Hard & Lethal: A Bad Boy Romance

by Jade Allen

  “Sir, Ma’am, please stand and we can discuss this situation in private.”

  Rachel looked from the fake ticket-checker to Dylan. He held her gaze for a moment before nodding. She was surprised to see that as he stood, Dylan did not cringe or even wince, despite his pain.

  The man grabbed her arm as they moved away from the incurious first class passengers, pulling her towards the door between cars. Rachel twisted, digging her heels in. “I know who you are, asshole,” Rachel hissed.

  In an instant, they were surrounded by fake uniforms, pretend ticket-takers blocking them from the view of other passengers who probably thought that they were just in the wrong section or had counterfeit tickets. She heard a ratcheting clink, the snick of a knife flicking out of its handle. “Mr. Brock said to take care of him first,” one of the men said, and Rachel saw a flurry of movement.

  Dylan dodged a blow, and Rachel saw his reactionary wince for the instant it flickered across his face. “How exactly are they getting all these uniforms, do you think?” Rachel asked as she tugged her wrist free of a man’s hands, aiming a kick with her heeled foot into another man’s shin.

  Dylan’s hand closed on her wrist and he pushed forward, hitting the toggle to open the door between cars. The pretend authorities crowded them, and she heard one person mutter that Brock hadn’t said they had to kill the girl right away; they could take their time with her. There was something sinister in his voice, something that implied that they weren’t just going to ask her nicely to give up the money before killing her. She felt a flash of cold and then hot rake along her arm and Dylan shoved her through the door, following her into the second class passenger compartment.

  They hurried up the aisle, luggage and over-spilling passengers slowing their pursuers. “As long as we can keep them in front of other people, they can’t do much,” Dylan said lowly. Rachel felt hot liquid streaming down her arm and looked down to see a flash of red along her sleeve.

  “Motherfuckers cut me!” she said with a gasp. Dylan nodded hurriedly, shoving her through another door. Rachel glanced at him and saw that he was holding his already-cracked ribs. “They got you too, didn’t they?”

  “It’s nothing. Keep moving.” But their progress into the adjoining car was blocked by more fake ticket-takers. Rachel turned; they were surrounded again.

  “Shit,” she muttered. “What do we do?” Dylan looked from one group to another.

  “Keep fighting. Try and snatch a knife. Protect your middle.” Brock’s henchmen surrounded them in the space between cars, and everything became a blur to Rachel. She kicked, she punched, she grabbed for flashes and glints of metal. Next to her, she heard Dylan’s grunts of effort, crunching sounds, gasps. She clenched her teeth as she felt a burning, searing pain along her hand, and the next moment, it seemed her hand was full of something hard and cold—a knife.

  Figures crumpled around them, to be replaced by other figures, and Rachel struggled to stay upright as she felt blows land along her ribs, against her arms and legs. She felt hot, sticky blood—her own, and that of henchmen—as she fought to keep her organs protected, as she dodged and collided with phony ticket takers and Dylan alike. She felt the train shifting underneath her, slowing down—it was coming into the station they were going to change at. “You okay?” she called out to Dylan.

  “Keep it up,” he told her. “I’m still alive and so are you.”

  “That’s something at least,” she agreed, slashing at yet another phony ticket taker. How many of them were there?

  The train’s brakes squealed, and through the window Rachel saw the station flashing into view. More people were arriving—but they were not in phony uniforms. “We got you; we’ve got you. You’re all right.” Rachel felt her head swimming as the world spun and swooped around her and wondered just how many times she had been cut, how much blood she had lost. She staggered against Dylan and struggled to keep her eyes open, to know just what was going on as they arrived at their destination. A bland voice announced their location in both French and English. Rachel realized that the people who had come were the backup, the extra security that James had sent to tail them, as a failsafe.

  “Took you long enough,” she said, as darkness swirled around her. “Dylan, you okay? Dylan?” There was no answer from the man and she tried to pull him around to see his face, but her hands were nerveless and heavy. As the train came to a stop, the floor seemed to rise up underneath her even as her knees turned to jelly.

