Throttle: A Bad Boy Sports Romance

by Teagan Kade

  I smell her, my cock swelling, my body thrumming like the giant bell beside us, everything in tune. I open my mouth wider and take her in, holding her head tight, the pain in my ears lost to greater sensation, all of it consuming me, pulling me under.

  The bells stop and she wrenches back, her mouth still open, lips red and swollen. Her eyes are huge, registering what has just taken place.

  She takes another step back, unsure, the realization of it all crashing down. “I—”

  I step towards her, but she presses back against the wall. “No.”

  I put my hands up. “Grace…”

  She puts her fingers up to her lips, holds them out in front of her face like she expects to find blood there, like I really am some vampire out to seduce her. “I… can’t.”

  She runs past me back down the stairs, taking them far too fast. I swing in behind her, but she’s fucking quick.

  “Grace!” I shout down the stairwell, my voice echoing. “Wait!”

  She takes the stairs three and four at a time.

  I slip, stumbling. “Wait, damn it!”

  She reaches the bottom. I hear the door open and slam closed again. “Grace!”

  I come out onto the street bent over, struggling for breath. I spot her on the other side of the road.

  She flags down a cab.

  “Grace!”

  I go to cross, a horn blast from a lorry forcing me back onto the curb. By the time it’s gone the cab has already pulled away.

  Marcus and Richard run over, but I hold them back, bent in half. “She’s gone.”

  *

  It’s been a while since I was at my London apartment, but semester is over and it’s late. I can’t handle the trek back to Cambridge. No, I want to be here, near her, even if she doesn’t want me. At least if I am here there is a chance, there is hope.

  I take a shower, cold water beading down my body as I thump the wall with a closed fist. Normally, I like my showers piping hot, strong water to wash away my sins, and they are many, but not now. This requires something else entirely.

  I sleep with these girls, they leave, and I feel absolutely fucking horrible. I scrub my skin until it’s raw, scarlet, but this is different. I shake in the cold, need it to calm down and lose this hard-on I’ve been harboring the whole day.

  She’s just another girl, I tell myself, but it’s weak, lacking conviction. Women swan and swoon the moment they see me. Maybe I like that, maybe it gives me something I need, but this Grace? She couldn’t care less if I was a prince or a bellboy. She didn’t ask where the no-disclosure agreement was, didn’t hike her skirt up in preparation.

  Maybe this one’s too much for you to handle, ol’ boy?

  Bullshit. I always get what I want.

  I run my fingers through my hair, erection pulsing, my cock so stiff it’s actually painful. I haven’t beat off since I was sixteen, but I doubt even that’s going to do it now. No, there’s only one thing that’s going to satisfy this craving, one girl… and she wants nothing to fucking do with me.

  But I’ve done my research.

  Guess it’s a good thing we’re spending the next two weeks together.

  I step out of the shower a mess. My hands are shaky. I can’t think. So, I do what I always do. I take out my phone and call my dealer.

  I watch myself in the mirror. “William,” I begin, hating myself for it, “how soon can you get to London?”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  GRACE

  I’ve got the shower as cold as it will go. I’m talking arctic, cryo-ovary-type temperatures. I need to snap out of this thing, this insane infatuation.

  In the cab on the way home, the taste of him still on my lips, the memory of his body against me, I felt like I was on a pyre, burning up from the inside.

  I keep twisting the tap. “Colder, motherfucker! Colder.”

  The shower remains inanimate.

  I mean, what the flying fuck, Grace? This isn’t you. This is a cheerleader imposter who has set up shop inside your body.

  Prince Spencer? Of all people. Why did it have to be him?

  Yet I want it to be him. I’m attracted to him physically. So what? Who wouldn’t be? But I am not that kind of girl, the one-night-stander. I couldn’t live with myself taking the chance, only be left forgotten and alone the very next morning, a used wrapper for the wind to carry away.

  My head spins. I press my hands against the wall, let the water stream through my hair.

  It’s over now. A once-off, slip of the mind and all that. You’re far from home, you’re disoriented, your defenses are down.

