Risky and Wild: A Motorcycle Club Romance (Bad Boys MC Trilogy Book 2)

by Violet Blaze

  I run my fingers over my hair as I try to breathe, putting a hand on my hip and staring at Royal's dark boots against the ugly blue carpet.

  “My brother—” I start, but he's already shaking his head.

  “No. Enough here. If you want to talk, it's got to be somewhere a little more …” A dark assessing look slides over me and I bite my lip. “Private.”

  “There aren't any security cameras upstairs,” I tell him and then get a chill. Maybe I shouldn't have said that? Royal smirks at me, but he doesn't try to touch me again. He just stands there looking beautiful and smug and full of himself, his tattooed hands tucked into his front pockets.

  “I'll remember that for later,” he tells me, gesturing with his chin towards the stairs. “Now, let's get the hell out of here. You look bloody knackered.”

  Royal gives me a look that says he knows exactly why I'm so tired—I didn't get any fucking sleep last night. If he thinks that's happening again tonight, he's dead wrong.

  “Now, Pint-Size, for the important question: my place or yours?”

  “I'm here strictly on business tonight,” I tell Royal as he slides off his helmet and then leans his forearms on the handlebars of his bike. Jesus. We spend several minutes just staring at one another, the ocean breeze teasing the raven dark strands of his hair while it tousles it and threatens to tear mine right out of the tight, uncomfortable bun it's been swept back in.

  I pause for a moment and then reach up, yanking the clip out and letting brunette waves tumble around my shoulders.

  Royal grins at me.

  “Doesn't that feel better?” he asks as he stands up and tucks his helmet under his arm, moving up next to me and then glancing over my shoulder, out towards the dark angry sounds of the sea. Royal's shoulders are tense as he scans the horizon and narrows his eyes dangerously. I would not want to be on the receiving end of that look.

  You're dating a guy who leveled a gun through a broken car door window and shot several men dead. Dead. This guys kills people.

  My heart starts racing as Royal turns his attention back to me, his square jaw tight, the muscles in his neck stiff as he runs his tongue over his lower lip.

  “We should get inside,” he tells me, and I don't bother to argue. Not only is it cold enough out here to give me goose bumps, but I'm also aware that things aren't quite right. Something happened on Saturday, something big. This isn't my world, and I don't understand it, but somehow I'm wrapped up in it now. Wrapped up in Royal.

  Please don't let this be a mistake, I think as I follow him up the steps and inside his stupidly gorgeous house. I pause as he shuts and locks the door behind us, glancing around for Alloy and Lake.

  “Where are the dogs?” I ask as he breezes past me and into the kitchen, pulling several items out of the fridge and tossing them on the counter. If he starts cooking for me again … I'm screwed. I cross my arms over my chest and follow him.

  Pasta.

  Royal McBride is making fucking pasta.

  “Shit,” I breathe, closing my eyes for a moment and then reopening them to find him staring at me. Royal doesn't look particularly happy, a frown teasing the corners of his mouth.

  “I didn't feel safe leaving them here alone today,” he says, an edge to his voice that scares the crap out of me. I watch as he sets a pot of water on the stove and turns it on. Seeing a big dude in a leather vest moving around the kitchen like he knows what he's doing … priceless. “Just like I don't like leaving you,” he adds with a strange note to his voice, like he's about to switch the subject to something that'll piss me off.

  I've known this guy a week. A week. One week.

  I really am crazy. For all I know, he could take a knife from that block on the counter and slit my throat. Royal could be insane. He could be a monster. He could be so many things I don't know about.

  “I let your friend drive me to work today, didn't I?” I tell him, thinking about the guy on the bike that tailed me from Royal's house to my own to change, and then over to the office. He left as I pulled into the parking lot next to his president. “And I'll let you drive me home tonight.”

  Royal gives me a look as he grabs a food processor from below the counter and starts adding basil, garlic, Parmesan, olive oil and nuts into it. Pesto. He's making fresh pesto. I watch his tattooed fingers work, my heart thudding against my rib cage as I try to stay focused on the conversation. He's so … interesting. And I'm not. This is never going to work. I realize I'm working terribly hard on this self-sabotage bullshit, some self-fulfilling prophecy crap, but I can't make my mind stop.

