Royally Deep (Going Deep Book 2)

by Virna DePaul

  She picked up a T-shirt with a glittery KNIGHTS logo across the front, holding it up to her chest to see how it would look, peering into a tiny mirror affixed to the souvenir stand. “How do you like this, Royce? Would it look good on me?”

  “Your mother would fire me in an instant.”

  She laughed and was about to put it back on the rack when she heard a voice behind her. “Red’s not quite your color. I’d say bright blue, if I’m honest.”

  Arabella whirled around, wondering who might be so bold as to tell her what looked good on her or not, ready to chastise the haughty random stranger, when she recognized the handsome face underneath the baseball cap pulled down low. It was none other than Kyle Young, leaning against a post. Even wearing street clothes, he seemed unnaturally larger than life.

  “Is that so?” She forced out a breath. Arabella was sure she could see the delineation of his abdominal muscles through his button-down shirt. He exuded masculinity, from his strong jaw to his muscular legs to—oh God, her mind wandered to places it shouldn’t.

  “Yeah. Red’s an angry color. Blue is more heavenly…cool…sublime.” His eyes flashed in admiration, as his gaze roved over her body from head to toe. “But I guess you’re not a Bootleggers’ fan, so it doesn’t matter. Have a great day.” He started off toward the concession stand when something possessed Arabella to go after him.

  “Your Maj—eh, Arabella? Stay here, please,” Royce ordered.

  She ignored him. That’s Kyle Young! Don’t let him walk away… “No, wait,” she called. “Wait. I’m a Bootleggers’ fan. I swear, I am.”

  “Now, now…it’s not polite to swear, and come on, darlin’, you don’t have to play nice with me. This is your home turf after all.” Kyle Young eyed Royce quickly, as if annoyed by the third party bystander.

  Darlin’? That didn’t sound as affectionate as he’d probably meant it to. And why would he start a conversation with her, then walk away, unless she’d caught his eye? She hurried after him. “It’s not. I mean, I’m not from New York. I had no choice but to wear these colors…” God, she sounded pathetic defending her actions.

  “Arabella? It’s time we get back to the seats now,” Royce warned.

  “Just a minute…” She couldn’t tell Royce who this man was without alerting the man himself that she recognized him, and she didn’t want to give him that satisfaction, no matter how cute he was.

  Kyle Young—the Kyle Young—paused at a garbage can to throw away an empty drink cup then whirled to face her, but was met with Royce’s stern expression. He sighed and moved around Royce. “So…you’re telling me…a beautiful girl—not from New York—accidentally wears the Knights’ colors, even though she’s a Bootleggers’ fan?” He laughed to himself, hands on his hips. “You don’t have to change your groupie tune now that you’ve met me, sweetheart. Stay loyal.” He tapped her nose and walked off.

  “What?” The nerve of him! Did he really think she was only “sucking up” to him now that she’d recognized him? Yes, he was gorgeous as hell with those blue eyes, dimpled cheeks, and day-old stubble on his face, but like hell would he make assumptions about her. “I’m not a groupie, for your information,” she assured him. “I’m a fan, incognito.”

  “Ooo, incognito…” He pretended to be hiding from suspicious followers. “Are you famous or something? ‘Cause that would explain the guard puppy following you around.” He gave Royce an annoyed glance.

  She hesitated. She wasn’t supposed to tell anyone who she was. That was quite outside protocol and would have her mother sending for her in a moment’s notice. “I have my reasons. Why—why are you here anyway? Shouldn’t you be in the locker room pep-talking to your team? Murphy has done quite well in your place, wouldn’t you say?”

  “I say he’s doing alright. I’m getting some nachos, if you must know. I like making them myself. They never give me enough jalapeños when I ask our assistant to go get ‘em. Plus, I’m tired of eating carrot sticks.” His eyes roved over her body again. “Though I can tell you probably eat healthy as sin.”

  A little spark of evil shot into her smile. She got it now—the whole walking away act. He was flirting with her. Kyle Young was egging her on. Arabella clucked her tongue lightly without taking her eyes off Kyle. “Royce, oh, brother? Would you be a dear and go get us some more drinks?”

