Savage and Racy: A Motorcycle Club Romance (Bad Boys MC Trilogy Book 3)

by Violet Blaze

  Moans fall from my lips like curses, breathy rasps that get caught up in Royal's harsh, male sounds as he claims my mouth and kisses me hard. And damn, if I thought he was kissing me before … he must've been holding something back. When his right hand comes up and curls around the back of my neck, I relax into his touch and let his tongue slide deep.

  This is the reason I came out here tonight; I knew full well what would happen if I did.

  Royal's mouth is warm and soft, the stubble on his face rough and hard, a dichotomy as delicious as his scent. He works me with expert flicks of his tongue, his body quivering with emotion as I drop my hands to his neck, slide them down the thick muscles in his arms.

  Finally, finally, when my skin feels like it's about to split from the intense wash of need, Royal moves his hands away from the hood of the car and touches me. His fingers digging into my ass are almost painful, definitely pressing hard enough to bruise. But I love it.

  My own hands mimic that intensity as I curl them around his biceps and squeeze, nails digging into the wolf tattoos that line the hard curves of his biceps. Royal makes a harsh sound against my mouth and tugs me closer, sandwiching our bodies together. The car is just tall enough that the hard bulge in his jeans presses in exactly the right place.

  When he uncurls his body and looks down at me, I feel my breath leave my lungs in a rush.

  Royal pulls me forward another inch or so, locking my hips against the slick metal of the car with his pelvis. He grinds against me and draws a long, low sound from my throat as I reposition my hands at his waistband, fingers trailing delicately along his skin until I reach the button. I pop it open with my thumb and slide my hand down the hard, velvety length of his shaft, gripping him tight enough that he bucks his hips against me.

  I release the pressure and tease him with the barely there kiss of my fingertips as he hisses a slew of curse words under his breath.

  “Inside,” he growls suddenly as he reaches down and clamps his tattooed fingers around my wrist, the red of the roses and the green of the vines blindingly bright beneath the harsh white of the industrial lights looming above us.

  My breath is coming in sharp gasps now, and I can feel the wetness blooming between my thighs.

  “Inside?” I repeat, my brain stuttering and skipping over even the most simple thoughts.

  Royal grins as he extracts my hand from his jeans and buttons them back up. The look is almost mirthless, not at all like his usual expression, but then, tonight was no walk in the park.

  The girls! My mind flickers violently with images of Glinda stumbling back against the minivan, of Janae's body crumpling to the pavement after a kick from Clayton's boot, of Fauna fighting desperately by my side.

  Guilt overwhelms me in a rush as Royal cups the side of my face with his big, warm hand, eyes dark with barely suppressed desire as he leans down to look into my eyes again, lips hovering dangerously close to mine, so close that I can see beads of rainwater collecting on that full lower curve.

  “What's got your knickers in a knot, love?” he asks, voice still low and rough, still humming with need.

  “The girls?” I ask, choking back the very first wave of fear that hits me. In the heat of the moment, I did what I needed to do, choked back my emotions and fought like hell. But now, I have to know if …

  “You saved the girls, Lyric.” A pause as Royal runs his thumb over my bottom lip. “All of them.”

  I let out a long sigh of relief and close my eyes for a moment, leaning forward and resting my cheek against Royal's t-shirt again, breathing in the scent of leather from his cut.

  “Fauna?” I ask as he wraps his arms around me—his cock still hard and thick and insistent between us—and gives me a tight hug. Royal's arms are like steel bands, encompassing my entire body, like a promise of warmth and love and safety. I won't let myself fall completely into that dream, not yet, but I'm starting to warm to the idea of it.

  “All of them,” he repeats as he pulls back again and drags me off the hood, my riding boots hitting the ground with a loud splash. “Now, like I said, inside. I won't shag you out here like a groupie—not tonight.”

  Groupie.

  What a stupid word. I hate that word. As soon as he says it, I think of Mia.

  I shot her—and I didn't even know her last name.

  But I can't deal with that right now.

