Reckless: A Bad Boy Sport Romance (2 page)

As the chanting got louder, I turned my back to the crowd and closed my eyes. I took it all in, breathing in the glorious sounds of unified chaos. My heart was thumping like bedposts knocking against the flimsy walls of a motel. Sweet adrenaline shot through my veins. I was fucking invincible.

Spreading my arms, I launched myself into the audience. Gravity could kiss my ass. The faceless crowd bobbing underneath me threw up their hands. The hollering was starting to give me a headache, but my mouth slacked in a smile. I relaxed, feeling weirdly weightless as they passed me on to the back of the crowd.

When I got to the end of the crowd, a pair of arms reached out, helping me to my feet.

“Good looking out.” I turned around and snatched my hat back from a wasted zombie colonel.

“Anytime, brother.”

I popped the hat back onto my head, lifting an eyebrow. Jonathan Whitaker, the first-string quarterback and poster boy of the New York Jets, couldn't have stood out more. The buzz-kill neglected to dress up for the occasion. Instead, he wore a button-up and had his gelled hair parted like he was going to church. But none of that seemed to matter to the droves of whispering chicks around him.

“What are you, on the way to the middle school dance?”

Whitaker chuckled, shaking his head.

“Up yours, Warner. But cool party.”

“Not a bad turnout.” I shrugged. “Might as well go all out for Hardwick – figured this'll be the only wedding I'll ever be attending.”

“Who knows? I wouldn't be so quick to talk if I were you. Stranger shit has happened. But for the sake of some poor broad out there, I hope you're right.” Whitaker smiled, uncrossing his arms. “Anyway, I just came to holler at you for a second – I think I'm gonna bounce.”

“You're kidding me – already? Didn't you just get here half an hour ago? Come on, let me buy you a dance –”

“Naw, man, thanks. I'm good.” He raised his palms in surrender, the silver band around his finger glinting. “I've already had a drink with Whitaker, and I've – we've – gotta get up early for the game tomorrow. 'Sides, the missus called. She wants me home.”

“Ouch.” I flicked my chin at him, my grin widening. “If you ever need some ointment for all those whip marks on your ass, let me know and I'll hook you up – I got an aunt that's a pharmacist.”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever, clown.” Whitaker slid his palm over mine, turning to leave. “I'll see you tomorrow.”

“Alright, cool, I'll catch – ” I wrinkled my nose. Another 15 or so of my teammates assembled behind him. “Wait, where you guys going?”

“We're gonna take off, too,” Max Baldwin, a cornerback, piped up. “But thanks, Warner, this party's epic.”

“Alright, but y'all missing out – the party's just getting started.”

The guys gave me fist bumps and shoulder slaps as they made their way towards the exit. And when I turned back to the crowd, my eyes landed on the fuckwit at the bar. Xavier Dubois, the son of Marvin Dubois, the owner, chairman, and CEO of the Jets, was sandwiched between a group of giggling college girls.

I curled my lip as I watched him from afar. He smashed his face into the tits of a curly-haired girl with a bejeweled pink mask and sucked up the shot glass wedged in her cleavage. The girl shrieked, shaking her titties gleefully as he motorboated her. Needless to say, I didn't like the dude. The sentiment was echoed by the rest of the team, excluding the few who joined his circle-jerk because he was a Dubois.

Xavier was this spoiled pretty boy and man-child hybrid. He lived like he was put on Earth to blow through his trust fund like a grown up Richie Rich gone rogue. He also had this annoying habit of crashing parties he wasn't invited to. Fuck me if I knew why he even bothered showing up to any of the team events. Maybe it was because his head was so far up his own ass that he couldn't see that everyone he came across either wanted to put his teeth over the curb, or tolerated him because he was loaded.

I had half a mind to warn the young women about the STDs Xavier was most probably riddled with, but when my eyes met the sultry gaze of the stripper bride in the packed dance floor, I swiftly decided against it.

The bride squeezed out of the crowd, followed by one of the bridesmaids. Our unspoken connection was immediate. The bride flipped her long blue hair over her shoulders. She wrapped her fingers around my wrist and yanked me towards her, her pointed blue nails grazing against my skin. Her curvy friend with the short white-blonde hair and the lively double-Ds tagged closely behind.