  “I’m okay, Love. Let’s get off this damn train.”

  Epilogue

  “Is it incredibly cliché of me to notice how incredibly green everything is here?” Rachel asked, turning to look at Dylan; he lay on a dinosaur of a couch, sprawled and looking as at-ease as ever.

  “Even if it is, it’s not like it’s a cliché for no reason,” Dylan pointed out. He opened his eyes and looked at her, smiling slowly. Rachel felt a rush of heat flash through her at the sight of the smile, accompanied by the tantalizing view of his nearly naked body, barely covered by a blanket.

  They had arrived in Ireland a week before; it was, as Dylan pointed out, the safest place for them to wait things out. After the narrow escape on the train, they’d both had to spend a little time at a tiny hospital in Belgium; the struggle had earned Dylan another cracked rib, and a few broken bones in his hand, and a few of the cuts that Rachel had received had required stitches to heal properly. But between them and the backup that James Whitley had set up, they had more than enough evidence to link the henchmen—dead and alive—to Jeffrey Brock, and enough witnesses to attest to multiple crimes. The henchmen who were alive were rotting in a Belgian jail, while Brock himself had gone into hiding.

  When it hit the presses, James had called Rachel directly. “You and Dylan should go to Ireland,” he had suggested. “Dylan has informed me he still has friends there, and you could lie low while I sort out the rest of this mess.” Rachel had only been too glad to get moving again.

  “You’ll catch a chill like that, Love,” Dylan said from the couch, extending one arm invitingly towards her. Rachel reluctantly left the window, walking across the living room to where Dylan sprawled. She sank down onto her knees next to the couch, looking at him intently. Dylan coiled his arm around her, drawing her closer, his hand sliding up along her back to cup the base of her skull.

  “You’re going to hurt yourself,” Rachel murmured, though she didn’t resist his move to kiss her.

  “Not if you’re careful,” Dylan countered, claiming her lips. He lifted her carefully and Rachel found herself standing, climbing onto the couch, straddling his hips slowly and carefully as the kiss deepened, Dylan’s hands wandering over her half-clothed body.

  “Has anyone ever told you that you have a one-track mind?” Rachel asked, barely breaking away from the kiss. Dylan chuckled lowly, his hands sliding up underneath the loose sweatshirt she was wearing to cup her bare breasts, giving them a lingering squeeze. Rachel’s nipples began to harden to his touch, a rush of heat flowing through her in automatic reaction to the caress.

  “A few busted ribs… are not going to stop me,” Dylan murmured, his fingertips wrapping around her nipples, teasing and rolling them slowly. Jolts of hot-and-cold pleasure crackled through Rachel’s body and she felt herself heating up from within, her pussy starting to feel slick. “I need to make up for lost time.” He pulled the sweatshirt up, over her head, and tossed it across the room, his hands falling to her hips.

  “You’re insane,” Rachel told Dylan, kissing him on the lips lightly. He shifted underneath her, groaning slightly; his ribs were healing, but slowly. Rachel squirmed against Dylan’s hips as she felt the blanket that separated them slipping out from underneath her.

  “You love it, really,” Dylan countered, and Rachel felt the heat of his erection pressing against her slick folds as he moved her body on top of his. She moaned as his cock slid and slipped along her labia, tantalizingly close but not exactly where she wanted it. “Let’s j
ust take it slow,” Dylan suggested, rocking his hips up against hers. Rachel nodded, for the moment too turned on to speak; she caressed him carefully, holding herself up on her knees, balancing her weight on her hands above his shoulders. Dylan’s fingers slipped down between their bodies and Rachel moaned out again as he found her clit by touch, stroking her teasingly.

  “Slow is good,” Rachel managed to say, shivering as Dylan rubbed the bead of nerves, rocking his hips steadily to rub his cock along her slick labia. “But if you don’t—if you keep teasing me like this—it’s not slow, it’s just mean.”