  I turn the shower off. I need a drink.

  I throw on the nearest clothes I can find and text Zoe to meet me near Piccadilly Circus. Her lightning reply is two words and four emoticons.

  I had the shower so cold it actually feels warm outside.

  Considering the hour, it’s busy on the streets. A bunch of military types pass by wolf-whistling. I move closer to the wall and keep walking.

  As I discovered, my hotel isn’t far at all from Big Ben. The cab driver wasn’t too happy about it, but my concern is Spencer. Given his athletic disposition he could have easily sprinted here to the hotel, bashed my door down. Maybe I wanted him to, but all he’s done is text and call, over and over again.

  He’s respecting your privacy.

  Yeah, because kissing me was really staying out of my personal space. You’re here to do a job and nothing more. Fucking do it.

  “Grace.”

  I freeze, conscious only of the swarm of people moving around me.

  I know that voice.

  I turn, slowly, not wanting it to be true, but it is. It’s him.

  Get a grip, Grace. “Johnathan.”

  He has his hands stuffed into his pockets. The beard is gone, a Manchester FC scarf knotted around his neck. “Wow, it’s so great to see you, Grace. What are you doing here?”

  I want to run, but something fixes me to the spot. “I’m working.”

  He laughs. I always did like his smile—one of his few redeeming attributes in the end. “My Grace, always working.”

  “I’m not ‘your Grace’ anymore, Johnathan.”

  “A shame,” he replies.

  “You’re the one who cheated, remember?”

  A woman in a fur coat actually stops mid-step upon hearing this, one of those forty-something power types itching to pull her pepper spray out. I give her an ‘I got this’ nod, and she continues on her way with a ‘go get him, sister’ wink.

  Johnathan runs a hand through over his crew cut. “Yes, I did. I slept with someone else. Was it my finest hour? No. Would I take it all back if I could? Hell yes. You were the best thing in my life, Grace, and I blew it all. I get that now.”

  He always had a way with words, Johnathan, but I’m not an idiot any more. I’m thinking straight. Number two: Never trust a liar. “You didn’t even tell me who she was.”

  “She was no one. It isn’t important.”

  “You don’t think I deserve to know who my fiancé was fucking?”

  He actually looks around as if a fellow man will come to his aid.

  “What are you even doing in London?” I continue. “Are you stalking me?”

  “Wow, you’ve really got tickets on yourself, don’t you, Grace?”

  “Fuck you.” I turn to walk away but he grabs my arm, letting go the instant I spin around with dagger eyes.

  “Sorry, but I only want to chat, like the old days. I hate leaving things like this.”

  He knows how to hook me, knows I cannot stand the whole ‘unfinished business’ thing.

  The smile, again, damn him. “One drink. Come on.”

  I shake my head at myself. I cannot believe I’m agreeing to this. It’s the same feeling I get creeping to the fridge every night for a block of chocolate, that switch you cannot turn off. “One drink.”

  *

  We find a suitably British pub around the corner. It’s one of those animal-and-animal
establishments: Fox and Frog, Badger and Beaver—I’m not really taking it in.

  The place is packed with soccer fans in red and white singing as far out of tune as possible, the stench of sweat and stale beer everywhere. I find us a quiet corner.

  Get out, Grace. Just go.

  Johnathan remains standing. He blends right in. “Guinness, whiskey? Can’t say I know your poison these days.”

  “Water, thanks.”

  He seems surprised. “You’re joking, right?”

  I shake my head. “No, I’m not.”

  “Okay,” he nods, and drifts off to the bar.

  As soon as he’s gone my arms get all itchy. Now’s your chance. GET. THE. FUCK. OUT! But I can’t. For whatever reason I cannot make my legs move.

  He returns quicker than expected. “One glass of H20. You’ve changed.”

  “Yes.”

  “Seeing anyone?”

  “Yes,” I lie… sort of.

  He knows asking for extra information will bring forth my ire, choosing instead to change the subject. “Still living in Rosie?”

