Throw Down (The King Brothers Book 1) Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  COPYRIGHT

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  ALSO BY TEAGAN KADE:

  DEDICATION

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  EPILOGUE

  Teagan Kade

  * * * * *

  Published by Teagan Kade

  Edited by Sennah Tate

  Copyright © 2020 by Teagan Kade

  COPYRIGHT

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

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  ALSO BY TEAGAN KADE:

  THE LIFEGUARD

  LONG SCHLONG SILVER

  LIFE SUPPORT

  TROUSER SNAKE

  THE ROYAL TREATMENT

  BALLSY

  HOT PANTS

  SAVAGE

  VICE

  RECKLESS

  PUCK BUDDIES

  FERAL

  WINTER MIRACLE

  ADAGIO

  BRUTE

  BLAZE

  HUSTLE

  LAWLESS

  LONG GAME

  DEDICATION

  To Sennah for all those long nights trying to make my words actually make sense. I hope I got the Potter references right this time.

  CHAPTER ONE

  ERIN

  “O. M. G. You don’t know who Peyton King is?”

  Given the look of horror on her face, the mousy freshman by the kitchen counter does not.

  The blonde know-it-all facing her is more than happy to fill her in. She lowers her voice for dramatic effect, oblivious to the fact I’m standing right behind her, practically crammed against the cabinets. “If you want to get off, and I mean blast off like never before, he’s your go-to.”

  “Is he, like, really hot or something?” Ms. Mousy asks.

  Blondie laughs, beer sloshing over the side of her Solo cup. “He has the Burj Khalifa of big cocks. I’m talking m-a-s-s-i-v-e,” extending her hands to what cannot be a physically possible size for any phallus, man or animal.

  Looks like I’ve found a cheerleader, I muse, though I’m surprised she knows what the tallest building in the world is, let alone anything about Middle Eastern architecture.

  Blondie nods her head towards the door. “Speak of the devil.”

  I lean against the kitchen counter, Solo cup against my chest in a perfect imitation of everyone around me, because hey, I’m so one of them, right?

  A guy enters, tall, dark, handsome in a center-of-the-universe kind of way. Everyone knows him, every girl smiles, and I know I’ve found my mark. He saunters towards the kitchen in a loose swagger, the black collared tee he’s wearing a step up from most guys at this frat party.

  Mousy and Blondie are stunned to near silence as someone beside me hands him a beer.

  Play it cool, I think to myself.

  He turns, drinking, and sees me.

  Boom.

  His eyes are as dark brown as you can get before black, smoky and mysterious and the biggest alarm bells I’ve ever seen short of face tats.

  There’s no question.

  This guy is trouble with all the Ts.

  His gaze starts at my face, quickly dropping to my chest and legs before lifting.

  The cup comes away from his mouth. I’m about to introduce myself when he turns his back.

  The fuck?

  I know I’ve been out of the game a while, but I’ve still got it. Somewhere. Some place.

  You sure?

  “Hey,” I start, louder than I should, but enough to get his attention.

  He turns back around smiling. “Hey.”

  I extend my hand. “Erin.”

  He takes it, his grip strong and warm. “Peyton.”

  “I know. You’ve got quite the reputation.”

  That gets his interest. “If you’re referring to my stats, I suppose they are substantial.”

  “You’re a football player?” It’s a stab in the dark, but given his build and cockiness, I can’t imagine he’s in chess club.

  He leans closer. “And you’re not a freshman.”

  God, he smells amazing. I remind myself why I’m here. “Does it matter?”

  He sniggers, shaking his head and checking his watch, a Panerai, which means he comes from money, from the cashed-up uber elite that ring this university. “I’ve got maybe fifteen minutes, not that it’s going to take you that long to make me come.”

  I’m sipping on my beer when he announces it, basically choke on the warm liquid. “Sorry?”

  “That’s why you’re here, isn’t it? To check out my dick, suck it a little maybe, test your ‘skills,’ and mine.” He shifts his jaw back and forth, smiling with all the sleaze in the world. I’m staring at him and he may as well be Satan himself.

  I’m stunned. “I, I didn’t—”

  He places his fingers on my lips. “You don’t come to a party like this for the conversation.”

  I literally cannot speak. Every word I try to drum up is snared in my throat. The arrogance of this guy.

  He looks me over, eyes falling to my feet. “Flats—a practical, adult choice given most heels around here could double as a stepladder. Gap jeans—hardly designer, which means you’re no Wall Street banker, and…” his eyes rest on my chest, “a top that was in fashion three years ago. I guess that puts you at, what? Twenty-one?”

  The fucker’s right, but I won’t give him the satisfaction. I swallow before speaking. “This isn’t an episode of The Mentalist.”