  “Your Maj—uh, Arabella. Let’s get them together. I don’t know what you want.”

  “I want a Bud Light. Go away now.” She smiled at Kyle whose dimples deepened.

  Her bodyguard hesitated, but at her quick dagger-like expression, he gave in without comment. “I will return shortly. Please do not move from this spot.”

  Young watched with curious eyes, as Royce stalked away. Then, he whistled. “Hoo-whee! Who was that? Your bodyguard? Dude’s got a stick up his ass.”

  For a moment, Arabella froze. So much for being normal. He could see right through her. Then, she realized he was only joking. “Ah, my brother…you could say he’s overprotective. Also, he’s not particularly fond of football games.”

  “And you? Are you particularly fond of football games?” He laughed, as though there was something wrong with that statement.

  “Quite.” She nodded. “I recognized you after all, didn’t I? Why else would I have followed you to the nacho stand?”

  “I see, so you’re only talking to me because I’m famous.”

  “No, I’m talking to you because you didn’t believe me.”

  “Believe what?”

  “That I’m a Bootleggers’ fan. I’m wearing red because I have to.” She sighed. “It’s a long story.”

  “I like long stories. Maybe you can tell me after the game.” He smiled, bit into his lip, then turned to order nachos from the concession stand attendant. Had he just invited her to see him again after the game?

  Arabella took the opportunity to size him up and down. Very down. His jeans fit beautifully. She imagined the amazing things he hid inside of them. “You think I’m a football groupie, but I’m not. I’ve watched the Bootleggers play since before you joined the team.”

  His eyebrows rose. “Really? But you’re not American, I can tell. Where are you from—England?”

  Her accent tended toward a proper British tinge, but at the moment, she wished she could speak American like a regular New York—or Georgia—girl. “I’m from Salasia, a small principality in Europe.”

  “I know where it is.” At her raised eyebrows, he laughed. “You thought a dumb football player wouldn’t have heard of it, huh?”

  She blushed and looked away. She had assumed he wouldn’t know about Salasia, but only because most people outside of Europe didn’t know it existed. Hell, she wasn’t even sure people in Europe knew it existed. “I don’t think you’re dumb, Mr. Young.”

  He laughed and reached for the bowl of jalapeños. “Thanks,” he told the attendant, reaching in and piling them on to his nachos. To Arabella, he said, “Don’t feel bad, Duchess. You’re too pretty to look so worried.”

  “I’m not merely pretty, Mr. Young,” she said with as much confidence as she could, though she wanted to pinch herself to make sure she wasn’t dreaming. Not only was she speaking with Kyle Young…he had flirted with her and called her pretty!

  “Call me Kyle.”

  “Kyle,” she said, testing out the name. Her heart fluttered at the sound. If she could, she would take this surreal moment and make it last forever. “I know all you see is a groupie,” she teased. Two could play that game… “But I’ve studied the Bootleggers’ defense and offense. I know you’re one of the top five players in line for NFL MVP. I know you had three-hundred fifty-seven completed passes out of five hundred attempted last season. And I could also tell you that you have a tendency to throw long when there’s little time left in a game.”

  “It’s called—”

  “A Hail Mary pass,” she interrupted. “I know what it’s called. Apparently, you told Mr. Murphy to use it at the end of the second qua
rter.” She smiled. Touché. That would teach him to think of her as nothing but a pretty face. “Good for you. And the Bootleggers.”

  His eyebrows rose at her recitation. He turned to her, the nachos forgotten, and her heart pounded. As she fought to control her breath, he leaned down to speak into her ear. “Duchess, I love hearing you talk football.” His breath was light and warm and made butterflies take flight in her stomach. “I love your accent. You could recite statistics, and I’d be enthralled.”

  His expression said far more than his words did. I can think of a hundred other things I’d love to hear you say. And scream. Starting with my name when I’m buried deep inside you, he seemed to silently tell her.

  Her heart pounded wildly.

  “I’m Bella,” she said suddenly, a name she never used. But right now, she wasn’t quite herself. Right now, she was a bolder version of herself, a woman who normally wouldn’t flirt so outwardly. The name suited her.

