by K. Bromberg
I’m taken aback. Is he warning me about him? Warning me away from him? I’m confused. Pursue me and then push me away? This is the second time today he’s issued a statement like this. What should I make of it?
And what the hell is with his comments about being messed up as a kid? His parents are practically Hollywood royalty. Is he saying that they did something to him? The fixer in me wants to probe, but I can tell how unwelcome that would be.
I cautiously glance over at him to see his attention turned back toward the surf. It is in this moment I can see the pictures painted by the media of him. Dark and brooding, a little rugged with the dark shadow of hair on his jaw, and an intensity to his eyes that makes you feel as if he’s unapproachable. Unpredictable. The broad shoulders and sexy swagger. The bad boy who is too handsome for his own good mixed with a whole lot of reckless. The rebel who women swoon over and swear they could tame—if they had the chance.
And he’s sitting here. With me. It’s mind-boggling.
I clear my throat, trying to dispel the awkwardness that has descended on our picnic. “So, how ’bout them Lakers?” I deadpan.
He throws his head back and laughs loudly before turning back to me. All traces of Brooding Colton have been replaced by Relaxed Colton, with eyes full of humor and a megawatt smile. “A little heavy?”
I nod, pursing my lips, as I grab for another piece of cheese. Time for a change in topic. “I know it’s an unoriginal question, but what made you get into racing? I mean why hurl yourself around a track at close to two hundred miles an hour for fun?”
He sips from his Dixie cup. “My parents needed a way to channel my teenage rebellion.” He shrugs. “They figured why not give me all the safety equipment to go along with it instead of racing down the street and killing myself or someone else. Lucky for me, they had the means to follow through with it.”
“So you started as a teenager?”
“At eighteen.” He laughs, remembering.
“What’s so funny?”
“I got a ticket for reckless driving. I was speeding … out of control really … racing some preppy punk.” He glances over at me to see if I have any reaction. I just look at him and raise my eyebrows, prompting him to continue. “I was spared being hauled off to juvie because of my dad’s name. Man, was he pissed. The next day he thought he’d teach me a lesson. Dropped me off at the track with one of the stunt drivers he knew. Thought he’d have the guy drive me around the track at mach ten and scare the shit out of me.”
“Obviously it didn’t work,” I say dryly.
“No. He scared me some, but afterward I asked him if he could show me some of the stunt moves.” He shrugs, a half smirk on his lips, as he looks out toward the water. “He finally agreed, let me drive his car around the track a couple of times. For some reason one of his friends had come with him to the track that day. The guy’s name was Beckett. He worked for a local race crew who’d just lost their driver. He asked if I’d ever thought about racing. I laughed at him. First of all, he was my age so how could he be part of a race team, and secondly, how could he watch me take a couple of laps and know that I could drive? When I asked, he said he thought I could handle a car pretty well, and would I like to come back the next day and talk to him some more?”
“Talk about being at the right place at the right moment,” I murmur, happy to learn something about him that I couldn’t read about by looking on the Internet.
“You’re telling me!” He shakes his head. “So I met up with him. Tried out the car on the track, did pretty well and got along with the guys. They asked me to drive the next race. I was decent at it so I kept doing it. Got noticed. Stayed out of trouble.” He grins a mischievous grin, raising his eyebrows. “For the most part.”
“And after all this time, you still enjoy it?”
“I’m good at it,” he says.
“That’s not what I asked.”
He chews his food, carefully mulling over my question. “Yes, I suppose so. There’s no other feeling like it. I’m part of a team, and yet it’s just me out there. I have no one to depend on, to blame, but myself if something goes wrong.” I can sense the passion in his voice. The reverence he still has for his sport. “On the track, I can escape the paparazzi, the groupies … my demons. The only fear I have is that which I’ve created for myself, that I can control with a swerve of the wheel or a press of the pedal … not any inflicted on me by someone else.”
The startled look on his face tells me that he has revealed more than he expected in an answer. That he’s surprised by his unanticipated honesty with me. I brush aside his unease at feeling vulnerable, by propping my arms out behind me and raising my face to the sky.
“It’s so beautiful here,” I say, breathing in the fresh air and digging my toes in the cool sand.
“More wine?” he asks as he shifts to sit closer to me. The brush of his bare arm against mine leaves my senses humming.