  “Can’t have you thinking I’m mean…can we?” Dylan’s fingers retreated from her pleasure center and Rachel gasped as she felt him guide his cock up against her, as he thrust his hips upward, sliding inside of her inch by inch. She pushed down to take him in deeper, opening her eyes to look down at his face. Dylan’s dark eyes were nearly black with desire, staring up at her with undisguised need as they began to move together, friction building up between their bodies enough to make Rachel sweat in moments.

  She rocked and twisted her hips, rising and falling, as Dylan’s hands danced all over her body, caressing and teasing her. He cupped her breasts, bringing them up to his mouth to claim each of her nipples in turn with his lips and tongue. Rachel felt the tension mounting in her moment by moment, felt her body heating up, her muscles flexing in spasms around Dylan’s cock as she became more and more turned on. Dylan’s hand slipped between their bodies once more and as he thrust deeper and deeper inside of her, Rachel cried out at the feeling of his fingers playing against her clit, sending jolts of pleasure shooting through her body in crackles that lit up her nervous system.

  She struggled to hold back, wanting to savor the closeness of their bodies, wanting the moment to go on forever; but as Dylan pulled her face down to kiss her hungrily, his tongue probing her mouth as he thrust harder and faster inside of her, Rachel felt her self-control breaking. She held herself up off of his injured body with an effort, shifting her knees up to take him deeper, pushing herself down onto him harder as she moaned against his lips. In a matter of moments, it was nearly impossible for her to hold back her climax anymore, and Rachel grabbed at the pillow underneath Dylan’s head, every muscle in her body clamping down as the first wave of her orgasm jolted through her.

  Dylan kept himself under control, holding back, and Rachel’s climax deepened, pleasure rippling through her as he slowed down and then sped up once more, his hands wandering over her with possessive lust. Her spasms began to abate and Dylan continued to touch her, working her out of satisfaction and into renewed need. He groaned as her body heated up again, hands tightening on her, and Rachel found herself moving to his rhythm, falling into his movements as readily as a dance, as aftershocks crackled through her nerves and she felt the tension mounting once more.

  Her second orgasm crashed through her as abruptly as the first, and Rachel fought to keep from collapsing onto Dylan’s body, supporting her weight on arms that felt like jelly and legs that seemed more and more unreal with every driving thrust of Dylan’s cock inside of her. This time, they reached their orgasms together—and Rachel swallowed down Dylan’s moans hungrily as she felt his warm gush flooding into her once, twice, a third time.

  She carefully picked herself up off of Dylan’s body, and he shifted on the couch lazily, pulling her around and cradling her next to him. Their bodies were slick with sweat, and Rachel thought hazily that they’d both want a shower in a matter of minutes, but she was too satisfied to move.

  They would stay in Ireland for a while; James was still working to regain full control of his company, and to clear up her precarious legal situation. But upon their arrival in Ireland, Rachel had not been at all surprised to find that her bank account showed a balance of nearly ten million dollars, with a note on the bank transfer that brought her to that balance telling her to enjoy herself. “We could just stay here, you know,” she said to Dylan, reaching up to swipe a lock of his hair away from his face.

  “We could do that. Or we could go back to Rouen and work on your French some more.” Rachel rolled her eyes, swatting at him playfully, careful not to hit him where he was injured.

  “As long as I’m with you, I don’t care where we are,” Rachel said quietly.

  “I told you: you’re not getting rid of me. I’ll follow you anywhere, Rachel,” he said, tucking a wisp of her hair behind her ear. “I love you.”

  THE END

  Riding Ryan

  A Story By Eva Pierce

  Mona Myers was not like most girls. At the age of eight, she had ridden on the back of a motorcycle with her father for the first time, and though she never got her own bike or claimed to be a ‘biker,’ she grew up finding that the people who inhabited the world in which her father lived and breathed were the best kind of people to surround herself with. At the age of twenty-seven, she was tall, lean and muscular with a pixie cut dyed black with blonde highlights in her slightly-too-long bangs. She had two tattoos, one on each arm, and if a day went by that she wasn’t wearing black it was a sign that something was up.

  On the day in question, she was wearing a pair of dark jeans and a green t-shirt that her father had given her when she was in high school. It clung to her chest and sat on her weirdly, too tight for her fully-grown and matured frame, but today she had to wear it. Today was the day she would bury her father.