  “I hate to tell you this, Pint-Size, but for now, this is your home.”

  “Whoa there,” I say, pausing as he flicks on the food processor and blends the ingredients into a green paste. When he stops, I continue. “I can't … I'm not moving in here. I know all the things we said and felt and did yesterday …” I have to stop again because Royal's staring at me with those earthy brown eyes of his, these two soulful pits that I want to dive into so I can fall forever down them. “They were great, and I definitely feel some sort of connection with you, but you do realize that we actually met each other one week ago.”

  “So?” Royal asks, raising his dark brows at me and slipping out of his cut. His arm and shoulder muscles ripple and I get caught staring at the rose tattoo on the side of his neck like I'm mesmerized. “What's that got to do with anything?”

  “A week isn't long enough,” I tell him as I move around the island to stand firmly in the kitchen. It's so goddamn cute, I can't stand it. There's this classy masculine flair to everything, a bachelor-elevated sort of a look that I haven't seen before. I didn't even know men were capable of this sort of thing. The cabinets are stained a dark espresso, the pulls silver and the counters a dark blue quartz. The backsplash is made up of stainless steel tiles, and the original window casing has been sanded and stained to match the rest of the woodwork.

  “Not long enough for what?” he asks, like I'm the crazy person here, the one skirting around the subject of murder and criminal activity like it's nothing. “You going radge over there, Pint-Size?”

  “First off, I have no idea what radge means although I can take it from context. And no, I'm not because a week isn't long enough to move in together, Royal.” He gives me a look, pausing our conversation just long enough to add noodles to the boiling water. When Royal turns and starts moving towards me, I take a step back.

  “See, you need to stop doing that,” he tells me as his fingers curl around my upper arms and give me the chills. I stare up at him, but I can't move. As usual, I'm frozen in place by that look, the smug smirk on those lips, the way he takes me in like I'm wearing that red dress from the first night we met and not some ugly ass suit. “Stepping back. Stop stepping away from me, Pint-Size. I already went out on a limb for you. And,” he leans down to breathe hot breath against my cheek, “you promised to be mine.”

  “Temporary insanity,” I plead as Royal captures my face in both hands, bites my bottom lip and tugs on it until I moan. “Stop it,” I say when he releases me and moves back to the stove like he's already made his point, like stomping around in leather boots and dark denim that cups his ass like a second skin is going to sway me somehow. “I'm not moving in here.”

  “That wasn't a request,” Royal says as he stirs the noodles and glances back over at me, smirking all the while. I can see that his expression isn't fully there, like it's a mask he's wearing over his real emotions. I stare back at it and try to remind myself that men died this weekend by his hand, that Brent Gilman is dead, that my brother got beat up by Royal's club. Oh, and he basically just told me what to do.

  “You can't make me stay here,” I tell him and he raises an eyebrow at me. “Not really. I don't even have any clothes for work tomorrow.” I cross my arms back over my chest and lean into the cabinets, letting the smells of the kitchen envelop me. Pasta is my weakness. I don't remember telling him that; it must be a coincidence.

 
“We'll pack some up tomorrow,” he tells me as he sets a strainer in the sink and dumps the noodles into it. “You can grab whatever crap you want and toss it in my busted arse truck.”

  I close my eyes a moment at the reminder, the blur of color and sound as the truck fishtailed and I slammed headfirst into the sand dunes. Things could've ended up so much worse, I know, but the memory still isn't a pleasant one. I open them back up and stare at Royal's back, at the cut off sleeves of his tee, the way his body reacts to mine when I move, pushing my breasts up with my arms.

  I have power over this man, this big tough asshole who thinks he owns the world.

  “Why would you want me to move in here anyway?” I ask, trying a different route as Royal flicks on the vent above the stove and the fan sucks away the steam. “Do you really want to lose all your bachelor perks so quickly?”

