Rolling Passion: Breed the Competition (Alpha Champions)

I crank it up a notch and blast into the breakaway. The cyclists up here look over their shoulders at the big guy in black base layers and blue Lycra, not liking the fact that an interloper can slide into their group so easily.

A long-legged, red-streaked blonde kicks in the outside burners, veering hard left as she takes a drag on a titanium safety pin with her lips pressed together. She’s cut out for speed, her world-class frame pivoting and hands manipulating the calipers like LeBron James doing a crossover.

Her head is down, cheeks are red, and her smoky green eyes sizzle with confidence behind blue, mirrored sunglasses. Damn, the pacemaker is a looker.

A dot of sweat travels down her soft cheek, destined for a mouth full of white chicklets—and guy-magnet, glossy red berries—her tongue protruding between them. An uninterrupted crimson streak runs down the length of her gold-blonde ponytail, snaking past the cycling club emblem on the back of her shirt. Her ass in black, high-gloss Spandex makes me open my stride just to keep up. Above the magic eight ball, there is a leaping unicorn, plus a “BQ 3:35” tramp stamp.

It clarifies curiosity and all that, but I can’t help but notice there’s no panty line to be had.

Her lycra is so thin it might as well have been spray-painted on, and she rides like an Olympian, swaying from side to side like she was churning butter. It’s all I can do not to helicopter my dick in public. I know if she rides out in front with a view of her breasts and the path to V-town, my hormones won’t be able to prevent arousal and subsequent tumescence.

The last quarter of the ride is an incline, and she opens up her stride twice as fast. I take note of the fact I’m beginning to breathe, but I keep my eyes peeled to her wiggle and stay on her tail. I take a quick look back and see that we’ve dropped the others.

A quarter of a mile out, inhale-inhale-exhale, inhale-inhale-exhale—I know I can hang. I relax and let my egg beaters rotate. I can see the parking lot now. Over the last twenty meters, she takes it up to a sprint, and I keep up. I’m not trying to beat her, just hang on her coattails to the finish at the transition from trail to parking lot.

We stop, sucking wind.

“Fifty kilometers and you had enough leftover,” she pants. “I took everything out of the tank; there’s nothing left.”

“Same here,” I say, wiping the sweat off my brow. “I was hanging on.”

She smiles enigmatically and is about to say something when, one by one, the other cyclists enter the parking lot.

After we finish, I mentally take notes. The other members in our party filter in and go over to stretch, shoot the breeze, and talk about their long ride.

A couple members ride over and high five me and the “hottie.”

“Mason and Ronnie, just like the movies,” says Phil Shoke, a club manager and VP of acquisitions. “I don’t know how the two of you can accelerate after fifty klicks!”

He’s a good-looking man, a big player at a pharmaceutical company. I figure he’s doing alright, since he’s driving an imported Porsche.

“Ronnie’s always saving some in reserve,” I say. “And I can’t take my eyes off her tight buns, so I hang on.”

“Don’t b