Risky and Wild(86)

Fuck.

I don't give Lyric a chance to protest, spinning her around and pushing her over the back of the couch. It's got a high back, high enough that her feet don't quite hit the floor. Perfect. Helps make up for the height difference.

“Royal!” she yells as I shove her dress up and find myself face to face with … whatever these fancy lace knickers are called.

“Blimey,” I say softly as I caress the round shape of her ass, kneading the soft flesh with my fingers. Lyric's got on a thong with some sort of black lace skirt over it. I run my fingers over the hook and eye clasps in the back.

“We're late,” she whispers, but I notice she doesn't struggle, doesn't make any move to stop me. “Just … make this quick.”

“Holy hell,” I growl as I struggle to get my pants undone, sliding my cock between her cheeks, teasing her already wet folds with the head of my dick. I grind against her, getting my shaft slick and ready before I move to her pussy and pull the thin string of the thong out of my way with a single finger. One quick thrust and I'm in, pumping hard and fast and furious. The way the soft flesh of Lyric's ass jiggles when we slam together is sinfully sexy. “You feel bloody amazing.”

“God, yes,” Lyric moans in a husky whisper. My tattooed hands grip her bare ass as I drive into her, claiming her, claiming this relationship. Somehow, I feel like we're going to need that tonight.

“Remember when you're sitting across from the mayor, how I made you come all over me. How I came in you.” I work my cock in and out as Lyric reaches for her clit. The second her fingers make contact, it's over. Her back arches in ecstasy, my fingers leaving bruises where they clamp tight on her ass. It's a frenzied, violent joining and then it's over, quick as it started.

“My God, Royal,” she murmurs as I pull her back, letting her feet hit the wood floor with a clack. Lyric smoothes her hands down the front of her dress and then shoulders past me toward the bathroom as I grin and slide a pack of cigarettes from my pocket.

“God, huh? It's not the first time I've been called that.” I wink at her as she moves away and reappears a few seconds later. “You sure you don't want to take my bike with me?”

“My dad does have a fairly impressive gun collection. Got any Kevlar in your closet? Because if I pull into my mother's driveway on a motorcycle with you, she'll be shooting to kill.”

Lyric pauses and lifts up on her tip toes to give my stubbled cheek a kiss.

“And like her daughter,” she says, stepping back and making a gun shape with her fingers. “She's a damn good shot.”



Looking at the keyed up paint on my 66 Bobber makes me want to scream, but the wind in my hair, the stinging salt smell of the ocean breeze, soothe away the tension. And bloody hell if I haven't been blessed to live in an area like Trinidad, with the ocean on one side and the redwood forest on the other? I don't think I've ever missed living in London. I have no idea how my mum chose this place—to be honest, I was always under the impression that she threw a dart at a map—but I couldn't be any happier.

That, and I'm pretty sure I found my soul mate. Not that I've ever believed in that crap before, but Christ, Lyric makes me want to believe. She turns on emotions I didn't know I had, makes me feel protective and proud and loving and sexual all at the same time.

I breathe out and take my bobber around a sharp corner, leaning into the turn, letting my body meld with the metal and chrome of the bike. It's an exhilarating feeling, one that gets my blood pumping, expands my lungs against my rib cage. The only thing that would make this better would be having Lyric on my bike with me. But she respected my traditions, so I'll respect hers.

“Jesus fuck,” I murmur as I come up on the neighborhood where Lyric's parents live. The place has got swag. Mansions line the street with generous swaths of yard, buried in the natural lush green beauty of the forest. Ferns, redwood trees and rhododendrons fill the landscape, all dotted with dew and drenched in a gentle layer of fog.

I follow Lyric's red taillights, pulling behind her in her parent's driveway—and enjoying the pun.

“Holy shit,” I say when I yank my helmet over my head and glance up at the three story Victorian. Puts mine to shame, although it doesn't have the view. “Love the Queen Anne,” I say as Lyric raises her brows at me. “What's the year? 1891?”

“Ninety-two. How the hell do you know that?”

I grin and swing my leg over the bike, pausing as I take in the house, the exuberant colors of the paint, the generous porch. This place must've cost a pretty penny.

“Must pay pretty well to be the mayor, yeah?” I ask Lyric and she smiles wryly at me, shaking her head.