Risky and Wild(8)

This is so wrong, I think as he moves that hand away from my face and down between my legs, dipping two fingers into the pulsing molten heat of my core. The feeling of his fingertips against my G-spot makes me arc my hips up against his hand, riding him even as I know I should be running like hell from this whole situation. This is not going to turn out well. I'm a woman with a head for politics, who's so tired of boys' clubs and bullshit I could puke. This guy, he is boys' clubs and bullshit. We're never going to work together. Ever. All of that mushy stuff we said yesterday, pure fairy tale.

Still, I don't stop as his mouth takes over mine, tongues sliding together as I lift my hands up and curl them in his dark hair, pull it hard enough that he groans against me, adjusts his body so he's laying mostly between my legs.

“This is stupid,” I tell him as he licks my lower lip, moves his mouth along my jaw, down to my throat. Royal's teeth scrape against my skin as I buck my hips into his hand and he adds a third finger, pulling pleasure straight from my brain and down my spine, into my core where it feels like I'm breaking into pieces. “We'll never work. It won't work.”

“Have some faith, Pint-Size,” he growls as he slides his fingers away and a whimper escapes my throat. My hands come down and help him undo the button on his jeans, slide his zipper out of the way. “Have some fucking faith,” Royal grunts as he finds my opening with his cock and pushes in, making me see stars speckled across the vaulted ceiling above us. His right hand pushes my thigh up while his body works against the pink lace of my panties.

Beneath us, the table shakes as we writhe together with wild, frantic movements, the push and pull of our bodies eliminating the need for words—or maybe just the capability of them. I feel my lids flicker as my back arches off the table and my hands slide down Royal's shoulders, my fingers curling into his muscles. The sight of him up there, moving like that … it's intoxicating. I can't think, can barely breathe as our pelvises meet in hard, desperate thrusts.

We're having a conversation with our bodies, but right now, I'm not exactly sure what that conversation is.

“Fucking faith,” Royal grinds out again as he moves inside of me, my heart slamming into my rib cage, my stomach still twisted into knots. He groans as he leans down and kisses the side of my throat, nibbles at the sensitive flesh, shoots goose bumps down my spine. When his mouth comes back to mine, frantic and needy, I take him in, raise my hips and feel a thrill as he shudders and groans, coming hard and deep inside of me.

When Royal lowers his body down to mine, his arms are slick with sweat and he feels heavy and hot, a comforting press of skin to skin in all the right places. For a few quiet moments, we breathe together, and then he's up again and pushing my knees back, lowering his face to the pink lace between my thighs with a smirk.

Royal's tongue takes up right where he left off.

This is stupid, I think as the pleasure starts to cloud my brain again. And it isn't going to work.

But then he does this really fantastic thing with his tongue that has me biting my lip and digging my fingers into his hair. I blame that for the subsequent scramble of my thoughts and the sudden desperate need I feel to make this work.

Our relationship, it doesn't make sense.

But I want to try it anyway.

I really, really do.





I'm smoking a cigarette on the back porch when Lyric comes out, opening the sliding glass door and padding up to stand next to me. Her arms are crossed over her chest and the brunette waves of her hair tumble around the shoulders of her borrowed t-shirt.

I'm bloody terrified of her. Really, I am. This … whatever it is that I'm fucking feeling for her, it's not something I've ever felt before. Things in my life used to make sense. The club first, my brothers first. Always. When I look at Lyric, it feels like my priorities are shifting right before my eyes. Some girls, they like the whole brotherhood thing, the feeling of belonging, the idea that they mean less to their man than his bike does. But I don't think Lyric's like that—and I know I'm not.

I scrub a hand over my face and then pull my cigarette from my lips, ashing it in the barbecue at my right. I don't look at her, just keep staring across the yard at the fence, deep in thought.

Mile Wide.

Brent Gilman.

Sully Rentz.

Landon and Rebecca White.

I'm staring at a sea of puzzle pieces, and it's my job to push them into place, figure out what's going on here.

“We haven't been using condoms,” Lyric states in her best take-no-shit voice. “Let's talk about that.”

I turn my head slowly to look at her. She's so goddamn tiny. But it's like she didn't get shortchanged on anything, like all that good stuff and that fire and that spunk that makes Lyric up got crammed into the smallest possible package, giving her more punch per ounce than anyone I've ever met.