  “It’s not an episode of The Bachelor either, because I’m not looking for something long term, Erin. So, you can come upstairs and have your mind blown, something to tell your knitting circle about, or you can get the fuck out of here.” He jabs his thumb at the door to nail his point home, but I’m pretty sure I got it.

  I’m not used to this, to being one-upped by a human meatgrinder. I place my cup down. Whatever I was hoping to achieve here, it’s not going to happen, as ‘mind-blowing’ as I’m sure Peyton King is between the sheets. “I guess I’ll get the hell out of here then.”

  “Erin The Cold, eve
ryone,” he shouts, slow-clapping his hands together loudly as I walk out of there. It’s fucking high school all over again.

  I flip him the bird, not that it’s going to make a bit of difference. He’ll be hooking up with the next clueless idiot to stumble into his orbit before I’ve left the building. That’s how guys like him work. They use, they abuse.

  And they’re going to suffer for it, I tell myself.

  With that thought in mind, I leave Gamma Phi Delta with a smile on my face and my panties firmly in place. Let the clueless hoards have him.

  CHAPTER TWO

  PEYTON

  I’m used to waking up in an empty bed. I’m not used to Tony Hamilton, the best tight end out there, sitting at the end of it.

  “Morning, bro,” he says, standing. Prick’s wearing one of my favorite shirts, which means he slept over, which means there’s a whole section of the night I can’t account for, which is probably why my head feels like a fucking cinder block.

  I sit up and blink. I do remember something. “Where are they?”

  Tony sniffs. “The two brunette twins? Oh, they scooted about 3am once they had their fill. I imagine they’re spreading the story as we speak.”

  My head’s going to explode.

  He hands me a beer. “Here. It’ll help.”

  I take a swig and almost bring it back up. I hold the can away. “Is this beer or did you literally piss into this can to fuck with me?”

  Tony laughs. He’s the practical joker of the team, looks like a poor man’s Ryan Reynolds. “Brother, if I wanted to fuck with you, you’d know about it.”

  His pranks are, of course, legendary around campus. Relocating the Dean’s entire office to the gymnasium toilet block was a masterwork.

  Tony takes a tank out of my dresser, holding it away from himself with a pinch grip before tossing it onto the bed. “You coming to practice or you need a blood transfusion to walk given that giant bed boner you’re packing?”

  I hadn’t even noticed the way the sheets are tented around my cock. “I shrug. Hey, at least it got fed.”

  “It’s not a fucking alligator.”

  I spread my arms out. “Gators gon’ hate, I guess.”

  Tony shakes his head. “You’re unbelievable, King.”

  “Hey, I believed in myself when nobody else would.”

  Tony scoffs. “You’re quoting Sugar Ray now? You know not to touch my favorite boxer.”

  I swing out of bed and pull on the tank, swiping a pair of boxers off the floor. “Now Duran… He was a boxer…”

  I duck as a Solo cup goes sailing past my head. “Get your shit on and get the fuck out of here before Coach and me bust your ass.”

  “You know I don’t swing like that,” I tell him. Tony might have the joking down, but stringing words together has never been his strong suit.

  Tony simply stretches his hands out. “Your fucking funeral, bro.”

  *

  Coach Mooney doesn’t look pleased at the best of times. You could bring back Marilyn Monroe to give him a birthday BJ and he’d still look like the someone killed his cat. “I hear instead of sleeping like actual athletes certain team members saw fit to hold a, what was it called? An ‘ABC’ party? Which I’m going to guess stands for ‘All Brothers Combined’ or some hippie shit.”

  “’Anything But Clothes, sir’,” calls out Tony, smirking.

  “What?” barks Coach.

  “Anything but—”

  “Shut the fuck up, Hamilton. I heard you the first time.”

  He takes off his cap and runs his hand through the three hairs he has left on his scalp. “I’ve got my own acronym for this morning, boys. Want to know what it is?”

  This time everyone’s silent.

  I’m dying to throw out a suggestion, but I hold my tongue.

  Coach looks up at us smiling, fixing his cap in place. “BFW, boys. B. F. W.”

  *

  Tony collapses on the bench beside me, the two of us staring up at the patchy locker room roof. “Why does my pinkie hurt? How the fuck does it hurt when it didn’t do a damn thing? I’m hurting in places I didn’t know I even had.”

  He’s not wrong. Coach gave us hell out there today. “It’s called the ‘Big Fucking Workout’ for a reason. Be thankful you’re still alive.”

  “Today, sure, but maybe not tomorrow if he keeps this shit up. I thought this was college football, not fucking Nazi Germany.” Tony sits up looking down at me. “You cool?”

