Kicked: A Bad Boy Sports Romance

by C. M. Stunich

  One step at a time.

  One single step.

  When I get home, I half-expect to find Royal waiting in my driveway for me. What I don't expect is to feel a pang of disappointment when he's not there. This is for the best, I tell myself, because if this guy's managed to get this far under my skin in just a couple of days, how quickly could things escalate?

  I don't want to know.

  I move up the porch steps and unlock the door, the pile of leather clothes on my couch catching my attention again. I'll change out of this silly sundress and load those up in the car for tomorrow. No sense in keeping them around; there's no way I'm ever getting on the back of a bike.

  I pass by them and around the corner to the kitchen, tossing my purse on the counter and grabbing a wineglass from the cabinet. After the week I've had, I could use a drink. I crack open my best bottle of Merlot and pour myself a healthy dose, wrapping my fingers around the stem and carrying it with me into my bedroom.

  I sip my wine as I dig through my drawers for a pair of comfy pjs, my eyes straying to my underwear drawer, my thoughts straying back to Royal McBride.

  He's a dick, but God, the sex was amazing. And I didn't get a good look at it, but … the way he filled me up, he's got to have a massive …

  “Not thinking about Royal's dick,” I say aloud, grabbing a pink tank and a pair of gray sweatpants. I kick off my beige heels and unzip my dress, letting it fall to the floor when my eyes stray to the mirror and catch sight of my body dressed in scandalously sexy white lingerie.

  I don't know why I wear it, really. It's not like I have casual quickies often. Usually, when I get laid, it's something I've known was going to happen for a while and I prepare for it. Still, I wear the sexiest underwear and bras I can get my hands on. Sometimes I even wear garters or corsets under my clothes. If I had to psychoanalyze myself, I'd say it had something to do with letting go. On the outside, I can be polished and put together. Underneath … nobody can see that, so I can be as wild and crazy as I want without consequence.

  I bite my lower lip and grab my wine again, turning so I'm facing the mirror fully. After a moment, I reach up and let my hair down, watching as it transform my face from plain to … pretty, like a frame for a picture.

  My gaze flicks up towards my doorway.

  Nobody's here right now, and I just saw my family this morning. It's doubtful that anyone would stop by.

  I take another sip of wine.

  Fuck it.

  I put my glass down and move out to the living room, scooping up the clothes and boots that Royal left and dragging them back into my bedroom. I grab the leather pants first, lifting them up from the pile and rubbing my thumbs across the fabric.

  “Well, aren't these biker chick chic,” I say, holding them up to my body and imagining what Royal's face might look like if I slipped these on and showed up at his compound wearing them tomorrow. I run my hands over the legs and feel a pad in the knee area and one at the hip. The tag says they're riding pants, so I guess this isn't just a fashion thing but a safety thing.

  I take a deep breath and pull them on, sliding them up and over my white thong. It's a little difficult at first because they're so tight, but once I get them into place, they settle against my skin like a glove.

  I turn back and forth in front of the mirror, examining the round curve of my ass, the long lines of my legs. Not too shabby. I feel like a different person from the boring frump who stares in the mirror every morning and wonders if anyone will notice her. Maybe this is good for me? Trying all this stuff on? Not that I would ever wear it in public, but if I want to succeed in politics I have to learn to stand out a little more. Nothing outrageous, just … more visible.

  I pull on my tank top next and then grab the jacket, slipping my arms into the sleeves and zipping it up tight. I usually have a problem finding jackets that'll fit across my breasts. This one does the trick with no pulling or tugging in the shoulders or chest. What the hell, Royal? Maybe the guy's screwed so many women, he can just look at them and guess their size?

  My fingers trace the asymmetrical zipper from my right shoulder down to the center of the jacket, sliding across the supple black leather and touching the quilted accents on the side panels. I'm engulfed in the smell of leather and oil, my mind making that now seemingly easy jump back to Royal.

  He must've spent a fortune on all this stuff.