The bride led us up the winding staircase and onto the second floor. We passed the VIP section, which was cordoned off with red rope, and headed into the back room at the end of the hall. The bouncers that stood by the doors nodded at me, slapping me a low-five as we slipped past them.

The dark, smoky room was filled with red light. All around me, groups ranging from 2 to 5 members swarmed over the sleek leather furniture. It was a carnival of bouncing tits, hairy dicks, and tangled limbs.

Glass tabletops were wrecked with hotel key cards, keys, colorful pills, lines of white residue, and empty baggies. But in the center of the room was the most revolting, yet magnetic sight of all. 7 men and women were curled up in awkward angles, their mouths stuffed with cocks and their tongues rammed deep inside spread cunts and ass cheeks. I could almost feel the musky heat emanating from their bodies, and I was all the way across the room.

We stepped over a couple of empty bottles and found ourselves a spare loveseat in the corner of the room. Before I could even settle into my seat, the bridesmaid sidled up to me from behind the couch. She grabbed an uncorked bottle of champagne from a poker-faced server. Sliding a hand under my chin, she coaxed my head backwards and poured the bubbly down my throat. I gulped down the dry, golden liquid dutifully, feeling myself harden at the soft, meaty tits resting on my shoulder.

The bride took her position in front of me, leaning forward. The dark crescent of her nipples peeked out from her bra cups. My cock throbbed in my pants. I'd give anything about now to slide my dick in her cleavage and fuck the shit out of those big, fat titties. While she removed my hat and coat, I reached around her, unfastening the clasps of her corset. And when that corset snapped open, I let my fingers glide down her back and over her ample cheeks.

By the time the bridesmaid finally set down the bottle, my cheeks were flushed and my temples pulsing from my head rush. She pulled off the band holding my hair back, stroking my beard as she pulled out one of her tits and fit her puffy nipple in my mouth. My mouth latched onto her nipple, and as I sucked and tugged at the stiffening bud between my teeth, the head rush slowly dissolved. With my other hand, I pulled aside the bride's thong and scraped my fingers across her hot, sticky folds.

I slid my finger into her cunt and started to fuck her, but both ladies pulled away from me. They lowered their eyes, exchanging meaningful looks as they lay me down on the flat of my back. The bride fished out one of the last condoms from the bowl on a nearby table. She kept her eyes fixed on mine as she unzipped my pants and pulled out my cock. Dragging her teeth across her lip, she slowly unfurled the red rubber over my length.

As the bride straddled me, slowly driving my cock between the tight lips of her cunt, I reached for the bridesmaid. I hefted her off the ground and positioned her ass in front of my face. Her round ass was so smooth and fleshy that my fingers dimpled into her skin as I pried her cheeks apart.

I grunted, my legs going rigid as the bride slid down on my cock. She really went at it, shrugging off her loose corset as she rode me vigorously. I didn't know what brand this condom was, but I knew I needed to get me a variety pack of this shit – I could barely feel it on me.

I craned my neck to the side, watching as the bride started a sloppy tongue-fencing session with the bridesmaid between bounces. The bridesmaid's juices leaked out from the small crotch of her panties, trickling down the inside of her thigh. I leaned forward, lapping up the trickle before shoving my face right into her warm, breathing cunt. With stripper cunt juice streaked all over my mouth, cheeks, and beard, the corners of my mouth twitched.

I didn't give 2 shits about what other people thought – I was still the fucking man.

Chapter Two:
Brooklyn

2016

“Come in.”

I opened the door and let myself into the office. It was like walking through a portal that led to the lap of unnecessary luxury. Bright, natural light streamed in through the floor-length windows, which displayed a panoramic view of Wall Street from the 61
^st
floor. Coffee-colored chesterfield furniture adorned the room. The walls were decorated with framed plaques and mounted trophies of giant fish, cattle, and bear heads.