  Truth is, I’m distracted. I remember the twins — a blur of tits and ass, nothing more, forgettable like every other lay I’ve had lately. No, the real distraction was the girl by the kitchen counter, clothed and proper but trying to blend in. A chameleon she was not. The question is, why? I haven’t seen her around campus before, she’s certainly not a freshman… The mystery is intriguing, but I’m more interested in that tight body hiding below, the one that was looking so awfully, awfully ripe for the taking.

  Before you opened your big mouth, you mean?

  I can’t help it. Like father, like son, though I’m not planning to go through five wives like he did. It’s a bachelor’s life for me — no commitments, no strings. I have my fun, get my dick wet, and boot them all the fuck out. That’s the best way. They have their moment, tell all their friends how they ‘survived’ King Dong… even if I only give them half-length special.

  “Fine,” I reply, cock hardening at the thought of the chase, the sweet release in the capture. That’s what I am, after all — a hunter. I live for that shit.

  “I’m hitting the showers,” yawns Tony, standing.

  I’m hardly about to follow suit with the slugger I’m packing. “Give me a few minutes.”

  Tony butts his helmet against my shoulder as he passes. “Breakfast at the Steam Room, my treat.”

  “What the hell kind of breakfast you going to buy us with five dollars?”

  “Fuck you,” sings Tony, with a surprisingly good voice. “Fuuuuccccck you,” he trills.

  I continue to stare at the ceiling thinking about… Erin, wasn’t it? Erin The Cold. Erin The Untouchable.

  We’ll see about that.

  CHAPTER THREE

  ERIN

  My roommate, Mindy, hands me a steaming cup of coffee. The mug reads ‘Chocolate — Better than sex’.

  I’d have to agree.

  Mindy settles into the sofa beside me, her dreadlocks pulled down over her shoulder. “For someone who attended a frat party last night, let alone a Gamma Delta Phi party, you’re looking pretty chipper.”

  “Because I’m not lying in a pool of vomit and still wearing my underwear?”

  “Because you’re here at all and not rugged up with some fine frat stud.”

  “Fine,” I laugh, sipping at the coffee. It’s like molten lava. “I’d hardly call what was on offer ‘fine.’ More like ‘used.’”

  Mindy shrugs. “It’s nice to be used once in a while. You should try it.”

  Of course, Mindy doesn’t have any problem on that front. We’ve known each other since high school. Even then she had a constant stream of sexual activity going on. Her parents were neo-nonconformists who dragged her along to Burning Man before she could walk. She’s a sexual free spirit. It was encouraged by her parents. Mine? If Walmart started selling chastity belts, Dad would have been first in line.

  “You’re telling me you met no one of interest?” Mindy continues, eyes narrowed in interest.

  My thoughts immediately turn to Peyton King. I did some digging (read: Googling) last night and uncovered more than I was expecting with ‘King Dong,’ as he’s called around campus. I looked at the first image I could find and thought for a moment it was some kind of strange baseball bat, but no. It was penis — a lot of penis. And why the hell would you let someone take a photo of it for the world to see?

  Maybe he sent it to the Guinness Book of World Records…

  God help the poor soul who looks into my browser history.

  I place the mug
down into my lap. It’s warm against my crotch. “There was one guy…”

  Mindy’s cornflower eyes sparkle. She shifts closer, conspiratorially. “Go on.”

  “Peyton King?” I more or less whisper it, somewhere between a question and a statement, or perhaps a cry for help.

  “Peyton King!” exclaims Mindy. “You fucked King Dong?”

  I roll my eyes. “Not you too, and no, I did not ‘fuck’ him.”

  “Suck him off? Hand job? Lick his asshole a bit?”

  “Jesus!” I stammer, standing. “We talked, okay?”

  “While he was doing you up the butt?” Mindy’s composure breaks.

  I pick up a pillow and toss it at her. “Ha. Ha. Ha.”

  “You talked about… what, precisely? COVID-19? The Dow Jones?

  I think back. “My fashion sense, funnily enough.”

  Mindy looks away, her voice muffled by her coffee. “Yeah, we need to talk about that.”

  “What’s wrong with what I wear?”

  “Nothing,” she replies, “unless you’re looking to join the nearest nunnery.”

  I’ve run out of cushions, so I kick the sofa instead, almost spilling her coffee.

  She looks up at me shocked. “Erin Janine Nash, you’re into him, aren’t you?”

  I place my coffee down on the table. “An arrogant, misogynist pig of a man whose sole goal in life is to sleep with as many girls as possible? No, thank you.”

  Mindy knows me too well, though. She sees right through it. “Ah, your head is saying no, but your body is in full-on Fourth of July mode. I can practically see your clit pulsing from here. It’s like a fucking beacon.”

  I head to the kitchen. “You’re disgusting.”

  “But at least I’m honest with myself,” she calls.