  Royal takes my hand in his, his thumb sliding across his sister's ring as he pulls me close again, leans down and captures my mouth, his tongue obliterating the flickers of memory from my mind.

  “Boss.” The voice behind Royal is just as rough as his, full of anger and fatigue and frustration. Royal keeps kissing me, tasting me like it's the last time he'll ever have this particular pleasure, before he pulls away and glances over his shoulder.

  It's that redheaded guy, Smoky, Mug's brother, standing at the bottom of the steps. He's looking at us, but this time, I don't feel any wary animosity focused in my direction, no judgment. Guess there are bigger fish to fry tonight.

  “Yeah?” Royal asks, his body tightening almost imperceptibly. If I wasn't pressed up close to him, I might not have noticed.

  “The boys are back.”

  Royal grunts noncommittally, closing his eyes for a moment before he opens them back up.

  “And Glacier called; he's at his place, ready to start, just waiting on you.”

  I raise an eyebrow, my fingers still curled together with Royal's. The way Smoky said start sent a little chill down my spine. That guy, Glacier, whatever it is that he's 'ready' for, I don't want to know about it.

  “Call him back for me,” Royal says as he looks my way again, eyes glittering darkly. “Tell him I'll be about … an hour.”

  Royal pulls me close and guides me inside, up the steps and to our favorite dorm room. Third time's a charm, right? I think as he closes the door behind us and locks it.

  Our eyes meet again and that hum of energy rises to a crescendo, turning the two of us into a fury of shredded clothes and locked lips, kissing as we strip down to nothing. My bloody shirt and pants are tossed aside, and I couldn't care less if I ever see them again. I may just burn them.

  Royal lays me on the bed and kisses his way down my body, all the way to my toes, and back up again, worshipping my skin with his inked hands as he hovers above me, hair still cold and wet from the drizzle outside.

  We don't speak; we don't need to.

  Royal and I, we both know what we're here for.

  The way he touches me, it's like a promise, like he's trying to convince me that we really can do this, this twisted, tangled idea of us—even if it feels like the world's fighting back tooth and nail.

  I conked an FBI agent over the head for this man, but I couldn't wear his ring in front of the cameras. Maybe Royal can sense the last wall of resistance inside of me crumbling away beneath his skilled mouth and fingers because he kisses me like it's the end of the world, pinning my arms above my head with a harsh grip as he grazes his way across the tops of my bare breasts.

  My nipples are so sensitive that it's almost painful when he kisses them, pulls them into his mouth and bites down hard.

  I cry out and arch my back, lifting my chest up to give him better access, my thighs clenching and rubbing together as my pussy grows desperate for his touch. Royal keeps me locked in place, taking his time on my breasts, making me think the hour long estimate he gave Smoky is way off. But even though he's moving slowly, there's a wild desperation to his movements, to the glint in his eyes. The fervor I see reflected there mirrors my own thoughts and feelings.

  “Can you ever forgive me, love?” he asks as he lifts his head up to look at me, wet hair clinging to his forehead as I stare into the eyes of an animal—my animal. My mate. Because as silly and as stupid as that sounds, that's how I feel about him.

  “Forgive you?” I ask, my breath coming in short, sharp bursts, my breasts rising and falling, the nipples peaked and rosy and aching to be touched. “For what?”


  Royal's jaw tightens and he scowls, his grip tightening on my wrists, pausing right at the edge between pain and pleasure.

  “What kind of bloody tosser let's his woman get kidnapped not once but twice.” Royal looks down at me and runs his tongue across his lower lip, lifting his left hand up to palm my right breast. His tattooed fingers are covered in rings, kissing the soft flesh with heated metal.

  I groan and bite my lower lip as I struggle to find something to say. At the very least, some of that intensity, that anger, it has to do directly with me.

  “It wasn't your fault,” I say, but he only grips me tighter, sucking in a sharp breath, his muscled midsection contracting with the motion as he settles between my thighs and leans down to press his mouth against my throat again, kissing and sucking my skin as I stumble over a hundred half-formed thoughts. Definitely not thinking clearly tonight. There's too much danger, too much adrenaline and risk in the air to make logic work. “I forgive you,” I whisper instead, because that seems to be what he needs to hear.

