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

by Violet Blaze

  A harsh, hungry moan escapes her throat and she's leaning into me, practically falling off her stool and into my lap. I think I hear Fauna clearing her throat behind me, but I ignore it, sliding my arm under Lyric's knees and breaking the kiss just long enough to lift her into my arms as I stand.

  “Jesus,” she murmurs in a breathless whisper as I turn and stalk through the common room, past a grinning Glacier as he appears in the doorway. I give him a look that says with no small amount of venom to keep his fucking mouth shut before we're breezing down the hallway, past photographs of vintage bikes, redwood trees, shots of the coast—my additions to the clubhouse décor.

  “I'll give you the chance to walk away, Lyric,” I tell her as I hit the staircase and start up the curving steps, her body light as a feather in my arms. She's so fucking little and pint-sized and packed with strength. Listen to you, you fucking tosser. Such a sapless romantic now, are we? “But first, I want to make my case.”

  “Not that I'm complaining,” Lyric begins as I kick open the door to the dorm room we first fucked in, “but I wasn't planning on running away, Royal.” I pause with her still cradled in my arms, the sharp, short lengths of her hair sliding along her cheeks as she turns her face to look at me, green gaze close, dark red lipstick mussy and smeared. “Something you should know about me,” sharp smile across those full lips, “I don't run from challenges; I destroy them.”

  Bloody hell. I'm in deep.

  With a rough growl, I toss Lyric onto the bed and climb up over her, the mattress squeaking as it adjusts to our combined weights. I don't touch her, just stare down at the classy woman in the button-up and black slacks, so far beyond my usual reach that I'm having a bit of a challenge believing she's really here for me.

  With a careful thumb, I lift my hand up and run the pad of my finger over the slice on her left cheek.

  “So sorry, sweetheart. Hardly a week in and I'm already getting you into trouble.”

  “Say something British and I'll forgive you,” she whispers, voice hoarse with need as she hooks her heels behind my back and pulls me towards her. The hard bulge in my pants rubs against the warm spot between her thighs as I flash a grin.

  “Let's just say I'm chuffed to bits, love, and leave it at that.”

  Lyric laughs and threads her fingers through my hair, guiding our lips together for a gentle kiss that quickly comes unhinged, tongues and teeth and lips working frenziedly as our bodies melt together. I start to move my hips, grinding our pelvises together through our clothes as Lyric finds the hem of my shirt and slides her fingers underneath, nails skimming across my abs.

  “We should really talk about this FBI thing,” she whispers, but that doesn't stop her from going for my belt, unbuckling it and flicking open the button on my jeans.

  “We really bloody should,” I respond, kissing my way along her jawbone, down to her throat, tasting the soft, soap smelling pulse of her skin with my tongue. When Lyric slides her hand inside my jeans and wraps her fingers tight around the rigid length of my cock, I groan, bucking my hips against her hand as I bite her lower lip.

  My own hand finds its way down Lyric's body, unhooking the clasps on her shiny, ironed work slacks, inside to find … that she's got on another pair of those crotchless panties.

  “These really are the dog's bollocks, you know that?” I ask, but all I get is a breathy laugh in response, one that quickly devolves into a gasp as my fingers curl into Lyric's slick, molten pussy. She works my body while I work hers, the both of us panting and groaning and writhing beneath the other's grip. Animals. We're like fucking animals.

  It becomes a race then, like we're trying to see who can make the other come first on the rough, threadbare blanket of the dorm bed. Should be an easy win for Lyric considering an orgasm for a man isn't exactly a difficult feat. Then again, she's never met one with my skill.

  I tease her G-spot, dropping my mouth to the thin cotton of her shirt, finding her nipples pebbled and hard even through the double layer of fabric. I take one in my mouth, teeth clamping down against the sweet smell of the fabric softener on her button-up, the gasp and jerk of her body beneath me a satisfying answer to my touch.

  I add a third finger, stretching her as I stroke and caress and nibble, her small body coming apart in my hands. When I feel the firm clamp of her muscles around her fingers, I grin, lifting my mouth back to hers, kissing her as she comes hard and fast around me. Lyric's body moves in flickers and pulses, milking my fingers as hers struggle to keep up their rhythm.

