs half his beer in one go. When we first came inside, he slipped off his club jacket and tossed it over a chair in the small dining area next to a pair of sliding glass doors. Underneath, his black T-shirt shows the club's logo: a gray wolf with bright green eyes, lip lifted in a menacing snarl. It might be funny if I didn't feel like the warning there was real.
Don't mess with the Alpha Wolves.

“Two years,” Royal says, opening the package and liberally sprinkling the meat with seasoning. “Bought it right after I became president.”

That part I did know, about when he became president I mean. My dad's been watching the Alpha Wolves for a long time, since before he was the mayor. The previous president was a real son of a bitch, somebody who would've spit in our faces rather than grant us even a moment of his time. At least Royal's polite enough to pretend. Whether or not he'll sign the papers tomorrow is anyone's guess. And I'm definitely not delusional enough to think that tonight will change his mind in any way. He'll do whatever it was he was going to do anyway.

“What do you think?” His grin tells me that he knows he's done well. The kitchen is updated but still tasteful and suited to the era of the house. It's cozy in here, definitely masculine but not overwhelming.

“It's beautiful,” I say, putting my hand on the archway casing between the living room and the dining area. “Usually the trim's been painted in these houses. It isn't often you see the natural wood.”

“It was painted,” Royal says, picking up the plate of steaks and moving to the back door. He unlocks it and the dogs rush outside ahead of him. “I stripped it, sanded it, stained it.”

My mouth parts in surprise as I follow him outside to a small deck and a huge yard, way too big to be this close to the ocean. With the recent population boom, a lot of people have been carving up their lots and building houses closer and closer together. But of course Royal wouldn't be one of them.

“You did all that work?” I ask as he turns on the grill and lets it heat up a moment before laying out the steaks with a sizzle.
I can't believe he's actually cooking me dinner. The president of an outlaw motorcycle club.
I cross my arms over my chest and try to keep my surprise in check. If this was a first date with a normal guy, I'd be hooked.

But this is both a first
and
a last date.

This sucks.

I bat that thought away and move over to the porch swing that's hanging under the eaves, safe from the soft fall of raindrops that dot the green grass and the beds of sea grass and flowers that make up Royal's backyard.

“Don't sound so bloody shocked,” he says, but he's still smiling, so I guess we're okay. “I do have talents that lie
outside
the bedroom.”

A thrill chases up my spine as my fingers curl around the edge of the wooden seat.
The bedroom.
Just hearing him say that word is making my heart stutter and pound, my nipples harden, my thighs clench tight.

“What about you, Pint-Size? What do you do besides fanny about for the mayor's office?”

“Are we going to have a real conversation then?” I ask, finishing off my beer and setting it on the deck near my feet. I'm not comfortable talking about myself. There isn't a whole lot I want to say either. I feel like my life's just a continual work in progress, like I'm heading for a specific goal but I'm never there. What
do
I do besides work for my dad? “I thought you brought me out here for other reasons.”

Royal turns to face me, beer in one hand, spatula in the other.

“I let you change the subject earlier, but not this time, Pint-Size. Fess up. I want to know something about you, the girl that wears clothes she stole from her Gram and hides dirty lingerie underneath them. We'll get to all those other things I promised soon enough.”

“Why do you want to know about me? Does it matter?” Royal smirks and then sets his spatula aside, moving over to stand next to me, an imposing sight in his leather riding gear. My eyes stray to his crotch for a moment and then snap up guiltily to his face.

“You're interesting to me, that's all,” he says, leaning down and putting his arms on either side of my face, palms splayed open against the wall of the house behind the seat. “Fucking fascinating. You seem so uptight at first, but there's a spark in there just waiting to burn you up from the inside out. Don't you ever get frustrated with being so perfect all the time?”

“Who said I was perfect?” I ask, lifting up my chin and staring into his dark eyes like they don't affect me at all. But they do. They do. They really, really do. “Don't you ever get tired of being the bad boy? Doesn't that get old.”

“Sometimes,” he says, his voice a gentle purr that raises the hairs on the back of my neck. I want him so bad it hurts, my body filling up with a desperate need and desire that I didn't know I had in me. “But if I wasn't such a raunchy little bastard, I'd have never gotten you into bed.”

“I knew what you were doing,” I say, even though the words make my cheeks heat. “I'm not stupid.”

“Oh, I'm well aware,” Royal says, leaning in close, touching his mouth to mine, sliding his tongue slowly, sensually, between my lips, bringing his right hand to my hair, cupping my head in his fingers as he tastes me. I know what he tastes like—fresh and wild and untamed. I wonder what he senses in me? If I have a taste at all.

“What do I taste like?” The words blurt out of my mouth the second our lips part, but I don't take them back. I want to know, and I've never had the guts to ask anyone before. Royal doesn't look surprised, his mouth curving up in a sexy smile.

“Like honey and wildflowers,” he says. “Sweet but wild.”

“Wild?”

“Ferocious,” he says, capturing my lips again and reaching down to my waist, scooping me up off the chair and into his arms. Royal moves his mouth to my neck, sliding his tongue against my heated flesh as my body trembles and turns to liquid in his arms. I want to collapse right here, fall to the ground and let him do whatever he wants with me. It wouldn't matter what he decided on: I want everything.

A moan escapes my lips, but I don't care. The ocean is loud enough to drown out any noises I might make, and the wind is picking up, sending a neighbor's wind chime cheering and ringing in the silver blue evening air. I let my fingers dip low, tentatively sliding them under his T-shirt and across those hard, tight abs that I've been lusting after since day one. The motion makes us both groan, Royal's fingers clutching me tighter as his breath feathers against my skin and makes me shiver.

Even if what he said about me being wild was a lie, I like it the idea of it. Love it. Something about this man makes me
want
it to be true though, almost desperately. I let myself relax into my biker chick facade, the leather taking over me and covering up all the little protests that I should be making right now.

When my hands find his hardened nipples, Royal pulls back an inch and looks down at me with half-lidded eyes.

“I don't know about you, love, but I say … fuck the steaks.”

I can't find enough breath to answer, so I let Royal pull away and flick the meat off the grill, following him inside as he tosses the plate into the microwave and leaves the sliding glass door cracked for the dogs.

Nervous jitters try to get the better of me, but I push them back. Tonight, I'm not Lyric Rentz, Deputy Mayor. Tonight, I'm Pint-Size the Biker Chick. The ridiculousness of that makes me smile and helps calm my nerves. What it doesn't do is quench any of the fire I can feel burning for Royal. I want his body on top of mine, in mine, and his hands on my breasts. I want him to kiss me and whisper things to me in that sexy accent of his while he strokes his inked fingers across my bare skin.

And I want it all right now.

“Thought about giving them to the dogs, but I guess you'll be hungry after.”

“Will I?” I ask, a flirtatious edge to my voice that even I don't recognize. Royal hears it, too, and smiles wickedly.

“Baby,” he says, pushing up against me so I can feel his cock straining against the tight seams of his leather riding pants. “Trust me. I'm going to work you harder than you've ever been worked before. You'll need that food in there just to recover enough strength to stand.”

Royal shoves me back suddenly, pinning my body against the living room wall with his much larger frame, leaving just enough room between us to reach up and take hold of the zipper on my leather jacket.