Kicked: A Bad Boy Sports Romance (90 page)

I think carefully about my answer, knowing in my heart that this girl right here, she'd probably never be satisfied with being someone's old lady. This is the type of girl that's a rebel, that wants to be patched in and sit as an officer in the chapel.

A smile teases my lips.

“It's not as bad as it sounds,” I begin, trying to put my feelings into words. “Sure, the system's a little outdated, but a lot of these guys are allergic to change. Still, their wives, they know they're cherished and treasured. For one of my brothers to take someone as their old lady, they're saying they'll take full responsibility for their wife and her actions. Anything she does, it reflects on him. And what reflects on him, reflects on the club. In a way, everyone that's involved in club life belongs to everyone else, makes us responsible for each other and the way we carry out our business.”

“Hmm,” Lyric says, obviously thinking over what I've just said, maybe remembering my words from earlier.
It's a shame you're so prim and proper or I might be tempted to make you my old lady.
I wasn't kidding when I said it either.

We sit in silence while she finishes her food and then stands up, plate in hand.

“I could use a glass of water,” she says and I nod, rising to my feet and following her out to the kitchen. The dogs have dotted the floor with muddy paw prints, raising their heads from their bed in the corner to stare at us. When it's obvious nothing interesting is happening, they relax, flopping back down with a sigh.

Lyric puts her plate on the counter and I lay mine on top, grabbing a glass and filling it with ice from the fridge. While I wait for the cup to fill up, I watch her as she slides the back door open and takes a deep breath of the cool, salty air, shivering a little as it washes in and mixes with the warmer air of the dining room.

“Here,” I say, setting her glass on the table and grabbing my jacket off the back of the dining chair. I help her slip her small arms into the leather, smiling as it engulfs her tiny frame. “Perfect fit,” I say as I hand her the water and she takes a sip, slipping out the backdoor and sitting down on the wood swing, her feet barely touching the wood of the deck.

“Don't you just love the air here?” she asks, lifting her head up to look at the thin sliver of moon in the sky. I keep my gaze on Lyric, the cold air teasing my bare body as I step outside and move over to sit next to her.

“No place else like it on earth,” I say as she turns to look at me, our eyes meeting as I reach out and slide a stray strand of hair behind her ear. “Well, I've only lived here and in London, so I suppose I don't have a lot of room to talk.”

Lyric smiles.

“Well, you've got me beat. I've only ever lived here.”

I open my mouth to say something ridiculous like
maybe one day I'll show you the world,
but then I catch myself and run my hand over my face. I'm getting caught up in some strange masculine urge to make this girl my own, and it's freaking me the bloody fuck out.

“What time is it?” Lyric asks finally as I sit back and slide my arm around her shoulders.

“Eager for the night to end?” I joke.

“Not exactly.”

We exchange another look, one that says we both know it's going to eventually. Shouldn't be a big deal, right? I've had plenty of nights with beautiful girls that I was sad to see end, but end they did and we said our good-byes, no harm done. Why the hell should this be any different?

But then I look at Lyric, swimming in my jacket, her dark hair framing her pale face and I know in some small way, it is. If she were any other random girl, I'd probably ask her out a few more times, see if this feeling I'm having is a fluke, just some side effect from having mind blowing sex with a girl that I actually find interesting.

I turn towards her then, leaning forward, my mouth hovering over hers. I really should shut this shit down before I get myself into trouble. Mayor's daughter. What a load of rubbish.

I start to pull away, but she catches me again with those big green eyes and those sexy curved lips of hers.
Ah, bugger it.
I wrap my finger's in Lyric's hair and kiss with reckless abandon, like I'm a man with nothing to lose, no responsibilities, no ties. Even though that's a lie, it feels fucking fantastic, especially when she leans into me, making small sounds in the back of her throat.
God yes.
I could live for this shit.

