Driven Collection

by K. Bromberg

  Her eyebrows shoot up at my claim. I can see the insolence just beneath her composed exterior. “How so, Ace? Last night you were with me, and tonight you’re with her.” She says her like the meanest of slurs, and I can’t help but think the same thing. I send a silent thanks to Becks for getting my hint and keeping Raquel occupied right now. “Seems to me like—She. Belongs. With. You.” She mimics me.

  Sweet Christ! The woman fucking owns me. Owns me and I haven’t even had her yet. What the fuck is wrong with me? I never chase. Never. But the goddamn woman is constantly pulling me in two opposing extremes. I swear to God she’s got some kind of fucking hold on me I can’t break from.

  I drag my hand through my hair in frustration as I take in the other three sitting in the booth, witness to the stringing of my balls by a singular woman. “Rylee.” I sigh, trying to rein in the impatience in my voice. “You—you …” She’s what, you dumbass? Grab your balls back firmly and own them. Tell her how it’s going to be. “You test me on every level. Push me away. What am I supposed to think?”

  Yeah. That was brilliant, Donavan. Fucking brilliant, if you’re a pussy.

  She eyes me up and down, a little smirk at the corners of her mouth that irritates the fuck out of me. Makes my dick hard. She’s playing me once again. Fucking toying with me.

  And enjoying it.

  “I’m not sure if I want you yet,” she antagonizes, startling everyone else at the table, I assume because of my rumored temper and unpredictability. “A girl’s allowed to change her mind,” she taunts, angling her head and deliberately looking me up and down. “We’re notorious for it.”

  “Among other things.” I shoot back instantly and then take a sip of my drink, watching her above the rim all the while. “Two can play this game, Ryles, and I think I have a lot more experience at it than you do.”

  Her lips part slightly at my words and I want to groan out loud at the fucking image that flickers through my head. Of exactly how I can fill that space between them. I grit my teeth in need as I level my stare at her. She slowly removes her hand from Surfer Joe’s knee and scoots toward the edge of the booth.

  Toward me.

  That’s right, sweetheart. Let’s end this. Right here. Right now. Come to Daddy.

  “You’re playing hard to get, Rylee.”

  She glances over at her girlfriend and then slowly rises from her seat, and all I see are her sweet curves and soft flesh and my head fills with thoughts of how desperately I want her beneath me, naked and coming undone. “And your point is …?”

  Her words force me to focus back to now. To winning her over, despite the combustible sexual chemistry between us that she’s constantly fighting. But when I see her—hear her—her shoulders are proud with defiance and her chin, strong.

  She wants to go this route? Keep up the charade that she doesn’t want me despite her fucking unbelievable body announcing otherwise. I can play this like nobody’s business. Run circles around her. I shake my head at her and take a step closer.

  Needing to be closer.

  She lowers her eyes under my intense scrutiny. “I hope you’re enjoying yourself because it’s quite a show you’re putting on here.” I reach out and force her chin up so she has no other option but to look me in the eyes. “I don’t like games, Rylee,” I warn, my blood thundering through my veins from being so close to her. “… and I won’t tolerate them played on me.”

  The air thickens between us. My breath quickens. My fingers itch to touch.

  To possess.

  To claim.

  She’s just as fucking affected as I am. I know it. Can see it. Fuck me. The woman turns me inside out, and I can see the moment she tries to deny what’s humming between us right now. She takes a slow, calculated breath and steps toward me. “Well, thanks for the update.” She slaps her hand to my chest and leans into me, her lips right at my ear.

  My senses riot. My restraint tested. The woman needs to back away right now or I’ll take her right here on the damn floor. No holds barred.

  “I’ll let you in on a little something as well, Ace. I don’t like being made to feel like sloppy seconds to your blonde bevy of babes.” Her voice tickles my skin. And she continues to tease as she takes a step back, that smile on her face tempting me to just take without asking. “You’re developing a pattern of wanting me right after you’ve been with another. That’s a habit you’re going to need to break or nothing else is going to happen here.” She gestures back and forth between us, my mind wandering to exactly what else she can do with that perfectly manicured hand. “… That’s if I want it to at all.”