  But I don't blame him, not at all. Royal can't watch me every second of every day—and I wouldn't let him if he tried.

  He sighs against my neck and lifts his head up, moving his body until he's positioned at my opening, stroking my folds with the long, thick length of his cock. The head of his dick rubs against my clit with each thrust, turning my need into frenzy. My body rises up, my nipples scraping against Royal's midsection as he groans and grunts above me, using his shaft to tease us both.

  I'm so wet, so ready to be filled, my pelvis rocking against his, fighting for some kind of release as he stimulates the hard nub of my clit, moving my heated body in waves of agonizing pleasure until my muscles clamp down hard and I'm coming beneath him, my pulse fluttering in a panicked release of desire.

  Royal makes another growling sound in his throat and shifts his weight, putting the head of his cock at my opening. That beautiful, muscled body of his contracts with a hard, deep thrust and I find myself gasping violently against his chest as he fills me in the midst of my orgasm. My own muscles are locked down so tight, he has to use force to push his way in, locking our hips together as he sheathes himself fully inside of me.

  The heavy weight of Royal's body presses me down into the cradle of the mattress as he tangles his fingers with mine, keeping my hands prisoner above my head as he works himself inside of me. There's no more time for foreplay, no more time for talking, just this, this violent claiming of each other's bodies.

  Royal takes me hard and fast, the churning sensation of his hips igniting the fire in my clit again, tangling it up with the slide of his body inside of mine. He must be working off a lot of emotions because it's me that comes first, wrapping tight around him as my body involuntarily struggles beneath him, fighting the sudden burst of pleasure that explodes in my brain like violet fireworks.

  Above me, Royal pants and groans, sweat dripping down the sides of his body, but he doesn't stop, pinning me to the mattress with his pelvis until I find myself moaning with stuttering, broken hiccup like sobs. My own body is just as sweaty as his, breasts gliding along his muscled midsection as he moves fast and then faster, chasing a release of his own.

  My hips mimic Royal's rolling movements, meeting each one of his thrusts so that our bodies slam together in a sweet, brutal symphony, my arms numb above my head but locked down so tight beneath his grip that I don't even try to move them.

  It seems to take forever and yet not nearly long enough for me to come again, this tortuously painful stretch of contractions and pleasure that seems to come in waves. My eyes blur with tears, and I find myself having a rough time catching my breath.

  When Royal finally joins me in release, it's this glorious movement of his muscular body above mine, a shuddering that travels straight through him and down into me as I lock my thighs tight against his body and breathe long and deep through his last guttural groans.

  He collapses next to me and rolls onto his back, finally releasing my wrists as I turn toward him and cradle my hands beneath my head, my body aching and bruised in all the right places. I clench my thighs together against the wetness.

  “An hour?” I ask as I raise an eyebrow and pretend that this is any other night, that everything isn't on the line … like we're not about to go to war. Because that's what it feels like, like the Alpha Wolves Compound is a military encampment preparing for battle. “I think you're going to be late.”

  Royal tilts his head to look at me, his brown eyes dark and deep but substantially less … desperate. I think I might've just put a temporary leash on his beast.

  “If you knew where I was headed, you wouldn't think that was such a bad thing.” He leans forward and kisses me again, cradling the back of my head with his hand. When he pulls away, he looks me straight in the face. “I love you, Pint-Size.”

  “I love you, too,” I say, even though I'm pretty sure my cheeks flush red. It felt a hell of a lot easier to say it in that basement with bodies littering the floor than it does right now, in the quiet hush of the dark dorm room, my body wet and aching with the memory of Royal's cock.

  A few moments later, he stands up and pulls on his jeans, t-shirt, vest, and boots, pausing at the door to look back at me.

  “Will you be here when I get back?” he asks, and I shake my head.

  “I'm going to my parents' place,” I tell him because the thought of staying here all night without him, with the air of frustration and righteous anger that's clinging to this place, frankly sounds like a little slice of hell. Besides, I could use a moment in a familiar place to decompress. Going home to a swarm of reporters to sit by myself in my cold, empty house also sounds like hell.