After a few moments, she comes up for air, scooting away from me and standing up, the black cotton fabric of my shirt just barely covering those bride-gone-bad white lacy panties of hers. I sit back and watch as she lifts the hem up and grabs hold of her underwear, sliding them down and dropping them to the wood of the deck.

“Do you like what you see, Royal?” she asks, mimicking me. There's a slight hesitation there, like maybe some random bloke at some point made a comment he shouldn't have. If I ever found out it was that blond douche FBI agent, I'd hunt him down myself and make quick work of him.

“Are you taking the piss?” I ask, eyeing her up and down, my cock hard enough that it hurts. Lyric gives me a weird look and I grin. “I'm asking if you're joking, you daft Yank.”

“Screw you,” she says, but she's watching me watching her, cheeks flushed with desire, pupils dilated. When she takes a step towards me, I stand up, too, dropping my drawers to the deck and smiling as she sweeps my body with her gaze.

“Like what
you
see, Pint-Size?”

“You must be
taking the piss,
” she mimics and I laugh, reaching out and grabbing her around the waist, pulling her against me as the shirt rides up, exposing her bare ass to the evening air. We stare at each other for a moment longer and then I step away, sitting back down on the wood swing and dragging her onto my lap so that she's straddling my thighs.

“You look so fucking hot in my jacket, babe,” I say, reaching in and pulling out a condom from the front pocket. Always be prepared, that's my motto.

“I bet you say that to all the girls,” she whispers, but not like she's jealous, just stating a fact. I think about that for a moment and then shake my head, shrugging my shoulders.

“No,” I tell her honestly, “I really don't.” Because I don't really just shrug my cut onto the shoulders of any random girl.
Goddamn it.
Dober was completely and utterly correct; I am a fucking dumb shit.

I ignore that train of thought because tonight, this is all we get. Her world, my world—oil and water. I tear open the wrapper and enjoy knowing that Lyric has a front row seat right now, watching intently as I roll the latex down my shaft with a groan. I really am hard enough that it hurts, like there's an ache in my body that'll kill me if I don't quench its thirst.

Settling my hands at her hips, I help her lift up on her knees and position herself against my cock, our eyes locked as she slides down the length of me, pressing our bodies together with a small gasp of pleasure.

“Ride me, Lyric,” I say as she settles her hands on my shoulders, nails biting into my skin as she squeezes tight, moving her hips in a slow rhythm that gently rocks the porch swing. I keep my hands tight on either side of her waist, groaning as her pussy strokes my cock, drawing pleasure out of me in waves. With the sound of the ocean and the sliver of moon in the night sky as our backdrop, I think this is the most romantic thing I've ever done, and I don't fucking do romance.

“Lyric,” I moan her name again as she closes her eyes, a bead of sweat trailing down the side of her face. When I lean forward and lick it off in a single stroke, she cries out, dropping her right hand down to her clit and rubbing the swollen flesh with her fingers. Lyric's muscles tighten around me like steel bands, squeezing me tight and refusing to let go, pausing her movements with just the head of my cock inside of her. She freezes there, panting as she tries to catch her breath. I keep hold of her waist and ease her back down, drawing a pleasured cry from her throat as I grit my teeth and feel my own body fighting for release.

I don't feel like my usual self right now, like someone who knows what he's doing, who decides when and where and how the sex goes down. I just feel like a man trying to get closer to his woman, trying to hold her, to make her feel good, to possess her.

I slide my hands forward and up Lyric's smooth belly to her full breasts, grabbing them in rough fingers as I try to get a hold myself, to bring the usual Royal back to the forefront of my mind. But then she cries out, a little more pained than pleasured and I fucking snap, wrapping my arms around her waist and yanking her as tightly as I can against my chest.

When we come, her hips bucking and thrashing against my cock, we come together.

A couple hours later, I'm standing on my front porch watching the sun come up, a cigarette clutched in one hand and a girl in my bed. I don't usually bring them over here. There's no need, really. I can have as many club whores as I want back at the compound.

But they never make me feel like this—like a confused, moody asshole.