  She smirks at me as she retreats a step. That smirk that I’d like to fuck into submission until she’s screaming out my name. And I’ve had enough of this banter. Desire’s so strong in me that my balls ache. I’m just about to act on it. To take without asking when I hear “Colt, baby?” followed by a hand sliding up my torso to display ownership. I tense when all I really want to do is shrug Raquel off of me like a hot fucking coal.

  The look on Rylee’s face—her complete disdain for Raquel—I completely understand. I feel the same way at this exact moment. But what gets me more than anything is the flash of hurt that lingers in those violet eyes a moment too long.

  Fuck! I knew it.

  She wants this just as bad as I do. There’s nothing I can do right now and not look like a dick. Drop Raquel and go after Rylee or leave Rylee after the game I just played and walk away with Raquel. I do the only thing I can do when all my mind and hands want to do is grab Rylee against me and taste her mouth. Sample her body.

  I toss back the rest of my drink, the burn of the alcohol not even registering. When I look back toward Rylee, she’s saying something to her friend and then picks up her purse. She turns back to face me and my chest tightens. That defiance I find arousing is evident in her posture, but her eyes reflect a myriad of contradictions.

  I hate you.

  I want you.

  How could you?

  I should’ve known.

  You’re going to break my heart, aren’t you?

  Your choice: me or her.

  I clench my jaw. Having answers to all of them. And none of them. She just looks at me one more time, a quiet resignation in her face, and then she turns and pushes her way through the crowd of people. Getting away from me as fast as she can.

  I’d run too, sweetheart. That’s nothing compared to the poison inside of me.

  I look down at the empty glass in my hand while Raquel tugs on my arm, urging me to follow her. I resist the desire to huck it against the wall and hear the crash as the glass splinters into a thousand tiny fucking pieces.

  What the fuck are you doing, Donavan? Since when do you care what people think? Fucking voodoo pussy, man. That’s got to be it. Got to be the only reason I want to chase the one thing I’ve never wanted. Never cared to.

  Until now.

  Fuckin’ A.

  I look up and meet the blonde friend’s eyes. She just arches her eyebrow at me as if to say “You fucking idiot.” And she’s right. I am.

  I look over to Raquel. And feel nothing. Absolutely nothing. No buzz. No charge. No ache to take.

  I look into the mass of people where Rylee left and I catch a glimpse of her head as she weaves through the crowd. My chest tightens. My fingers rub together. My body craves. And the need humming through me is so strong, all I can do is shake my head at Raquel. My eyes telling her the only words that need to be said.

  And then I walk away.

  There’s not even a choice to be made.

  It was made for me. The moment she fell out of that damn storage closet and into my life.

  Fucking Rylee.

  Fucking voodoo pussy.

  The two thoughts are on repeat in my head as I push through the crowd to try and find where in the hell she went.

  I’m annoyed I can’t find her. Pissed because Colton Donavan does not chase and fuck if this woman hasn’t had me on the run since the
get-go.

  It’s easy to tell myself to let her go. Fuck the hassle. So why can’t I?

  I scan the crowd and through a break I see her at the bar. I push through, tell myself I’m chasing because of the challenge and from the need to show her that she wants this … even if it’s just because she’s so goddamn nonchalant about rejecting me.

  Women aren’t blasé when it comes to wanting me. She tried to be but I saw her nipples tighten through her top, her pulse beat in her throat. I know I affected her.

  Blasé my ass. She’s fucking lying and another shot, another drink, another woman isn’t going to convince me otherwise.

  I’m used to getting what I want and right now, I want this fucking woman more than any other.

  I reach the bar and she catches sight of me, turns, and then hurries to the exit.

  Fuckin’ A. She’s running again and I’m chasing.

  And the thing about chasing in racing is sometimes it’s a bitch to win a race from behind. But then again, chasing can let you draft, fly beneath the radar, and then slingshot to take the lead and control the race when it matters the most.

