Driven Collection

by K. Bromberg

  “Morning,” I mutter, my normal sunny morning self absent. “I’m gonna go for a run,” I tell her as I fasten my audio player to my arm.

  “I figured,” she says, referring to my attire. “Are you grumpy just because you want to be … or because you are forcing yourself to run after too much alcohol and off-the-charts sex with an Adonis? I’m surprised you can even walk today.”

  I sneer. “Sounds like someone is a little jealous,” I say.

  “Damn right I am.” She laughs. “I have more cobwebs now than you do.” I laugh, my grumpiness subsiding. “Seriously, though … you okay?”

  “Yeah.” I sigh. “I’m going to take your advice. Try and live in the moment … all that stuff.” I shrug.

  She nods slowly. “Don’t try to sound so convincing!” she says as she stands up, knowing I need to work through things myself. “I’m here if you need me. Have a good run.”

  “Thanks.”

  The fresh air, pavement beneath my feat, blaring music in my ears, and moving muscles feel masochistically cathartic as I enter my fifth and final mile. I needed this. Needed to get out, clear my mind, and give myself time to think. My muscles, sore from last night’s dancing and great sex, are limber and moving on autopilot. As much as I think I should go for an extra mile, my stupidity in overlooking breakfast before my run has my body telling me that I won’t last much longer. Pitbull blasts in my ears, the song’s constant beat drives my feet and spins my head back to thoughts of last night.

  Oh, Colton. My head is still trying to wrap itself around what happened. He’s the chance I have been looking for. To be carefree. To live in the moment. To be alive, not just living. I resolve that I can have sex with Colton with emotion. The emotions just have to be fueled by excitement and anticipation and lust rather than love and devotion and the hope of “more.” I need to keep being the sassy, smart-mouthed woman I’ve been all along because the minute he thinks I want more, he’ll be out the door. And it—him, me, us—will be over.

  I ponder this my last quarter of a mile, recalling how he made me feel physically last night. I guess there’s something to be said for lots of experience as I can attest that the man is skilled in the many facets of sexual dexterity. I blush, steeling my resolve that I can be with Colton without falling in love with him. I hope. That I’m going to enjoy every second of it because I know he’s not the staying kind.

  Teagan and Sara’s Closer fills my ears as I turn the corner onto my street, my footsteps faltering when I see a white Range Rover parked in my driveway. The rhythm has been knocked clear out of my stride at the shock of seeing him here. Colton is leaning up against the front fender of the car, his dark figure haloed by its white. A navy blue shirt fits snugly over his torso, hinting at the corded muscles underneath. Muscles I can still feel on my fingertips. A pair of printed board shorts sit low on his hips and his long, lean legs cross casually at the ankles, and he’s wearing a pair of flip-flops. Casual suits Colton very well. It lightens the intensity he naturally exudes. His head is bent, concentrating on the phone in his hands, and his unruly hair is spiked with gel to perfection in stylish, messy disarray. The pang of desire that hits my body is so strong, so overwhelming that I almost have to bring a hand to my torso to stifle it. I force myself to remember to breathe as I push my body to start moving again.

  To go home. To go to Colton.

  Shit. I’m in serious trouble. I admire him from afar, looking so unbelievable and attractive, and I realize that everything I thought about on my run—every stipulation, every rationalization, every justification of why it’s okay to sleep with him—doesn’t matter. Seeing him right here, right now, I know that I’ll do anything it takes, whatever the consequences, to be with him again. To repeat how he made me feel last night.

  Almost as if on cue, Colton glances up from his phone and locks eyes with me. A slow, smug grin lights up his face as I run my last few steps, turning up my driveway. I slowly pull out my ear buds, laughing to myself that Christina Aguilera’s Your Body is blasting. I can feel his eyes run up and down the length of my body, taking in my skin-hugging Capri exercise pants and matching razor-back tank top, a V of sweat down the front of my bust.

  “Hi,” I say breathlessly, my body still huffing from my exertion.

  “Hello, Rylee.” The rasp of his voice saying my name is an aphrodisiac sending chills down my spine and eliciting a tingling in my belly.

  “What are you doing here?” I look at him with confusion, hiding that my insides are privately jumping for joy, shocked that he is here in front of me.