I watch the ocean for a while, waving at my eighty-seven year old neighbor with a single extended finger when he makes the sign of the cross at me. When I first moved in, the old bastard tried to start a petition to remove all convicted felons from the neighborhood. Joke was on him when I did a background check on myself and dumped the paperwork on his front lawn.

I've never been convicted of shit.

I take a drag on my smoke and pause, hearing the bike before I see it. By the time Dober pulls up in front of my house on his silver and black bobber, I'm stabbing it into the ashtray next to the wooden swing, a perfect match to the one on the back porch.

“What the hell do you want this early in the goddamn morning?” I ask, raising my brows and getting another cig from my pack. I like to smoke when I think. I have a lot of fucking thinking to do this morning.

“I was on my way in when Janae called,” Dober says, climbing off his bike and slipping his helmet off. One glance at my bagger and I can tell he knows I have a guest. “She wanted me stop by and wake your lazy ass up, remind you that you have a meeting with the mayor's daughter this morning.” I freeze, my smoke halfway to my lips, lighter still clutched in my hand. “But I can see that won't be necessary because the boss is a goddamn dumb shit.”

“Watch yourself, Dober,” I say, gritting my teeth a little. “We all know how you got your name off some snippy ass little black and tan dog, but there's no need to reinforce the notion.” Dober ignores me and strokes his hand down his beard in thought.

“You fucked the mayor's daughter.”

“Indeed, I did.” I smoke my cigarette in silence for a few moments.

“Do you need a speech from your VP? Something about putting the club first and all that?” I squeeze my smoke in tight fingers.

“I always put the club first,” I say, my voice cold and empty of emotion.
Landon.
I put the club above my best friend, above the boy who'd made me feel at home in a foreign country, the one who'd taken me on my first ride, who'd dragged me to the Alpha Wolves Compound and somehow got me tangled up in becoming a hang-around. We'd prospected together, patched in together.

“Then how about something uplifting?”

“I'm listening,” I say, glancing at Dober in his cut, a hammer hanging at his side and a slight smile working its way onto his lips. This is not a man who smiles often, believe me.

“Glacier dug up some shit on that Brent guy and found out he's on paid leave with the FBI, pending some sort of internal investigation.”

My mouth twitches.

“Now that
is
bloody good news,” I say, glancing over my shoulder as the cracked front door swings open and the dogs pad out, their nails loud on the wood of the porch. My heart did a little jump there when I thought it might be Lyric. Fuck me sideways. “What else do we know?”

“We know that this guy, Brent, is good friends with an old buddy of ours.”

“That so?” I ask, perking up at the news. Whatever this shit is with Lyric, I can't figure it out right now. But club business? I'm damn good at club business. “And who might that be?”

“You remember Clayton Moore?”

My stomach tightens at the mention of the president of the Mile Wide Motorcycle Club. If that bitch was listed in the dictionary, he'd be there under
greedy motherfucker.
I've never known a man to go so far or fight so hard for so little.

“So Brent's in bed with Mile Wide, huh? Didn't see that one coming.”

“Glacier's got more he says, but he wants us to come in and hear it straight.” Dober raises his bushy brows at me.

“Why the fuck didn't he call me directly and tell me any of this shit?” I ask on an exhale as I watch the dogs play bow at one another, tails wagging so fast they're nothing but blurs.

“He
did,
” Dober says, getting out a cig of his own and lighting up. “But some girl answered in a sleepy voice and asked if he wanted her to wake you up. He figured you must be pretty busy if you'd let some chick touch your cell.”

My mouth curves up in a smile before I can stop it. Dober notices and gives me another look. Like I need that shit from him. I know better than anyone that Lyric's off the menu, that she should've never
been
on the menu in the first place. The last thing the club needs right now is some overprotective father waging a political war against the Wolves. We've got an FBI man in bed with a rival MC and internal problems that almost make me miss my days of running drugs for the previous pres.