  I withdraw my hand from Lyric's slacks and lift the fingers to my face as she cracks her lids and looks up at me, enraptured as I slide them into my mouth and taste the sweetness of her body.

  “Christ, Royal,” she snaps, sitting up a little, tightening her grip, moving her hand in a long, slow pull that moves straight through me, calls up all the pleasure that's built inside, and draws it right out. I come hard in her hand, my body sagging forward with a groan as Lyric releases me, and I push her down into the mattress. “It smells like cigarettes and mothballs in here,” she muses as we lay panting together, this strange, unfamiliar companionship taking over me, like I could lie here all day and have a fucking conversation with this woman. Like I could roll over and we could watch a movie. Like I want to take her to dinner, move her into my place, have some fucking kids with her.

  I slide off onto the mattress, giving her some room to breathe.

  “It really does, doesn't it?” I ask as I look over at her profile, face limned with faint gold leaking in from around the curtains on either side of the bed. Lyric's mouth is full, her nose small and pert, her forehead sloped and gentle. And that hair … I'm a big fucking fan of that new hair. Maybe Mia did us both a little favor. “I'll get the hang-arounds to come up here and do some dusting.”

  “Sounds like a good idea,” Lyric says, turning to look me in the eyes, her mouth parting gently as she cradles her hands beneath her cheeks. We stare at each other for a long moment, neither of us used to this casual intimacy that's building quick and steady between us. “Get it ready for the FBI raid that's probably coming your way.”

  I make a face, mouth pressing into a thin line, the warmth of the orgasm already fading from my blood. Nothing like the threat of the feds to put a damper on that after sex glow, now is there?

  “Guess I'd better deal with this before it goes all to pot,” I say with a sigh, sitting up and swinging my legs over the side of the bed before I glance back at Lyric. Her expression is resolute, full of strength and determination.

  But her eyes … they're full of fear.

  I'll have to do my best to make sure she has nothing to be scared of.

  “This the last fucking thing we need,” Dober growls under his breath, raking a hand over his beard and glaring daggers at the scratched but freshly polished hardwood floors beneath our feet. The chapel is quiet, just me and my officers discussing the newest batch of shit to fall into our laps. In the back of my mind, I'm aware of Lyric's presence in the clubhouse, like I can feel her through all the space and walls between us.

  Dear God, I must be going mad. I run my fingers through my hair and try not to let on that when it comes to the new woman in my life, I'm a goddamn nutter.

  “So we've got a turf war brewing with Mile Wide, an old lady turned snitch who's on the lam, several dead prospect, and two FBI assholes sniffing around the death of a third agent.” Glacier ticks tattooed fingers off with each item he lists, staring up at the ceiling thoughtfully while he goes about it. “Did I miss anything?”

  “Nope,” I say with a tight frown, lighting up a smoke and leaning back, boots up on the table, fingers tapping a rhythm on the arms of my chair. “I think you've managed to cover everything. Thanks for the summary, Saint.”

  He grins big and white at me, not at all worried. The man never seems to be worried about anything. Must be a side effect of being a psychopath.

  “Can we trust this girl to keep her head?” Dober asks, making eye co
ntact with me. His gaze is hard and dark, like polished onyx, fit to be carved into some sort of weapon. But, as frustrating as I find his question, I get it. Like all of us, he wants to protect himself, the club, his family. “Because if the feds put enough pressure on her …”

  There's a long pause as the men around me consider this new relationship I have with Lyric. If Bill was still president, he'd tell me to get rid of the girl—permanently. That, or marry her ass, seal her as my old lady for good. And hey, on the plus side, the courts can't make a wife testify against her husband. It's one of the reasons weddings are so important around here. Just calling someone your ol' lady doesn't necessarily make it so. The boys—and their wives—want to see commitment, dedication.