  “New York, actually.”

  He looks way too natural holding that beer. I see it’s already half gone. Hell, I didn’t even see him bring it to his lips. His eyes are bloodshot. It’s not a good sign.

  “Wow, back home to big city lights and all that. You must be killing it.”

  “I have a good job”

  “Writing?”

  I nod, over this already, my thoughts with the Prince.

  Johnathan is circling the rim of his glass with a wet finger. “You were always so good. Remember that time I tried to write you a poem for Valentine’s Day?”

  “’Roses are red, hop in my bed.’ How could I forget?”

  The shadow of a smile falls on my face at the memory of better times, and there were good times—and plenty of bad.

  He draws closer and I know what is coming. I pull my handbag in front of myself instinctively.

  “We were so good together, Gracie. You have to give me that at least.”

  “We had our moments.”

  He reaches out to place his hand on mine.

  I scoot back.

  “We could go back to the way it was, clean slate and all that.”

  “I told you. I’m with someone.”

  He sits back, hands out. “Who? Some sniveling Wall Street banker? Whoever he is, forget him. You belong with me. You know it deep down.”

  There he is, the Johnathan I remember.

  I stand. “I’m going.”

  He grabs my arm again, more forcefully this time. What is it with guys doing that? Something snaps. “Let go of my fucking arm, Jonathan.”

  He doesn’t until one of the soccer guys spins around and sees what’s happening. “You a’right, love?”

  Johnathan lets go. He’s no match physically for this guy or his fifty buddies. Doesn’t stop him from going at it.

  He pushes himself away from the table and shoves soccer guy hard in the chest, his beer sloshing over his jersey. “Yes, she’s fucking alright. How about you mind your own fucking business?”

  Soccer guy pushes him right back, straight into the edge of the table. “How about I knock your fucking block off?”

  Johnathan grabs his glass and tosses it at the guy, but he dodges left, the glass shattering somewhere behind the bar, and that’s it. It’s on.

  I hear the first punch make contact, but I don’t see it, I’m so busy pushing my way through the crowd. I rush out into the cool of night, snowflakes falling in spectral sheets from a flushed sky.

  “You okay?” someone says, but I run past them, run as fast as my legs will carry me away from Johnathan and his endless fucking drama.

  CHAPTER SIX

  SPENCER

  “Is everything alright, sir?”

  Marcus is helping me fish through my room for my phone. I threw it against the wall after my twentieth text went unanswered and now it’s MIA. Just like Grace. He’s funny, Marcus. He might be wearing a suit now, but there’s still a military man underneath.

  I raise my eyebrows. “Do I seem fine, Marcus?”

  “No, sir. Might I suggest meeting her face to face?”

  I stop searching, cross my arms. “And what makes you think my current disposition is over a girl?”

  Cocky prick taps the side of his nose. “Instinct, sir.”

  I clap him on the shoulder. “You old dog, Marcus. How’s the wife?”

  “Treats me like a god, sir.”

  “Good to hear.”

  But there’s always more with Marcus. “That is,” he says, “she takes very little notice of my existence until she wants something.”

  I laugh. “Marcus, my friend, you make matrimony sound highly unappealing.”

  “It has its charms, sir.”

  “I’ll take your word for it.”

  “To the matter at hand. Shall I drive?”

  Sometimes I think Marcus is more like a mother with a gun than the SO14’s best and brightest. “Lead the way, old man.”

  *

  I get Marcus to knock, shoving him aside and wedging myself between the door and frame before Grace has a moment to close it. “Five minutes,” I plead, “that’s all I need.”

  She looks at Marcus before opening the door.

  I straighten my suit as I walk in. “Grace…”

  “Don’t,” she says.

  “What? You think I planned it?”

  “I know you planned it. I’m simply the sucker who fell for it, whatever number it was, and I will be damned if I’m headed down this road again.”

  I follow her to the other side of the room. I’ve been to the Savoy before, not that I can recall much from that particular night. “Again? And what would this road be, do tell?”