  “Well,” he says, pushing himself off of the car as I walk in front of him. He exudes a confidence that most people would kill to have. “According to you, I took the checkered flag last night, Rylee...” a provocative smile forms on his lips “...but I seem to have neglected to collect my trophy.”

  “Trophy?”

  He takes my hand, eyes still locked on mine, sparkling with humor, and tugs on it, pulling me forcibly against his chest. “Yes. You.”

  Oh. Fucking. My. Thoughts run chaotically through my head. How do I respond to that? To him? When all I can think about is the feel of his warm, hard body against mine and the fact that he is here for me again after I ran out on him last night? I tell myself to breathe, his mere presence stripping me of the ability to perform the most basic functions. I quickly try to regain my composure, telling myself that I need to keep our interactions on my terms—revert to my sarcastic nature—in order to make sure that I can keep my wits about me.

  I hear Haddie’s voice in my head telling me to channel my inner slut. To go for it.

  I breathe in again before I raise my eyes to meet the challenge in his. His pure male scent, soap mixed with cologne, fills my nose and clouds my head. “Well, Ace, I think you’ve got your eyes on the wrong prize.” I pull my hand from his and put it on his chest, playfully pushing him back, distancing his body from mine. Needing the space to keep a clear head. “If all you’re looking for is a trophy, you have your bevy of beauties you can pick from. I’m sure that one of them would be more than willing to be a trophy on your arm.” I skirt past him toward the front door. I turn back to face him, a smile playing at the corners of my mouth. I shrug as I take a step backwards. “You could probably start by calling Raquel, is it? I’m sure she’ll forgive you for last night. I mean, you were...” I turn around and take a step for the door, pretending that I’m searching for a word before shrugging and tossing over my shoulder “...decent. She’s probably thrilled with decent.”

  I wish I could see the look on his face for the sharp intake of breath I hear tells me that I made a direct hit. I don’t have to wait long to find out because within a breath, Colton grabs my arm and spins me around to him, pressing my body against his.

  “Decent, huh?” he questions, his eyes boring into mine. I see anger, humor, defiance, all mixed together with desire. His breath flutters over my face, his lips inches from mine—so close that I clench my fists to resist the temptation to kiss him.

  It takes all of my composure to keep up my charade of nonchalance. To hide how much he excites me, ignites my insides and shatters my control with just the sound of his voice, the feel of his touch, and the hint of his dominant nature.

  I deliberately bite my bottom lip and look up in thought before bringing my eyes back to his. “Hmmm, a smidgen above average, I’d say.” Sarcasm drips from each word as I smirk at him, lying through my teeth and then some.

  “Maybe I need to show you again. I assure you that decent is not an accurate assessment.”

  He snorts loudly as I push away from him again and provocatively sashay my way up the front walk. “I need to go stretch,” I say, sensing his movement behind me. “Are you gonna come?” I ask innocently with a victorious smirk on my face that he can’t see.

  “If you keep moving your ass like that, I am,” he mutters under his breath as he follows me into the house.

  I lead him into the family room hoping Haddie is
elsewhere and offer him a seat on the couch before I sit on the floor directly in front of him to stretch. I spread my legs out to either side of me as wide as they can go and lower my chest to the ground, hands out in front of me on the floor. With the help of my sports bra and my chest pressing into the floor, my cleavage is pushed up and hedges over the top of my tank. I can see Colton’s eyes wander over my body, stopping at my chest and taking in my flexibility. I can hear his hiss of desire, and I see his throat forcefully swallow.

  “So, Colton,” I say, stretching out over one prone leg, turning my head to look at him. I stifle a smile as I recognize the lust clouding his eyes. “What can I do for you?”

  “Christ, Rylee!” He runs a hand haphazardly through his hair, his eyes moving over the cleavage again, before raising up to meet my eyes. He unintentionally wets his bottom lip with his tongue.

  “What?” I respond all doe-eyed, as if I have no idea what he’s agitated over. I’ve never played the femme fatale—never had the courage to—but something about Colton allows me to feel daring and bold. It’s a very heady feeling to watch him react to me.