  Royal pauses, giving me another look, one that has something in it that I'm not quite sure how to read. Fear. That's what it is, but it doesn't look like it's me he's afraid of. He caps the emotion off as quick as it came and then scoops the steaming noodles onto one of two blue plates.

  “With me, it's all or nothing,” he says seriously. “You were there. You saw things you shouldn't have, Lyric. You're a liability to the club.”

  “A liability?” I ask as he tastes the sauce and then spoons some onto the noodles.

  “An outsider that knows too much about the in.” A pause. “Unless, of course,” another look thrown over his shoulder, “you belong to me.”

  “So you're dating me to, what, keep me safe? From your people? Your friends?” I'm trying not to sound hysterical. I think I might. A little. This is all just a big … clusterfuck. Yeah, I said it. Clusterfuck.

  Yesterday, I waited all day for this guy to get back from wherever it was that he went, a couple of his club members stationed outside the house as bodyguards I guess, and then when he finally showed up … we spent all evening and all night wrapped in each other's arms. Remembering the feel of his naked, sweaty body against mine riles me up and gets my heart pumping even faster. But it also pisses me off because remembering yesterday is making today seem even worse.

  I'll be here and I … like you, Royal. I really do.

  I can't believe I said that to him, especially after … whatever this is.

  Royal picks up the plates and comes to stand next to me, his eyes twinkling in amusement. Rat bastard son of a bitch, I think as I glare back at him. I'm upset here, okay? I glare up at him as we stand there in yet another stare off. Seem to be having a lot of those lately.

  “Well?” I ask as Royal moves forward and sets the plates on the table. I follow after him, arms still crossed over my chest, furious and fuming.

  It's because I'm king, love. And I need a queen.

  He said that to me. He did. I haven't lost my mind yet, although if I spend a lot of time around Royal, it's likely to happen.

  “No,” he says, turning on me, sliding his hands around my waist and making me gasp. His grip is firm and steady, like he knows exactly what it is he wants. I wonder if that's true. I wonder if he's as confident inside his head as he appears on the outside. “I'm dating you because I like you, Pint-Size. Didn't I make that clear yesterday?” Royal leans down and runs his tongue along the side of my jaw and I shiver. His stubbled face rubs against my cheek as he starts kissing his way down my neck. “I asked you to be my queen, didn't I?”

  “Yes, but—” I start, but it's really hard to think when his right hand is sliding down my side and attempting to dive under my skirt. My own hands drop down to block him, determined to finish this discussion. Royal and I, neither of us lives their life in la-la land. I hate to be that person, the one that needs everything outlined and labeled, but … that's kind of who I am.

  I'm just not exactly sure that it's who I want to be.

  “Listen Lyric,” he says, the expression on his face hardening again. “With this,” he gestures between us, “it's all or nothing because it has to be, do you understand?” I keep staring at him as he backs up and pulls out a chair at the table for me. I look at it a long moment before sitting down and tucking my skirt beneath my thighs. Royal's big hands settle on my shoulders and squeeze, sending a spiral of warmth through my body. “The club doesn't like you,” he states as I glance up at him. He's staring into space now, at a spot of wall directly across from us where a black and white photograph of a motorcycle hangs.

  “So … why all of this?” I whisper, feeling my heartbeat stutter and stop as I grip the sides of the chair and try to figure out what it is that I'm feeling. I can never quite sort my emotions out when he's around. “Bringing me over here, asking me all that stuff yesterday …”

  His lips twitch a little as he lets go of my shoulders and slides his body into the chair on my left, our knees bumping under the table.

  “Listen, Pint-Size, I can't just … casually see you.” I stare back at him as he reaches down and twirls the fork around his fingers. “Or shag you.” That smile's back, turning my own lips into a frown. “Remember how I asked you if you'd ever considered a different life?”

  I swallow hard and pick up my own fork. I can feel my heart beating in my throat like a trapped bird. I swirl some of the angel hair pasta on the tines and then look back up at Royal.

  “Of course I remember that,” I say as I stare back at him and wonder what the hell I've gotten myself into. “But I … I thought we were agreeing to, you know, see each other. Not … shack up.”