A pot-bellied man with a greasy, ruddy complexion and a Monopoly Man mustache sat behind the desk in the center of the room. He reclined in his chair, beckoning me towards him. The strained buttons over his flabby gut wheezed with him.

“Mr. Hernandez.”

“Well, well, to what do I owe the pleasure, toots?” He leaned forward, wiggling the white tufts on his forehead as I took the seat in front of him. “Nice skirt – I certainly hope you're not distracting any of my men with those legs of yours.”

“How charming,” I replied dully, sliding the call sheet across the table. “But I'm not here for a fashion consultation.”

“And what exactly am I looking at here?” Mr. Hernandez picked up the paper lazily, narrowing his beady gray eyes.

“Martha Goldberg.” I pointed out the highlighted name towards the end of the list. “This is Bosworth's sheet. He's been selling her shares of J&M Pharmaceuticals and Farrow Research. These companies are bad news –”

“Alright, Cunningham, I'm listening, but so far, I'm not hearing anything that concerns me, so if we can wrap this up, my wife's made a pot roast –”

“But Bosworth is unloading worthless shares – one after another, it's not just J&M and Farrow –”

“Enough, Cunningham,” Mr. Hernandez barked. He slid the paper back across his desk and started picking at the lint under his yellowish fingernails. “Who is this woman, anyway?”

“She was my Literature teacher back in high school,” I explained, breathing deeply. As much of a sexist jerk as he was, the man was still my boss. “From what I've heard, she lives alone, and she's got Alzheimer's. Look, I get it, we're in the business of making money, but this is taking it too far –”

“It's always going to be someone's mother, neighbor, friend, hairdresser's sister, you get it.” Mr. Hernandez propped his elbows against his armrest and steepled his fingers. “At Slater Oakridge, we learn to detach ourselves from the situation and do whatever it takes to keep the company's best interests at heart. Now, see, this is why I've always said women shouldn't be dabbling in the market – other than those butch lesbians, I suppose –”

“'You take care of Slater Oarkridge, and Slater Oakridge takes care of you,'” I recited the company motto pointedly under my breath, shooting daggers at him.

“Exactly. That's the spirit.” His crusty white lips twisted in a thin smile. “Curious, isn't it? This is the first time you've ever brought anything of the sort to my attention, and coming from the firm's top-paid female employee, too.”

“I don't see how that –”

“Bosworth's got that Slater Oakridge drive – the man is stepping up his game. Instead of letting that jealousy fester, take a page from his book and keep at it, sweetheart. You'll get there someday.”

“But what about –”

“Now, why don't you run along and go buy yourself something shiny to get your mind off all of this. We don't want stress wrinkles to ruin that pretty face of yours, do we?” Mr. Hernandez rose to his feet, pushing a cigar into the side of his mouth. “I'll see you tomorrow, Cunningham.”

I would have liked to take that cigar and ram it up his nose, but as a civilized member of society and a slave to the machine, I held my tongue.

“Right.”

With a hanging head, I took the call sheet and left the office. A knot of guilt settled in the pit of my stomach. If you extracted all the bigoted remarks from what Mr. Hernandez said, there was some truth there.

Despite my 4 years on Wall Street, I liked to think that my conscience hadn't yet reached its full decay. I usually went out of my way to avoid sinking to Bosworth's level, but when I needed to fill a quota, I did what I had to. Though I could keep telling myself that I only sought out those who could afford it, there was no way I could put myself of any kind of pedestal. I had started out as an order entry clerk, and to scale the ranks to get where I was today, I've done some things I would prefer to be left out of my tombstone.

When I returned to my cubicle, I slipped the copy of Bosworth's call sheet back into my files and swung my purse over my shoulder.

XXX

I pulled up in my usual spot by the curb of Ike's Hoagies. I was parked right across a vibrant mural, which seemed to be the only source of life amidst the rows of shabby buildings and flickering lampposts. The gorgeous life-sized painting depicted a young girl with flowing black locks and a white nightgown, soaring over the twinkling skies of New York City. Ever since the 17-year-old artist was shot dead in a drug deal gone wrong 7 years ago, people in the neighborhood have been working together to preserve the artwork.