  She has her hands on her hips. “Trouble.”

  I nod, hands in my pockets. “Fair point, but know that you’ve done something to me, Grace Everett, whether you like it or not. If I could work out some way to scrub you from my thoughts, I would, but I can’t. I close my eyes at night and I see your face, so sue me. That’s an American thing to do, isn’t it, sue everyone and everything?”

  There’s the faintest hint of a smile, Grace sniffing the air. “Marcus, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Do you smell cheese in here?”

  “No, ma’am,” the cheeky bugger replies.

  I round on her. “Isn’t that how you Americans like it? Extra cheesy?”

  “On my pizza perhaps.”

  She sits down, pulling a cushion to her chest. “Can we have a moment in private?”

  Marcus gets the hint. “I’ll wait for you outside, sir.” Hopefully you’re out there for a while.

  Grace picks at a loose strand of cotton coming off the cushion. I notice her nails are the same haunting blue as her eyes.

  “The kiss,” she begins. “I don’t know what that was. I wasn’t myself.”

  “You didn’t enjoy it?”

  “I didn’t say that, but we can’t. I can’t.”

  I sit beside her. “Why not?”

  “Because I promised her I wouldn’t get involved with another guy who’s only going to leave me broken-hearted and destitute.”

  “Promised who?”

  “Myself. I have rules, remember.”

  “Rules are for the obedience of fools.”

  “Spoken like a true playboy.”

  I hold my jaw, thinking. What’s this girl doing to me? “Forget about my past, Grace. I’m talking about the future, you and me.”

  She laughs. “Do you know how ridiculous that sounds? You are royalty. The closest I come to it is the selfie I took in front of the Palace three days ago. Besides, I don’t want to be your next ‘wham, bam, thank you, ma’am’.”

  “It meant nothing then?”

  “Yes.”

  Silence. I hate fucking silence. “What do you propose we do then?”

  “Act like adults. I’m here to do a job, and I in
tend to do it free of harassment.”

  “Harassment?”

  “Yes. Can you handle that or is it too much to ask? I don’t want you showing up with your dick out every day.”

  “Pity, but if it means I get to spend another week or two with you, fine. I’ll behave, but don’t expect me to be someone I’m not, Grace.”

  She grins. “I wouldn’t dream of it, Your Highness.”

  *

  “Pull.”

  I follow the clay pigeon into the sky, fire, enjoy the way the shotgun kicks back against my shoulder. I like the pain.

  Richard takes his binoculars down beside me. “Miss.”

  Marcus is sniggering at the trap.

  I reload. “I don’t need binoculars to see that was a miss, Dick, nor do I need any encouragement, Marcus.”

  Bastard smiles. “Shall we try doubles then, sir, sixty yards? Ramp up the difficulty?” He’s joking, of course. I can barely hit a crosser at twenty.

  I enjoy sporting clays, but I’ve never been very good at it. I’m competitive, yes, but Alexander’s always been better. He’s a national champion, joined the military straight out of school, did everything a good prince should while I did the complete opposite. Funny thing is, I think Father let it go on simply because my misbehavior made Alexander look all the better. Sometimes I think that’s my sole purpose for existing.

  Screw them all. “Pull.”

  I focus, the pigeon soaring on a tight angle. I fire, miss again. That’s five in a row.

  Richard doesn’t even bother acknowledging it. “Think I might gather up the unbroken clays, sir, make myself a nice pot. What do you say?”

  I put on a wide, toothy smile. “I think you can fuck right off, you wanker.” I shake out the shells, the smell of gunpowder thick in the air. We’re only half an hour out of London yet it feels like an entirely different world out here on the estate. “It’s this damn gun. Something’s off.”

  Marcus is smiling as he extends his hand. “May I?”

  I hand it over knowing I’m in for a schooling. “Be my guest.”

  Marcus was in the SAS, a sniper in the SRR before that. His marksmanship is the stuff of legend, yet he’s never drawn since he was assigned to me.

  “Pull,” he shouts, Richard sending the clay wide. It explodes a second later.