  Benny Myers was more than a founding member of the Running Hill Motorcycle Club – one of the biggest, most well-respected racing motorcycle clubs in not just Detroit, but all of the US. Along with being Mona’s dad, he quickly became everyone’s father figure and best friend from the moment they entered his group. Benny built the riders many years before Mona was born, and carried the group until it grew to its forty-person size, structured as innocently as a ladies’ yacht club but functioning much more like a family of misfits, knitted close by loss and hardship. Because of this, Mona wasn’t the only person who took Benny’s death badly, and it comforted her to know that she would be surrounded by her motorcycle club family as they shared in her grief and sorrow at the loss of such a great guy.

  Mona worked at a bar that was a popular haunt of the Running Hill Riders for many obvious reasons. She was the owner and bartender; the drinks were half-price for members of the club; the music there was always loud and good. No one ever had to punch the jukebox or pay a waiter to change the song. The aptly named Hog’s Grogs was the riders’ meeting spot, a place to unwind, and more or less, a second home to all of them.

  On the morning of her father’s funeral, she stood behind the bar, doing her best to keep it together while she waited for her friends in the club to arrive.

  The first familiar face to show up was Ryan Kirby. He was a sight for tear-filled eyes. Biting her lip, Mona gave him a smile and a friendly nod. She hadn’t seen Ryan in years. He’d been badly injured in a race about a year ago and had been on the mend ever since. She’d sent flowers and cards to him while he healed. Now that her father was gone, Mona was thinking of making Ryan the new leader of the Running Hill Riders. If it had anything to do with the giant crush she had on him, she was never going to admit that out loud.

  Ryan Kirby was tall and devilishly handsome, with black hair, green-blue eyes and a sharp chin that he liked to keep covered in a close-cut beard. He had dimples when he smiled, so he did his best to never smile when he was in a race, lest people not take him seriously as a competitor. He was thirty-two years old and had been a part of the club for twelve years. Mona had adored him for just about all of those years. He smirked when he came into the Hog’s Grogs and saw her there. “Hey there, gorgeous.”

  Before she could go towards him or say anything, they were interrupted by the arrival of several of the others – including, quite possibly, the worst member of the motorcycle club.

  “Ryan? Ryan Kirby?”

  Ryan had appeared to be all set to hug Mona and console her, but he froze as a man spoke from somewhere behind
him.

  He turned toward the voice numbly, clearly holding out hope that he was wrong about the speaker even as his eyes rested upon Lance Olsen — as angular, pale and freckled as ever, but slightly more broad than he’d been the last time they met. Mona’s mind flashed back to the last time the two young men had met up, and she had to suppress a smile; they’d been racing down the city’s smallest hill, and Lance’s bike had stalled unexpectedly, sending him tumbling onto the pavement, his pride more bruised than his knees.

  “Hey, Lance,” Ryan said, trying to keep his voice light. “How are you?”

  Lance grinned, flashing a silver cap on one of his front teeth that glinted under the glowing yellow lights of the bar. “Much better now, especially since I changed up my ride.”

  He nodded his red head toward a cherry colored Harley leaning against a glowing street lamp outside.

  Mona scoffed at him. “You’ve finally upgraded to the big boy bikes, then?”

  Lance’s smug look faded. He was known for being fond of smaller, Japanese models of racing bikes when he joined the club about three years ago. Benny had been reluctant to invite him in; Lance was a cocky jerk. Mona couldn’t deny that. If it had been up to her at the time, she would have denied him entry. But now that Benny was gone, she couldn’t make such a rash change without angering more than just Lance. Her father trusted her to do right by the club. She was its owner now, by rights, but she was no biker. She didn’t know how to go about choosing racers for the team.

  Lance looked from Mona to Ryan and the grin returned. “You up for a practice run later today? Ten bucks towards the club says I can beat you.”

  “We’re a charity racing club, not the kind that just races along residential neighborhoods,” Mona argued.

  He pointed a long index finger at her without looking her in the face again. “You stay out of this, bar wench. The men are talking.”