  Royal tosses his head back and laughs, tucking his hands behind his head and smiling at me.

  “For better or worse, cupcake, you're staying here. What do you think Mile Wide's gonna do with my ol' lady if they catch her all by her lonesome?”

  “I'm not your old lady,” I say as I put the pasta in my mouth and try not to groan. It's good. Really good. And it was made by an outlaw biker. How weird is that? “Doesn't that mean, like, your wife or something?”

  “It means exactly what you think it means,” he says and then he's twisting his own fork into the food and pausing to check his cell when it buzzes. A frown creases his mouth as he sets it back on the table and looks over at me with raised brows. “It means you're bloody mine.”

  “Right. Like you're mine,” I confirm, narrowing my eyes. I don't know much about motorcycle clubs except for what I've gleaned from TV, movies and Google. But here's one thing I do know: I'm not subservient or submissive to anyone. And I won't bow down to a brotherhood or take a backseat. “Royal, you know I'm not like those other women.”

  “I know,” he says as he looks up at me, studies my face with a darkness clouding his features. “It's why I like you.” His mouth curves up into a small smile. “You know, I'm not like the other men either.”

  “How so?” I ask as he takes hold of his plate and shoves it, right off the table. I gawp as it crashes to the floor in a spray of pesto and pasta before I turn to look back at him. A second later, my plate goes next and Royal is standing up and lifting me from my chair, laying me across the top of the table.

  My breath comes in panting bursts as he climbs up on top of me, and I pray to God that this table is as sturdy as it looks.

  “I don't think women are inferior twits. On the contrary,” he whispers, putting his face at that sensitive spot between my shoulder and my neck as I arch my back into him. The hot heat of his mouth teases my skin as he talks. “I'm one of the few that knows the real truth. You're all far more fucking keen than we lot are.”

  “You're just saying that to make me forget about the old lady thing,” I gasp, but even though I know it's true, it's working. Royal's rough hands slide up along the sides of my thighs, push my skirt up to my hips. I reach down and clamp his wrists in place as he raises his head, putting our faces inches apart, his hard body lying partially atop mine. “I'm not sure … this thing between us …”

  “You don't have to do anything you don't bloody want to,” he growls against my lips and then pauses. “Thing is, the club d
oesn't give a fuck about protecting the mayor's daughter … but my old lady? Different story. Listen up now, it's all or nothing with me, Lyric. I can't just shag you on the side and take you to dinner on a date. If you really want to see what this shit is between us, I need you to go all in, love.”

  “I won't wear a … property of patch or anything like that,” I tell him, and I'm dead serious. Things are strange in my life right now. Being around Royal is tearing up who I thought I was inside. I'm starting to question what I really want from my life, if politics and austere buns and skirt suits are really me. But I'm also not about to trade one type of control for another. I won't do it.

  “Hmm, negotiable maybe?” he asks, but I think he's joking. Either way, it isn't happening. I relax my hands on his wrists and let him push my skirt up the rest of the way, revealing the pink crotchless panties I've been wearing all day. Normally, I dress in lingerie for myself, to express the feelings I can't let anyone else see.

  Today, I did it for him.

  “Holy hell,” Royal hisses as he sits up and pushes my knees apart. I let him, watch his face as he takes in the view, and do my best to breathe. “Oh God, this is fucking glorious. You really are full of surprises, aren't you?”

  Royal puts his left palm up next to my face, and when I turn my head, I can see the pair of pistols above his wrist. With his right, he reaches down and takes my chin, turning me back towards him as he smirks and leans over, pressing his hot mouth against mine.

  This is so wrong, I think as he moves that hand away from my face and down between my legs, dipping two fingers into the pulsing molten heat of my core. The feeling of his fingertips against my G-spot makes me arc my hips up against his hand, riding him even as I know I should be running like hell from this whole situation. This is not going to turn out well. I'm a woman with a head for politics, who's so tired of boys' clubs and bullshit I could puke. This guy, he is boys' clubs and bullshit. We're never going to work together. Ever. All of that mushy stuff we said yesterday, pure fairy tale.