  “Bella. That’s a real pretty name. A pretty name for a beautiful woman.”

  She could hardly believe what was happening—Kyle Young, star quarterback of the Bootleggers—was totally taken by her. She’d had her share of suitors, only men didn’t flirt with princesses. They courted them. They treated them like porcelain dolls. She’d dated so little that she’d only slept with a man once, and it had been so lackluster, she’d been afraid that something was wrong with her, like she was broken or something.

  But at Kyle’s nearness, as her breathing quickened, and she felt her body tingle all over, she knew she wasn’t broken. She wanted more of this flirting; she wanted to touch him and for him to touch her, and no matter how this day ended, it had already been made, because she’d had this moment with Kyle Young.

  “Young! There you are.” A woman with blunt blonde bangs and glasses stalked towards them. “You need to get back downstairs. Coach is looking for you.”

  Kyle glanced at the woman then back at Arabella. Once more, he leaned forward to whisper in her ear. “Meet me after the game. Room 586, down the hallway across from the ice cream cart. So, you can finish…telling me those statistics.” With a final wink and a devilish smile, he followed the woman with his tray of nachos and disappeared.

  Arabella finally sucked in a deep breath of air and held on to the counter for support. “Holy Hell! What just happened?” she murmured to herself.

  The concession stand attendant laughed. “Cute, ain’t he?”

  Royce returned, offering more beer, his face flushed. “I drank another one of these,” he said, his voice slightly slurred. “I must admit, they are delightful. Do you think we can order them in Salasia?”

  “I’m sure I can get you some.” She smiled. If it would keep him occupied, she would buy him a whole case per week!

  Arabella led him back to the stands, smiling at her meeting with Kyle Young. Smiling, because he had invited her “backstage” after the game, smiling because Royce was getting sloshed out of his mind. As he opened up about his days as a rugby player, she could only halfheartedly listen, because her mind was elsewhere, lost between reality and a land of dreams, though the two worlds seemed on the verge of colliding.

  Meet me in Room 586. Should she dare? What did he want? To really hear more statistics from her, or…to kiss her? Sleep with her? Arabella shivered at the thought. Whatever Kyle Young wanted, Arabella—er, Bella—could hardly wait to find out.

  Chapter Two

  “So, Kyle, how’s the knee feeling? And how do you feel about Murphy’s three touchdowns to take the lead in the third quarter?” A slim brunette with highly arched eyebrows shoved her microphone into Kyle’s face.

  He gave her his usual charming laugh. “The knee’s not even tender anymore. I’m just sitting out as a precaution. And Murphy did a great job. We spanked those guys.” They did, in fact, spank those guys, but the second half of the game, Kyle had felt different somehow, more energized, and that energy had translated into the right calls on his behalf.

  After halftime, Kyle had coached Murphy and helped guide the other Bootleggers to victory, with a final score of 27 to 14. Despite the thrill of the win, Kyle had felt distracted. There was only one thing he loved as much as the game, and that was the other game.

  The girl he’d met on the concession level—Bella—was, hands down, the most…beautiful…girl he’d ever seen. Sure, he hadn’t acted all gaga for her, but that was because girls like her let it go to their heads if they knew how beautiful they were. Instead, he’d played it cool, and it’d worked. She’d come running after him to talk to him.

  Now, he couldn’t get her out of his head. That long brown hair, so shiny and perfectly tied up. Those legs in those tight shorts—holy shit. And that accent had somehow been the most seductive sound he’d ever heard in his life. He’d never been one for snooty accents, but the way she’d sounded discussing football? Good God. And Salasia? What kind of place was that? Of course, he’d never heard of it, but she didn’t have to know that.

  All he could think about now, as this reporter interviewed him, was how Bella might sound with his dick pounding inside of her, calling out his name, begging him to fuck her harder.

  “Is that at the top of your mind?” she asked.

  He blinked at the reporter’s question, thoughts still on Bella. “I’m sorry, what?”

  “Winning—is that at the top of your mind?”

  “Yeah, definitely. We’re having a great season. See you at the Super Bowl, Pam.” He patted her back and moved to the next interviewer.

