Bedding the Bad Boy (Bad Boys of Football Book 1)
Read Bedding the Bad Boy (Bad Boys of Football Book 1) Online
Authors: Penelope Silva,Clementine Roux
Bedding the Bad Boy
Bad Boys of Football Book One
By Penelope Silva & Clementine Roux
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.
Copyright @ 2016 by Penelope Silva and Clementine Roux
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Table of Contents
Chapter Twenty-Three – Isla
139
Chapter Twenty-Four – Isla
142
Epilogue – Beck
148
Razor's Edge – Bad Boys of Football Book Two
151
Advanced Reader Group Application
153
154
Th
e
games had begun. I’d arrived. Their eyes were glued to the door, hoping I’d step through the threshold and make their dreams come true. I didn’t ask for power, but I’d be a fool not to use it.
My power stood front, center, and hard as hell, waiting for the next woman or two.
No one stood out. They looked alike. Each wore red painted lips and skirts not much longer than their skin-tight leather corsets. I wished for one to be different from the rest.
The night always ended the same – my massive stick in someone’s mouth.
Two of the vultures – leaches with tits – clung to me.
Yep, another ‘BYHF Night’ – Bring Your Hotter Friend Night.
I came prepared. Hell, I lived for it. The question was, did they? What else did they want? Pictures for their blogs? Dick shots to send to the dude that dumped them? Or, something extra special to send back home to their parents?
I came prepared for it.
You want new tits?
Sure, why not!
You want to borrow twenty-thousand dollars?
Of course!
I’d heard it all before. I was a means to a very profitable end. Everyone loved me. Not my whole life, though. The love fest started right about the time the New York Liberties – the football team I took to the championships three seasons in a row – offered me a hefty contract. Then, the endorsement offers came. I don’t remember how many companies I’d been the brand ambassador for and I don’t care. As long as the checks cleared, I was happy.
Then, the ‘Can I’s’ started. Can I borrow… Can I have… Can I… It never ended. Somebody always wanted something. I had the money. People handed it to me every day; why not spoil some desperate low-life broad, looking for a solid few hours of fun?
“It’s the man of the hour!” My teammates applauded as I stepped up the stairs, practically carrying the two bimbos with me.
After I ordered a round of drinks for everyone, the festivities got going. Dance music hit the speakers. Booties started wiggling.
I let Tweedledum and Tweedle-what’s-her-name think they ruled the nest. I kept them happy. Drinks, snacks, and enough attention to make them want to forget all about their problems, but not any more than necessary. You never knew when a new opportunity would present itself and one always did.
“Is this you now?” My teammate, Jared McClellan, asked, nodding at the two blondes grinding against me.
“For now.” I winked. He knew how these things went. The same thing, night after night.
The drinks kept flowing. The music grew louder. The party got hotter, but I was bored. Been there, done that. And, that one. And, that one over there too, if I remembered correctly.
“We got a newbie,” Jared nodded to the woman by the velvet entry rope at the top of the stairs. “She’s fine.”
He didn’t have to tell me; I could see that for myself.
She stood five-feet-two, maybe three inches tall, with curves for days. Thick hips. The kind my grandmother swore were a sign of a woman made to have babies. But, it wasn’t babies, I was after. Nope.
Green eyes.
Damn, she was beautiful!
Long, loose curls. Shoulder length.
That was good. Too long and it got in the way. Too short and it was like fucking a man. Nope. Shoulder length was good. Honey brown curls were even better.
I wondered if she’d taste like honey.
I bet she would. I intended to find out.
“Hey, hello! Did you forget about us?” Bimbo number one asked.
“No, sweetheart. How could I forget you and that hot, little body of yours?” I didn’t have the heart to tell her I not only wasn’t thinking about her, but for the life of me, I’d never remember her name. I didn’t care. Names were too personal. Knowing her name meant I was required to remember it. The way these football groupies followed us around, chances were I’d see her again. So, yeah, her name wasn’t as important as what she was willing to do for me or my teammates.
“Gentlemen,” Coach Lawson started. “Lose the women. It’s time for business.”
Business? No one handled their business better than a bunch of drunk, star athletes. That was the name of the game. That’s how things worked in our world. Keep the team happy with tramps and alcohol, then, make them earn their keep with boring business meetings and photo ops.
He escorted Honey Brown to our table.
I shooed Thing One and Thing Two away, but made sure to pat their asses as they scooted out of the booth, so they’d remember to stick close by, and Honey Brown would see how things rolled with me.
“Team, this is Isla Johnson. She’s the new PR Manager for the team,” Coach Lawson introduced her.
She could manage my Johnson anytime she wanted. Write that into my contract, please. I’ll sign it right now.
A shy smile. Soft, kissable lips. No red lipstick like every other woman in the building. Just dewy, soft lips and a sweet, shy smile.
“Hello,” she whispered or maybe I imagined she whispered, but whatever the case, it was sexy as hell.
“Miss Johnson, this is the team… well, most of the team. I think we’re missing a few, but this is our team captain, Beck Alexander and--“
I stopped listening to the coach. I’d heard it before. My focus was on her luscious lips and the way her dress hugged her body. There was something classy about it. No skin showing, but it didn’t have to show. I could only imagine what was underneath that dress and, if the coach would stop talking, I’d get the chance to find out.
I had a no fail plan.
Women adored me.
While I lost my mind in her curves, she sought a way out. “Nice to meet you. I’ll see you tomorrow morning at nine a.m. sharp. Don’t stay out late.” She smiled, then walked away, leaving us with our tongues hanging out of our mouths.
“You heard the lady; Stay out of trouble. Make it an early night, guys,” Coach Lawson warned us.