  I push that thought aside and grab my socks, sitting down on the edge of the bed and slipping my feet into the leather boots—another perfect fit. They sit at mid-calf, five buckles climbing up the side, the metal clips a perfect match to the stamped metal heel plate. When I move, the single zipper on the side clinks.

  A giddy excitement bubbles up in my belly, that same feeling I used to get as a little girl when I played dress up. It never gets old, does it?

  Without skipping a beat, I slip into the bathroom and smear some eyeliner around my eyes, splashing on some colored shadow and doing my best to imitate the look that that girl, Mia, had. Red, red lips and a splash of pink on the cheeks.

  When I lean back and look at myself, I'm virtually unrecognizable.

  “Oh my God.” I look this way and that, admiring the sudden transformation from politician to … biker chick. When I'm satisfied with the makeup, I move back into my room and grab my iPod, firing up Spotify and starting Rita Ora's “How We Do”.

  As the music starts, I dance my way back to the full-length mirror and thank God for inventing blinds. If anybody saw me right now … I think I might die from embarrassment.

  “What do you think, love?” I ask my reflection, imitating Royal's sexy accent as I stare at myself in the mirror. “How do I look now?” I blow a kiss at the mirror. “Do you want me, Royal? Do you? Do you want to fuck me over your big sexy motorcycle?”

  “Fucking hell, Pint-Size, baby, when the hell did you learn to read minds?”

  I scream and spin, slamming my thighs into my dresser and losing my balance until I end up sitting on top of it.

  “What the hell are you doing in my house?!” I scream over Rita's bouncy vocals.

  Royal just grins at me and leans against my doorjamb, sexy as hell in leather pants and boots that are strangely similar to mine.

  “I knocked, but you didn't answer,” he supplies with a shrug.

  “So you just walked in?” I scream as the song winds down and “I Kissed a Girl” by Katy Perry starts playing. The music … it isn't helping. Just saying.

  “Oh, kinky, I like it,” Royal drawls as he leans against the wall and grins at me. “I've always adored girl on girl myself.”

  “Get the hell out of my house,” I say, standing up and giving him my best no-nonsense glare. “I could call the cops on you.”

  “Do it and the club will fall down on you so hard, you'll never dig yourself out.” He says that like it's no big deal, not even a threat, just plain and simple fact. “I was in the neighborhood and thought I'd stop by to see if you'd changed your mind. Glad I did.”

  “Changed my mind?” I echo as his eyes rove over me and the bulge in his pants becomes impossible to ignore. I've got him right now; he's completely and utterly hooked. I pretend like that thought means nothing to me. At the same time, I can't stop watching him watching me, eating me up like a starving wolf gulping down its prey. Okay, that's a little creepy. But I like it. I really, really do. “I haven't changed my mind about anything,” I say as Royal steps into my bedroom—my bedroom—and starts walking towards me.

  I wish I could back up, run, do anything but just stand there.

  When he comes up to me, towering above my tiny frame with a lusty smile on his face, my heart nearly breaks free from my ribs and goes skidding across the floor.

  “You've got the look, now get on the bike.” Royal reaches up, a helmet I hadn't noticed before dangling from his inked up fingers. He slips it onto my head and then slides his fingers up my throat to the chin strap, tightening it up and then grabbing my gloves off the bed. “Ride
with me, baby. Let go a little.”

  I stare at the gloves in his outstretched hand and then back up at his face through the helmet's shield. The man just walked in here and saw me dancing around like an idiot, looking stupid as hell in an outfit that doesn't suit my personality at all. This is all a fantasy, just a big girl's dress up session.

  But I can't help myself.

  I want to go with him.

  Just for tonight, I tell myself. Just one last fantasy to add to my collection.

  Tomorrow, we'll have our meeting and then this will all be over. I can cut Royal out of my life and focus on my career again. He'll fade away like a good memory, something to look back on and smile at.

  What a silly thought that turns out to be.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Royal

  If my cock was any harder, it could cut fucking diamond.