  “I trust her,” I confirm, nodding my chin, lifting my cig in two fingers as I scan the faces staring back at me. Jack nods first and grunts noncommittally under his breath, surprising considering he's almost twice my age. Jack's one of the few old-timers who doesn't secretly wish I'd die in a motorcycle accident. “And so can you. Come this weekend,” I lean forward and drop my boots to the floor with a harsh sound, stabbing my cig out in a silver ashtray, “I'll be asking her to marry me.”

  Glacier's blond brows shoot up and both Smoky and Mug swear under their breath, but Dober nods his chin like I've made the right decision. Fuck. Thought I'd never get the approval of my new VP. I almost imagine Landon's reaction to the news, the way his mouth would pull back in one of those crooked grins of his, how he'd run his fingers through his dirty blond hair and squeeze my shoulder in a brotherly grip …

  I banish the thoughts from my brain. Fuck them. Fuck them all. Landon is dead and gone, his body gracing the sandy floor of the Pacific Ocean …

  “How do you think that'll go over with Daddy Dearest?” Mick asks thoughtfully, blowing out a puff of silver smoke and staring at me with a slightly apologetic look etched into his features. He knows as well as I do who was responsible for initiating the attack on Lyric. Glinda and Mia have always been close. Glinda's practically desperate for Mia to marry into the Wolves, so she can officially join her ol' lady club.

  I slap my palm on the table and stand up.

  “No clue,” I admit as I roll my shoulders and reach up to rub at the back of my neck. “Guess we'll cross that bridge when we come to it.” I take a deep breath, crossing my arms over my chest as I let the facts roll over and through me. If the FBI decides that Brent's death is, in fact, a murder then they won't stop until they get their man. Now, I'm no snitch, but if the evidence was to point towards Mile Wide, well then, wouldn't that just be a shame? “As far as the FBI goes, I think we can encourage their investigation to move in a different direction.”

  Something clicks in Smoky's face, and he smiles, ruffling up his red hair with a tattooed hand. He's got a trail of paw prints—wolf prints—trailing up his right arm and under his shirt. Have no idea where it goes, no hankering to find out either.

  “This about that douche, Rentz?” His grin gets a little wider. “The other Rentz?”

  I nod my head, mind already clicking away, gears turning.

  Sully Rentz.

  “The little fucker's already proven himself to have lips loose enough to sink ships, so why not simply turn his confessions in the right direction?”

  Another nod from Dober. Thank Jesus. It's not that I need his approval, but hell, he's a friend, a brother, and I trust his judgment. Being at odds with a guy I trust as well as him, never a good thing.

  “Get the little canary to sing his song for the agents? As long as you can convince him to keep his mouth shut about us.”

  I feel a grin splitting my face, remembering the look on the man's face as I raised my hammer up for the first blow.

  “Oh, no worries, mate. I don't think that'll be difficult at all.”

  “You want my brother to get involved with the investigation?” Lyric asks, looking at me like I've grown a second head. She has a drink clutched in one hand and a raised brow that I don't quite like the look of. “Are you serious? He's already spoken with the feds, lied to them. For me. For you and the club. And now you want him to, what, confess?” She's already shaking her head, turning my smile into a frown. But dear God, she looks good.

  Seeing Lyric perched on the leather stool in her black slacks, with that classy do, fresh gloss applied to her lips … it's enough to send my heart galloping, the blood rushing to my cock. I lean an elbow against the bar top, glad that there's nobody else around to see us arguing. Right now, that's about the last thing either of us needs.

  “All he has to do is tell the truth,” I start, musing over the situation in my head. “Admit that he and Brent were working with Clayton Moore, and that they'd had a business disagreement.” I shrug my shoulders. “He can fill in the rest of the story however he likes.”

  Lyric's still shaking her head at me, that gorgeous hair of hers sliding across her forehead with the motion.

  “No.”

  I raise my brows at her. Not used to hearing that word. Even less used to hearing it in reference to anything club related. Here, my word is law, and even if some of the old guys wish that weren't true, they follow orders. Because without them, we're just a bunch of assholes on motorcycles.

  “Sorry, love? Come again?” I ask, stealing the whisky from her hand—apparently my little Pint-Size and Pretty has a thing for Johnnie Walker now—and finishing it off. I slam the glass down on the black marble of the bar.