The lovely Miss Johnson slipped through the crowded bar, never batting an eye at all the catcalls or looks of utter disdain from the scantily clad regulars and their sidekicks. She was a woman of class. I could see that in the way she carried herself. She was somebody and she knew it. Hell, I knew it and I only met her a minute ago.
“Did you hear me?” Coach Lawson asked.
I nodded. “Yeah, I heard you. I’ll be there. See you at nine. Now, get home before your wife comes barreling in here making a scene. That wouldn’t be good for the team’s image. Remember what happened last time?” I teased him about the fuss his wife caused every time he tried to get a minute to himself.
He opened his mouth to say something, but my dates for the evening returned, hootin’ and hollerin’ having the time of their lives. Their night was about to get a whole lot better thanks to the curvy public relations gal.
“What do you say we get out of here, girls?” I winked at one and slid my palm over the other’s ass.
Time for round two. Off we were, heading for the next location. They were as giddy as kids on their way to the amusement park. That was partially true; plenty of women had told me, time spent with me was more fun than anything they’d ever done. They were about to visit a hotel room – a nice hotel room – but a hotel room nonetheless. Very few women ever got to see my house. Very few. I could probably count the number of women on one hand. That didn’t mean I didn’t bed, my fair share of women; I didn’t bed them in my bed. The guys on the team dug that kind of thing; not me. No one needed to know more about me than what they heard or read about in newspapers and magazines. I was the current and the previous
It Boy
according to most reports.
Yep, no one better than me and they all knew it.
“It’s that time. Go, get yours,” Jared said.
“Always. Don’t stay out too late.” I winked, knowing full-well that orders were merely suggestions in our world. We’d heard the same refrain over and over again. Very few of us heeded the warnings. The spotlight loved us and we loved it right back.
My plan to slip out of the bar relatively unnoticed, stalled. As soon we descended the stairs, the lower level crowd – those deemed rejects by our security squad – huddled together, licking their lips, salivating at the sight of me. My presence alone would make them hum.
I hated it and loved it at the same time.
If I had my choice, I’d keep the money and the women. Never give up women. But, I could do without people fanning themselves as I walked by or the screeching when I entered the room.
You want to screech; do it when I’m deep in you or when I make another play, not when I haven’t even noticed that you’re in the same room with me.
“What are you drinking, Beck?” A fan shouted from the bar.
“What are
we
drinking?” I clarified, setting the place on fire with excitement.
Why not? Another few drinks wouldn’t hurt.
To the bartenders – both blonde sticks with tits – I said, “Put a bottle of something good on every table, will you?”
After a moment of stunned silence, the bartenders flew into action, scrambling to follow my command.
Do as I say. Yeah, that’s right.
Two, maybe three hours later, we were more than ready to move the party to the next location – the one these hoes had hoped for since the day I arrived on the football scene.
“We’re out of here,” I told Roy, my head security guy.
Roy nodded. “I’m on it.” He made the phone call – the phone call I didn’t ever have to make because my last name was Alexander and my first name was Beck. Yeah, Beck Alexander – the man and the legend – carried a lot of weight in most circles.
Five minutes later, we stumbled out of the club, squinting at the flashing lights. As often as I’d run into paparazzi, I’d never really gotten used to it. The lights, the questions, the chaos; none of it impressed me. The girls, however, ate that shit up.
“Take my picture,” one said, playing grab ass with the other.
Flashes.
“Over here,” a pudgy tabloid news photographer urged. “Can I get a smile?”
I flashed my killer smile, holding both women close to me. Groupies loved that stuff.
“Who are you dating?”
“Are you engaged?”
“Is one of these lovely women
the
one?”
Didn’t matter. None of the thousands of women I pleasured meant a damn thing to me. None of them were worth more than the night I pretended to care about them.
My driver, Frank, opened the door for us. “Mr. Alexander.” He nodded.
I turned to look back at the cameras, offering my trademark wink, then, it hit me; why not drive myself? This was my night, my rules.
To Frank, I said, “Go back to the house. I don’t think the ladies will mind if I drive them in their car.”
He nodded. “Yes, sir.”
The girls squealed with delight. “You’re driving us?” The darker blonde asked.
“Where’s your car?” I asked, pulling her in for a kiss.
The paparazzi tripped over themselves to follow us to her white Bentley.
“It’s my father’s. He let me borrow it,” the darker blonde said.
I didn’t need an explanation. I didn’t care. It was a vehicle and a way out of this situation.
After a few moments of heavy petting for the camera’s sake, we were off, rushing down the boulevard with a line of hungry media following our every move. They wanted to play and I was always up for a little excitement.
I took corners at ninety miles per hour.
Still behind me.
I slammed on the breaks to see if they were paying attention.
Tires screeched behind us.
Life was a game. None of these people gave a damn about me. I was their meal ticket. If they got the right photo, their bills were paid for the rest of the year. So, everything I did, I could easily write off as charity work.
Yep, giving back to the community; that’s what I was doing.
A good citizen.
A humanitarian.
Beck Alexander, the philanthropist. I could hear it now. People would eat that up.
“Where are we going?” Blonde bimbo number two asked as she flashed her tits at the herd of cars flanking us on all sides.
More camera flashes.
“To the promised land, baby,” I whispered under my breath.
Her hands were all over me. Those belonging to the darker blonde, of course. First my thigh, then, my hardened cock.
Work it, sweetheart. Work it.
The other bimbo pressed her huge tits – fake and probably purchased by the last world class athlete, she’d banged – up against the back of my head.
I locked eyes with her in the rear-view mirror. She pinched her tits with her long nails. One in each hand, playing for me or maybe the camera.
“That’s nice, baby. I can’t wait to have those in my mouth,” I lied, but as long as she bought it, nothing else mattered. It’s not that I didn’t want big titties in my mouth; I didn’t want hers. Again, they were all the same to me. Nothing new. Nothing exciting.