  So to the Rentzes I go.

  “I'll tell some of the boys to be ready to escort you over there,” he says and then pauses with one foot in the door, the other out, looking back at me with that rich, dark gaze of his. It's hard to tell what he's thinking about right now; I wish I knew. “And when you get there, bloody call me. If you don't, I swear to Christ, I'll hop on my bike and come looking for you.”

  “Good night, Royal McBride,” I tell him as I sit up and gather the sheets in front of my bare breasts. He looks me over one more time, like he's committing this scene to memory and smiles.

  “Good night, Pint-Size.”

  And then he closes the door behind him.

  Fuck this night.

  The only good thing about it was getting a surprise visit from Lyric.

  My mouth twitches, but I'm way past the point of being able to smile tonight—not even with that honey and wildflower scent of my old lady clinging to my skin. I put two guys on Lyric before I leave, questioning the fact that I'm walking out of the clubhouse at all. Why not stay here all night with her wrapped in my arms?

  Because I'm Royal fucking McBride, the bloody president of the Alpha Wolves Motorcycle Club and I've got shit to do, that's why. It isn't easy to clean up a bunch of bodies—the bodies of my brothers—with Landon's betrayal ringing fresh between the ears. “Thirty grand. That's how much your buddy was worth.”

  Hell it isn't easy to do much of anything, but we lost seven men tonight. Seven.

  And, we've got a right proper guest then, haven't we? Clayton Moore is camped out in the basement of Glacier's shitty house next to the cemetery. Finding out what he knows is paramount because there's no way in hell that this is all the Saldaña Cartel has got up their sleeve. I would not be surprised to find those fucking pillocks camping out on the outskirts of town.

  The Alpha Wolves need to watch their backs for a while.

  “You ready?” I ask Smoky as I pause outside on the wet surface of the deck, watching as my sergeant-at-arms nods and drops his cig in an ashtray before standing up, looking ten years older than he did this morning. Jesus.

  Mug is already waiting for us when we head down the steps and over to the row of wet motorcycles in front of the clubhouse. My bobber is trashed after taking that tumble in the mud, had to dr
ag her arse here in the back of a pickup. So for now, I guess I'll be riding my Swinger.

  Without a word, I hop on my bike and let the engine shudder to life with a wild growl—not entirely unlike the ones I let out just a few minutes ago when I was buried inside of Lyric's heat. My mouth twitches again, but still, eh, I can't get up the energy to smile.

  The three of us leave the compound in a roar of engines and the splash of rainwater, taking the slick roads a little faster than we probably should. But even though I don't know exactly what the timeline is, I know there is one. No doubt in my mind about that.

  The wind and the spatter of rain against my helmet help to drown out the unhelpful thoughts, assisted, I'm sure, by the after-sex hormones coursing through my blood. Thank you, Pint-Size. Without her, without this ride, I'm pretty sure I might've blown an artery.

  I hope to God that Lyric really does get a good night's sleep—for both our sakes. Because as soon as I get my hands on her, she's going to be in a bed, but it won't be sleeping that'll be happening there. I let my breath out in a long sigh, pulling into the gravel driveway and shutting off the engine.

  I take my helmet off and hold it in my hands, leaning back on my bike to stare up at the stars. Every molecule in my body demands that I go to Lyric, take her in my arms and hold her tight, never let her go. If tonight was anything, it was a kick in the arse. I'm marrying that woman if it kills me.

  If I were any other man, that's what I'd be doing right now: rozzers and angry mothers be damned. I could drive over there, drag her back to my place and fuck her until the sun comes up. Courthouse opens at first light, doesn't it?

  “Stargazing now, are we?” Glacier asks, appearing out of the darkness like a fucking ghost or tattooed goblin or some shit. The man really is scary as hell. The red burn of a cherry heats up the blackness as he gets out a ciggy and lights it for me. The arsehole doesn't actually smoke; it's more likely he'll have a stick of gum between his lips. Fucker.