  “We need to talk about last night.” I see his eyes narrow as I switch positions, now lying on my back. I pull my right leg all the way up, pressing it to my chest, my shin inches from my nose. I lift my head up and look through the open V of my legs to encourage him to go on. He clears his throat noisily before continuing, taking a minute to remember his train of thought. “Why you left? Why you ran away? Again.”

  I switch legs, taking my time to pull my other leg up, and stretch it over my head, making a low moan at how good it feels to elongate my tightened muscles. “Colton—”

  “Can you please stop?” he barks out, shifting restlessly on the couch and adjusting the growing bulge that presses against the seam of his shorts. “Christ,” he swears again as I roll over into child’s pose, my bent rear in his view. “You in those yoga pants all limber and bending in half—you’re making me lose my concentration here.”

  I look over my shoulder from my stretch and coyly bat my eyelashes at him. “Hmmm?” I feign as if I didn’t hear him.

  Colton sighs in exasperation. “You’re gonna make me forget my apologies and take you right here on the floor. Hard and fast, Rylee.”

  “Oh,” is all I can manage for his threat-laced promise sends shock waves through me, my body more than eager for his skilled touch again. My lips part to remind my lungs to breathe. My nipples harden at the thought. I push myself up to a seated position, cross my legs, and adjust my top to try and hide my body’s excitement. “Although I’m sure it’s me who should be apologizing, Colton.”

  He ignores my words, his eyes holding mine, various emotions flickering through them. “Why’d you leave, Rylee?”

  The command in his tone has me swallowing quickly, my confidence waning. I shrug. “A number of reasons, Colton. I told you, I’m just not that kind of girl. I don’t do one-night stands.”

  “Who said it was a one-night stand?”

  A bubble of hope sputters inside of me, but I quickly try to stifle it. Not a one-night stand? Then what the hell was it? What the hell is this? I try to figure out what he’s looking for. What he might think this is between us. I look at his eyes, searching for a clue, but his expression gives nothing away. “What?” Confusion etches my face. “You lost me. I thought commitment wasn’t your thing.”

  “It isn’t.” He says with a shrug. “I don’t believe you.” He crosses his arms across his chest, biceps straining against shirtsleeves, and leans back into the couch. He quirks his eyebrows at me and waits for my answer.

  “What?” He’s lost me.

  “Your excuse for running last night. I don’t buy it. Why’d you leave, Rylee?”

  I guess that’s the end of the no-girlfriend discussion. But what about the not-a-one-night-stand comment? As for an answer, how do I explain to him how he made me feel last night after he left the bed? Used and ashamed. How do I tell him he hurt me without sounding like I have feelings for him? Feelings mean drama, and he has let me know he doesn’t want or tolerate that in his life.

  “I just—” I sigh deeply, pulling my hair tie from my ponytail and letting my hair fall down my back, trying to find the right words. I look him in the eyes, figuring honesty is the easiest route. “You made it clear that you were done with me. With us …” I can feel the heat of my flush spread over my cheeks. Embarrassed that I am going to sound like a needy, whining female. “Cursing adamantly to demonstrate why my presence was no longer needed.”

  He eyes me cautiously, his eyes blinking rapidly as he contemplates my words. I try to keep my face unexpressive so he can’t see the hurt I feel, and yet I see a myriad of emotions fleet across his face as he struggles to gain his footing. “Sweet Jesus, Rylee!” he mutters closing his eyes momentarily, his mouth opening and closing as if he has more to say. Finally he looks back at me. “Do you have any idea … you made me—” He stops mid-sentence before standing abruptly and walking to the window. I hear him mutter a curse and I blanch at its severity. “I just want to protect you from—” He stops again, and sighs. He puts a hand to the back of his neck and pulls down on it while he rolls his head. He stands there momentarily, looking out at the front yard, both of us silent.

  I made him what? Protect me from what? Finish the sentences, I plead silently as I watch his tense body framed by the mid-morning light. I just need an ounce of honesty from him. A sign that what happened meant more than just a quick romp. I’d give anything to see his face at this moment. So I can try to read the emotions he’s masking from me.