  Time to slingshot.

  I push through the exit moments after her. We’re in some type of hallway but I don’t take notice because our eyes lock. I see the hurt flash before she turns and keeps going.

  Uh-uh. No way. She’s not walking away from me again because I may have seen hurt, but I also saw something else. And I need to know what that something else is.

  But why, Donavan? Why the fuck do you care when you can have any woman you want? Snap your fingers and another one will replace the current one?

  I grit my teeth as I chase, the view of her walking away becoming a familiar one but hell if it’s not hot as fuck to watch her ass sway. And therein lies the motherfucking problem. That view is what keeps me coming back for more. And I lie to myself again because I know it’s so much more than just the curves that keep me chasing.

  Let her go. Let her keep on walking out of the hallway, out of my life.

  But I don’t want her to. There’s just something about her that I can’t quite put my finger on. Something about her holds me captive, tempts me, demands that I sit up and pay fucking attention.

  I reach out, my hand on her arm, and pull her backwards. Her body turns so we stand face to face, bodies inches apart, and fuck … I’m pissed.

  Pissed that she hates me. Pissed that she wants me. Frustrated that I want to just walk away but for some fucking reason I can’t.

  I was seduced by her kiss and moved by her with her boys yesterday. We basically fucked on the dance floor an hour ago and then she was with Surfer Joe and I swore it was a show. Something to play me like the games so many women use to get my attention. But then when I gave it to her, she left me high and dry without a chance to make the decision her eyes dared me to.

  Choose her, pick her, drown in her.

  She may not be playing the bullshit games, but it’s still her fault. I use the need for her I don’t want to feel to feed my anger. I don’t want this—complications and estrogen fueled bullshit. I want a quick fuck, that’s it. A roll in the sheets to satisfy the craving she’s created and move on. I hold onto that lie and give the one reaction I can since the only other option my mind can think of is her beneath me.

  And fucking hell, I want that.

  “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” My voice is low and spiteful, my hand squeezing tighter on her arm to prevent it from sliding down her side. I yank her against me.

  “Excuse me?”

  She seems shocked that I’m angry. If I wasn’t intimately familiar with the bite to her tongue, her reaction would leave me thinking she’s used to being handled with kid gloves. But I know better than that, know she can hold her own.

  “You have an annoying little habit of running away from me, Rylee.” I watch the shock flicker across her face. Does she not see it? Kisses me and then runs at the benefit. Kisses me and runs at The House. Kisses me until I want so much more than just the small sample I had at the beach. That’s a whole lot of tempt and not a lot of take on my part.

  It’s called blue balls, sweetheart. Something’s got to give soon and I sure as fuck hope it’s both our zippers.

  “What’s it to you, Mr. I-Send-Mixed-Signals?” She jerks her arm from my hand. Physical connection broken but fuck if the sexual tension isn’t eating us alive.

  “You’re one to talk, sweetheart. Is that guy—is he what you really want, Rylee?” My mind flashes back to the fucker’s hand on her, body up against hers. I see red then green. Fuck. The red I’m used to, but the jealousy is a whole different ball game I’ve never even taken a practice swing in. “A quick romp with Surfer Joe? You want to fuck him instead of me?”

  I clench my jaw to control my need to taste those sexy-as-sin lips of hers she’s scowling at me with. I fist my hands, that deep V of her dress calling to my fingers to dip inside and cup those tits she’s pushing in my face as her chest heaves up and down from her angered breaths.

  I deserve a goddamn medal for fighting this urge. For not touching when every ounce of me screams at me to plunder and pillage that mouth until it’s swollen from use. My desire turns to anger because what I see in her eyes, what it makes me feel, isn’t something I’m supposed to feel.

  Fuck this.

  Fuck her.

  And fuck me because that’s exactly the problem—wanting to fuck her—but newsflash, I know this is too goddamn complicated. A quick fuck is not supposed to be like this. Step away. Back the fuck off and go, Donavan. Turn around and walk the other way because those eyes of hers tell you this is going to be anything but simple.