  When I walked into Lyric's house, I expected to find her reading a book or watching a movie or something. I absolutely did not expect to see what I saw.

  What a fucking vision.

  Lyric in leather is every man's wet dream, a feminine figure in black, the fabric clinging to her curves and emphasizing everything that's sexy about her. And the hair? The makeup? Listening to her speak my fantasy from last night aloud?

  I just about came in my pants.

  “I'm not sure if I can do this,” she says, pausing just outside her front door, eyes flicking up and down the street like she expects everyone to be staring at us. I don't see anybody around, but if they are then screw them. Who the hell cares?

  “Bollocks,” I say and then gesture at the bike. “That's complete shite and we both know it. Get your ass over here.” Lyric turns a glare on me and I grin, realizing as I do that I'm absolutely one hundred percent the dumb shit that Dober said I was. Tonight, I didn't come over here to ask about the FBI or the mayor's office or any of that other crap.

  Tonight, I came over here because I wanted to see Lyric.

  God help me if any of the boys find out about this.

  “What happens if we crash?” Lyric says, reluctantly coming down the steps to stand next to my Swinger. The bike's a beauty in white and red and chrome, ready to hit the highway for a long trip if the urge ever strikes my or the club's fancy. I bought it a few years back from SuckerPunch Sally's, an American manufacturer out of Arizona. Got my bobber from 'em, too. I know enough about motorcycles that I could build or modify whatever I wanted, but who the hell has the time for that shit?

  “Then this,” I reach down and cup her ass in a firm grip, “will keep your skin from making love to the pavement.” Lyric shoves me back, but I think I can see her cheeks—the ones on her face, of course—reddening beneath the shield of her helmet. “But we won't crash.”

  “How do you know that? Per mile traveled, motorcycle deaths outnumber automobile deaths twenty-six to one.”

  “Bullshit,” I say swinging my leg over the bike and settling into the leather seat. I slip my helmet on and give her a look that says I'm not buying what she's selling. “Get over here and wrap your arms around me, Pint-Size. Shouldn't be a problem, right? I was inside of you, after all.”

  “My mother once grounded Kailey for a month when she caught her on the back of a boy's motorcycle.”

  My grin ratchets up a notch.

  “Can your mum ground you now?” I ask, watching as her body tightens and her hands curl into fists. She doesn't seem the type to fall in line easily, but there's definitely something bothering her. Whether it's her parents or not, I don't know. But for some strange reason, I feel like I almost want to. First woman I've met in forever that I give two shits about and I could never have her as my old lady. A deputy mayor and an MC president do not belong together, for so many reasons.

  Not that I'm there yet. I just met the girl for Christ's sake.

  But the fact that I feel like I could get there? That's terrifying in it's own right.

  “I'm about to come over there and drag you onto the back of this bike, Lyric Rentz.”

  A shiver travels through her and I watch as her chest rises and falls with a massive breath.

  “Okay, okay, okay, I can do this,” she murmurs, moving over and swinging her leg over the bitch seat behind me. Probably shouldn't call it that around her, should I? “Where do I put my arms?”

  “Wrap 'em tight around me, love,” I say, making fun of her imitation of me. “And squeeze—hard. Don't want to fall off and crack that pretty little helmet I gave you.”

  That does the trick.

  Lyric wallpapers herself against my back, her breasts mashed up against my spine, her helmeted head pressed into the leather of my jacket, right up against my one-percenter patch.

  I have to take a few steadying breaths myself. Guess I'll be riding with a hard-on. Good thing I've had a lot of practice at it.

  “You ready?” I ask and Lyric nods.

  A surge of adrenaline goes through me, like this is my first ride all over again on the back of Landon's shitty old clunker, my third day in the States and already getting into trouble.

  Landon.

  I shove that thought violently away and start the engine while Lyric begins to tremble behind me. She's a brave bird, that one. If she's that terrified and still willing to try? Well, cheers to her then.

  I start off slow, circling the block a few times until I feel her loosen up a bit, her body relaxing into mine instead of stiffening against it. There's only one thing around here that needs to be stiff, and I've already got that part taken care of.