  “I said no,” Lyric replies, right as Dober walks in the through the cased archway in front of me and pauses to stare. “You're not involving my brother in any of this. Figure something else out.” And then she slides off the stool like that's the end of the conversation. “Sully isn't as ambitious as I am, but he has dreams. Goals.” Lyric bites her full lower lip for a second, flicking that perfect green gaze up to me. She looks almost apologetic. I manage to pull my eyes away from Dober's once again disapproving stare and turn my attention to Lyric's heart-shaped face. “This could destroy his entire future.” She pauses, frowning. “My father's. Mine.”

  “Pint-Size,” I start, but I'm not really sure what to say, how to handle this.

  “This could destroy my political career, Royal. I want to be in the state senate, maybe even … well, who knows. If the agents get even a small whisper of my brother's involvement in any of this, that'll be it for all of us.”

  “And do you think,” I start, leaning down, getting close. She smells like wildflowers and honey, her skin smooth and even, those eyes the color of spring and living things. I want to give her the world, lift her up to wherever she wants to go, watch her star rise in whatever way makes her happiest but … that just isn't the reality of what I have to offer. Even if it was possible to just 'quit' the club and walk away—it's not—it'd still be part of my past. I'd still be tattooed and rough around the edges; I'd still be all wrong for the husband of a political powerhouse.

  For Lyric and I to be together … something has to give.

  I wish it could be me. In that moment, I wish with everything I have that it could be me.

  But it can't.

  It has to be her, and I hate that.

  “Do you think,” I repeat, “your career can survive a relationship with me?”

  “What?” she asks, blinking hard, that cute little face of hers twisting into an expression of confusion that I wish I could whisk away. That, too, is beyond my ability. “What are you talking about?”

  “You and me, Pint-Size, we can't work like this. How are you going to keep me a secret forever? I'm part of a national criminal enterprise, love. Outlaws. How are you gonna shake that when you run for state senate? Hell, Janae couldn't even manage to snag a seat on her kid's PTA board.”

  “I …” Lyric starts, blinking rapidly at me as I stand up straight, feeling my face pull into a small frown as I stare down at her, fully aware that Dober's made his way over to the bar, moving behind the counter to snag a beer. “What are you saying?”

  �
�I'm saying you're gonna have to quit anyway, love, so what does it matter?” I feel like a right arsehole for saying that, for turning her face into this fucked-up mess of sadness, confusion, frustration.

  “You … want me to quit?” she asks again, very slowly, like this is the first time it's really hit her, what being with me would mean. “You want me to drop everything, my whole life … just to be your girlfriend?”

  “Don't say it like it's the end of the world, yeah?” I force a smile to my face, even though I don't feel a damn thing but regret. What the hell am I doing? Ask me an hour ago, and I would've said that Lyric was the best fucking thing that ever happened to me. I still think that, but … Jesus Christ. That is what I'm asking, isn't it? I'm asking her to give up everything while I give up nothing.

  For a split second, I think about cutting her loose, telling her to get the fuck out of the clubhouse and never come back. But … I can't. I'm so bloody goddamn selfish. I want her, more than I've ever wanted anything in my life.

  Pretty sure I'm in love with the woman.

  And I really do want to make her my wife, propose to her at the barbecue. It's a slightly faster timeline than I would've wanted, but circumstances being what they are … it feels right.

  I keep smiling back at her until my face hurts, the grin crumbling off my chin like it was never there.

  “You and me,” I say, reaching out to run a hand down her arm. She shivers, but that awful expression on her face, that stays. “We're good together, aren't we?”

  “I need … I'm going home,” she says, pulling away from me, taking several steps back and turning towards the door before I reach out and grab her wrist again. Without warning, she's wrenching herself away from me and stumbling in those high, high heels of hers, spinning and giving me a dark look, one that cuts straight to the core. “Don't touch me, Royal,” she says, breathing hard, her eyes flickering with emotion. “How … dare you.”

  “How dare I?” I ask with a quirked brow, crossing my arms over my chest. “How dare I what? Tell you the truth? Because that's the way it is, Pint-Size. It might not be what you had in mind, but life's a bitch like that.”