  What had really set Bella apart, though, was how she’d talked to him. Not like Pam here, hoping for gems she could use for her article, or like every female fan to ever hope for five minutes with him, but like he was a normal guy. Not MVP quarterback, Kyle Young. He couldn’t even remember the last time he’d met a woman who hadn’t fawned all over him, hoping he’d choose her and take her home for a night of sex and debauchery. Not only had Bella not fawned, she’d spewed actual statistics—an aphrodisiac for Kyle. No way would a typical groupie be able to do that.

  He almost wished he hadn’t invited her to Room 586. In retrospect, it was kind of a cheap thing to do. Number 76, Omar Perkins, had told him about the empty space at Knights’ Stadium when he first met his wife, how it was the perfect, quiet room to do a chick quickly without interruption, though Kyle had yet to use it for himself. Now he feared that Bella wouldn’t come, that she’d think the invitation had been out of line. You never knew with girls like her. On one hand, he wanted to get with them right away, but on the other, playing hard to get was their specialty, and he loved playing their games.

  He was anxious to head over and see whether Bella was indeed waiting for him, but first he had the reporters to contend with. Kyle answered more questions with his standard jovial, devil-may-care attitude. Finally, after wrapping things up, he escaped Coach’s press conference and caught the stairs, jogging up to the 5th Level of Knights’ Stadium.

  Glancing around, he noticed groups of Knights’ fans still lingering, talking quietly after their loss. Pulling down his baseball cap, Kyle shuffled his way down the corridor to the hallway with the inner rooms. Room 586—he pulled on the handle. It gave way to darkness, and he breathed a sigh of relief that the room was open.

  Flipping on the light, he saw it was being remodeled. The carpet was rolled up and a couch, shoved off to one side, was the only furniture. No Bella in sight.

  Maybe she’d decided against seeing him again. He’d probably come off too presumptuous for a woman like her. Oh, well. The women he liked were impulsive and went after what they wanted. There was just something irresistible about that. In fact, maybe she wasn’t even eighteen. She did look rather young and beautiful, and he did still have to worry about things like that. So, maybe it was for the best that she hadn’t shown up.

  He was about to turn around and go back to the press conference when the door unlatched. Bella walked in quietly and closed it behind her.

  Or not.

&nbs
p; She leaned up against the door frame, nervously biting her glossy red lower lip in the most seductive, yet innocent and unintentional way he’d ever seen. It sent a surge of lust straight to his groin. So did seeing her face free of paint for the first time—she’d obviously washed the red streaks off, leaving behind a pale, creamy, perfect canvas for her brilliant green eyes.

  “I guess this is the right room,” she said softly.

  He walked up to her until they were face to face then he reached behind her, and she gasped at what he might do. He locked the door. “In case anyone might disturb us,” he breathed by her ear.

  A sigh escaped her lips, as though she’d been holding her breath. “Right.”

  Taking her small hand, he led her deeper into the room over to the couch. She took the cue and sat, nervously playing with the end of her ponytail, still biting that lip and glancing up at him in that adorable way, as though she didn’t know what to do with herself, her hands, or anything.

  Kyle sat next to her on the leather couch and tried not to kiss her right then and there for being so utterly charming. “How did you like the game?” he asked instead. “Any plays you liked?”

  At first, she froze and blinked at him. Then, she laughed. “Mr. Young, did you really invite me here to talk about football?”

  That accent again! It made him harden like magic. He laughed and took her hand. “Again, it’s Kyle, and well…we could talk about how great you think I am, if you prefer?” He arched his brow and smiled a crooked smile. He knew exactly how clever he was, which was somewhere between not very and enough to get what he wanted.

  “No, I don’t think so.” She slid her hand out of his.

  “Why not? Talking about how wonderful I am doesn’t do it for you?” He laughed, realizing how stupid he’d sounded just then. Funny how the same lines worked on other women. Clearly, she wasn’t like them.

  “Not really, no.” She laughed too. Thank God.

  He tried taking her hand again. “Let me guess. Because otherwise, my head will get even bigger, and no one needs that?”