  He turns back around and any emotion that was displayed on his face is gone. “I asked you to stay.” He says the words as if they’re the only apology he’s giving for his actions. “That’s all I can give you right now, Rylee. All I’m good for.” His voice is gruff and laced with what I think is regret. I feel as if he’s trying to tell me so much more but I’m not sure what. The words hang between us for a moment, his jaw clenched, eyes intense.

  I snort loudly, uncomfortable with the silence, trying not to read too much into his words. “C’mon Colton, we both know you didn’t mean it.” I rise from the carpet, grabbing my hair and twisting it quickly into a bun.

  He takes a couple of steps toward me, his lips twisting as if that action alone will prevent him from saying more. We stand a few feet apart, staring at each other, and each waiting for the other to make the next move. I shrug before looking down and twisting the ring on my right ring finger. I look back up at him, hoping my explanation will stifle any questions he has about having to manage my expectations of a possible future. Baggage equals drama to him, and he’s already admitted to me that he hates drama.

  “Let’s just say I left last night for reasons you don’t want to know about.” His eyes remain on mine, silently asking for more. I huff loudly. “I’ve got lots of excess baggage, Ace.”

  I wait for the deep exhale from him—the impassive expression to glaze over his face reflecting a man distancing himself from complication, but neither happens. Instead, Colton’s mouth widens into a cocky smile and his green eyes fill with humor—both of which ease the severity of his countenance.

  “Oh, Rylee,” he empathizes with a trace of amusement in his voice, “I know all about baggage, sweetheart. I have enough of it to fill up a 747 and then some.” Despite his smiling façade, I see the darkness flicker in his eyes momentarily as some unpleasant thought holds his memory.

  Holy shit. What can I say to that? How do I respond to him when he’s just hinted at a dark, sordid past? What the hell happened to him? I stare at him, eyes wide and my teeth worrying my bottom lip back and forth. Is this why he doesn’t do the girlfriend thing? I mean, talk about going from fun, flirty banter to a serious conversation. And why does this seem to be a common occurrence for us?

  Because he matters. Because this matters. The words flicker through my head, and I have to push them away, afraid to believe.

  He tak
es a step closer to me, and I lower my eyes momentarily to the visible beat of his pulse at the base of his jaw. My hands want to reach out and touch him. Console him even. To feel the warmth of his skin beneath my palms. I sigh softly before I look back up at him, a suggestive smile turning up the corners of his mouth.

  “This could be interesting,” he murmurs as he reaches out to play with an errant curl on the side of my face.

  His fingers roam to my haphazard bun and tug the self-sustaining knot. My hair tumbles free, falling down my back in a waterfall of curls. He runs a hand through it, stopping at the nape of my neck where my hair is damp with sweat. I cringe at the thought, but he doesn’t seem to mind as he fists his hand in it, holding my curls ransom so I can’t look away from him.

  “How so?” I ask, a charge jolting through me, arousing me, from the possessive nature of his hold. He mesmerizes me—his eyes, the lines of his face, his sensuous mouth, the way his muscles pulse in his jaw when conflicted.

  “Well, it seems that your baggage makes you so scared to feel you constantly pull away. Run from me,” his voice rasps as he lazily trails a fingertip down my bare shoulder. I struggle to prevent my body from automatically leaning into his addictive touch. But I can’t stop myself. He tilts his head to the side, watching my reaction. “Whereas mine? My baggage? It makes me crave the sensory overload of physicality—the stimulating indulgence of skin on skin. Of you beneath me.”

  And therein lies the problem—when he refers to me, he speaks of feelings and emotions and when he refers to himself he speaks of physical contact. I try to turn my mind off. I try to tell myself that the physical contact is what I want from him too. The only thing that I can have from him. Acknowledge it’s the only part he’ll share of himself with me.

  It’s an easy thing to remember because Colton leans forward and brushes his lips tenderly against mine. All conflicting thoughts disappear with his touch. A soft sigh of a kiss that we slowly sink into. I part my lips for him, his tongue slipping inside to stroke gently and meld with mine. Unhurried, lazy strokes of tongue and fingertips as he runs them over my bare shoulders and up the vertebrae on my neck. I could kiss him like this forever in this hazy state of desire. His earthy scent envelopes me, his heady taste consumes me, and his incendiary touch ignites me. He groans with our kiss, the rumble of it caught within me, vibrating through me.