  When I think she's ready, I crank up the speed a bit, changing direction and heading north, towards my place. Lyric tenses up again, but only for a minute and after awhile, I feel like she's starting to get it, that epiphany that happens on your first time out. Not everyone gets it, but those who do, they know that the bike and the rider … they're one body, one soul. Out on the road, it's like you're a different being altogether, something so perfect that God had to split you in half to keep things fair.

  Add Lyric into the mix … and I'm definitely feeling some bloody supernatural shit.

  I take the turns slow, the coast dropping away beside us in a rush of navy and white crested waves, tangled sea withered plants on either side of the road, the perfect frame for popping Lyric's two up cherry. She catches on quick, too, making me grin wide and feral beneath my helmet as I feel her adjust her weight with mine when we make the next turn. That a girl.

  I don't go straight home, taking a more scenic route until the sun starts to dip low and the light begins to fade from the sky. We circle around the city, flying beneath the thick, heavy branches of redwood trees, drops of moisture splattering the shield of my helmet as I take us all the way around Trinidad and pull smoothly into my driveway.

  “So?” I ask, pulling off my helmet and glancing over my shoulder at Lyric. She's still holding onto me, hands pressed against my stomach, fingers clutching the leather of my jacket. She's so small that she has to squeeze tight to even get her arms around me. I don't want her to let go.

  That thought hits me like a brick to the head, and I stand up suddenly, dislodging her grip as I climb off the bike and reach out a hand.

  “What'd you think?”

  Lyric's fingers are trembling again when she places them in mine. Must be a thing of hers, to quiver like that when she's too full up on emotions. Pint-Size needs to learn to express herself.

  “It was …”

  “Magical?” I suggest with an arched brow as she takes her own helmet off and glances around with a puzzled facial expression. “Mind-blowing? Orgasmic?”

  “Interesting,” she supplies, lifting her chin and looking at me like she couldn't care less. I see right through her.

  “You felt it, didn't you?” I ask, stepping close. She steps back and bumps into the bike, a sight for sore eyes in all that leather.

  “Felt what?”

  “It,” I say, reaching out and pulling her helmet from her fingers. “That cosmic force that binds the ri
der and the bike.”

  “Cosmic force?” she asks. Her turn to raise a brow at me.

  “I'm a biker, babe, not a poet. It was the best I could come up with.” I flash another grin and step back, turning to look out across the road at the sea. All I have to do is cross the street and descend a couple hundred steps to get to the beach. It's cold as hell and windy as shit, but at least it's pretty to look at. I stare at the massive rock formations, just barely visible in the weak moonlight. “Like what you see, Pint-Size?”

  “Where are we?” she asks, turning to look over her shoulder at the massive white and blue Victorian behind us. “Whose house is this?”

  “You have three guesses, sweetheart, but if none of them are Royal then you're dead wrong.”

  “This is your place?” she asks, spinning fully, forgetting completely about my luxurious little ocean view. “You?” She glances over at me and then back at the house. “You live here? The president of the Alpha Wolves Motorcycle Club? In this pretty old house?”

  “Well, where did you think I lived? In a cave out in the woods?”

  “Wouldn't have surprised me,” Lyric sniffs, running her fingers through her hair. It's so mussed up and sexy right now, the ends tangled and windswept. I want to bury my hands in it, cup the back of her head and pull her mouth to mine. But I restrain myself.

  For the moment. Can't promise I'll behave once I get her inside.

  “It's … nice,” she admits begrudgingly and I smile. Of course it's nice. I worked my ass off for this place. Being a part of a motorcycle club, it's not all fun and games and bros hanging out at the bar. We run legitimate businesses—and plenty of illegitimate ones—buy houses, get married, have kids. I'm not exactly ready for the last two items on that list just yet, but I figured I'd settle down eventually, so I got started on the house part. Even a bachelor likes a comfortable place to sleep; we're still human you know. “But it is pretty late and we have a meeting tomorrow.”