  I take a step closer.

  Goddamn woman has me on an invisible line. Like she’s cranking the reel and tightening the hook in my mouth before I even have a chance to taste the fucking bait.

  We glare at each other, eyes devouring and warning all at the same time.

  See? Complicated. Walk the fuck away. Save yourself.

  “Isn’t that what you want from me, Colton? A quick fuck to boost that fragile ego of yours? It seems you spend an awful lot of time trying to placate that weakness of yours. Besides, why do you care what I do? If I recall correctly, you were pretty occupied with the blonde on your arm.”

  I ignore the insult she hurls at me because I’m so focused on the tease of her body so tantalizingly close to mine. Tease me and insult me all at once. Contradictions like this are not supposed to be sexy. They are a downright mindfuck that I’ve learned to keep at restraining order distance. So why the hell do I still want her so fucking bad I can taste it?

  I push away the ache to take her right now because she’s right. I do just want a quick fuck.

  Nice try, Donavan. Keep telling yourself that.

  Maybe if I prove to her the asshole that I am, she’ll take the reins here and walk the fuck away. Deny me what I want since I’m being such a pussy I can’t do it myself and ironically am only thinking with my dick. Game plan in place, time to shift it in gear.

  “Raquel? She’s inconsequential.”

  And I mean to sound like a chauvinistic asshole, that I think women are mere blips on my fucking radar, but there’s something about that word—inconsequential—that is so fitting all of a sudden. It perfectly describes how Rylee made me feel when Raquel was at my side and she, herself, was standing in front of me.

  Becks nailed it on the head the other night when I ditched sex with Raquel on the way home from the gala and he never even knew it.

  “Inconsequential?” she says, eyes wide and irritation in her voice.

  Good. She got the hint. Run baby, run. Let me get a good show as you walk away.

  “Is that what I’d be to you after you fuck me? Inconsequential?”

  Never.

  Her words are a verbal backhand. Because as much as I want her to hate me and do what I can to spare me the complications I know she’d bring, when she throws herself in the same category as Raqu
el, the only word that flickers through my head is never.

  Fucking hell, Donavan. If I keep this whiplash up—wanting her but not wanting her—I’m going to need to start wearing my HANS device outside of the goddamn car. I just wish I knew what it is about this woman that tells me she’s not like the others. And not just because she’s kept her legs closed when most others would have theirs spread by now.

  Fuck if I know, but I’m done with this game. She just threw out a challenge she didn’t even realize when she dared me to prove her different than Raquel.

  I want. And I need. And hell if I’m not going to taste her again, fuck her mouth with my tongue to try and show her how badly I want to do the same elsewhere.

  Prove to her how she could never be inconsequential even though that’s all I really want her to be. The only thing I can allow when the cards fall where they may.

  I take a step closer. Her back bumps against the wall, and I lift my hand toward her face but then pull it back.

  Somehow I have a conscience and it’s just decided to show the hell up. Because this is perfect fucking timing to tell me I can’t do this to her, fuck with her to fix me. Like I didn’t know already that it’s not fair to her, something she doesn’t deserve.

  Sex without strings is something I’ve always done so why am I thinking this now? Why didn’t I think it earlier when I ditched the Merit execs? I’m not a good guy so why, when all I want is to slide between her thighs and lose myself for a bit, do I suddenly feel like I need to warn her in yet another way?

  I stare at her, try to convey my thoughts and hope she gets them.

  Run! I want scream at her. Tell her to take the fuck off down the hall and not look back. Explain that I’m a selfish bastard who takes what he wants without worries about collateral damage because I have a feeling that once I have her I’m going to need to destroy some things to prevent me from wanting her again.

  Ease the ache. Bury the pain. Fuck her over in the end because she’ll hope there’s more when I can only give her less.

  Can you handle me, Rylee? You fix the broken but there’s no hope left here. Can you live with that? Can you handle temporary when your eyes say you’re a forever? Do you want me? Can you live with sex and secrets and a selfish son of a bitch who will use you in the end?