I murmur in assent as warning bells go off in my head. I know that I need to create some distance between us, but he’s just too damn attractive. Irresistible. Nothing like I expected and yet everything I anticipated. I know that I need to clear my head because he is clouding my judgement.
“So is this what you imagined, Ace, when you spent all that money for a date with me?” I turn my head and come face to face with him— hair mussed, lips full, eyes blazing. I hold my breath, frozen in the moment, for all it would take is for me to lean in to feel his lips on mine again. To taste his carnal hunger as I did earlier on the porch.
He flashes a grin at me. “Not exactly,” he admits, but I can sense our proximity is affecting him too. I can see the pulse in his throat accelerate. His Adam’s apple bobs with a swallow. I bring my eyes back up to his, unspoken words flowing between us. “You really have the most unusually magnificent eyes,” he whispers.
It’s not as if I haven’t heard this before about my unique, violet-colored eyes, but for some reason, hearing it from him has desire spiraling through me. Warning bells clang inside my head.
“Rylee?”
I raise my eyes to meet his, trepidation in my heart. “I’m only going to ask this one time. Do you have a boyfriend?” The gravity in his tone as well as the question itself take me off guard. I didn’t expect this. I thought he’d already know the answer after the backstage ministrations from the other night. More surprising than the question itself, is the way he asks it. His demanding tone.
I shake my head “no,” swallowing loudly.
“No one you are seeing casually?”
“You just asked twice,” I joke, trying to shake the nerves skittering up my spine. When he doesn’t smile but rather holds my stare in question, I shake my head again. “No, why?” I respond breathlessly.
“Because I want to know who’s standing in my way.” He tilts his head and stares at me as my lips part in response. My mouth is suddenly very dry. “Whose ass I have to kick before I can make it official.”
“Make what official?” My mind flickers trying to figure out what I’m missing.
“That you’re mine.” Colton’s breath flutters over my face as the look in his eyes swallows me whole. “Once I fuck you, Rylee—it’s official, you’re mine and only mine.”
Oh. Fucking. My. How can those words, so possessive, so dominantly male, make me want him that much more? I’m an independent, self-assured woman, and yet hearing that this man—yes, Colton Donavan—inform me that he is going to have me without asking, without giving me a choice, makes me weak in the knees.
“It might not be tonight, Rylee. It might not be tomorrow night,” he promises, the rumbling timbre of his voice vibrating through my body, “but it will happen.” My breath hitches as he pauses to allow me to absorb his words before he continues. “Don’t you feel it, Rylee? This...” he gestures a hand between him and me “...this charge we have here? The electricity we have when we’re together is way too strong to ignore.” I lower my eyes, uncomfortable with his overconfidence yet
turned on by his words. He takes a hand and reaches out, the spark he’s referring to igniting when his index finger trails up the underside of my neck to my chin. He pushes up to lift my chin so I’m forced to stare into the depths of his eyes. “Aren’t you the least bit curious how good it will be? If it’s this electrifying with just the brush of our skin against each other, can you imagine what it will be like when I’m buried inside of you?”
The confidence in his words and the intensity of his stare nonpluses me, and I avert my eyes down again to focus on the ring I’m worrying around my right ring finger. The rational part of me knows that once Colton has his way with me, he’ll move on. And even though I’d know this going into it, I’d still be devastated in the end.
I just don’t want to go through it again. I’m afraid to feel again. Afraid to take a chance, afraid that the consequences will be life-altering for me again. I use my fear to fuel my obstinance; no matter how wild the ride, the inevitable fallout isn’t worth it.
“You’re so sure of yourself, do I even need to show up for the event?” I ask haughtily, hoping my words cover the deep ache he’s responsible for creating in my body. His only response to my question is a heart-stopping smirk. I shake my head at him. “Thanks for the warning, Ace, but no thanks.”
“Oh, Rylee,” he says with a laugh. “There’s that smart mouth that I find so intriguing and sexy. It disappeared for a little while with your nerves. I was getting worried.” He reaches over and squeezes my hand. “Oh, and Ryles, just so you know, that wasn’t a warning, sweetheart. That was a promise.”
And with that he leans back on his elbows, a cocky grin on his face and challenge in his eyes as he stares at me. I travel the length of his lean body with my eyes. My thoughts running through how I should resist this over-the-top, reckless, troubled, and unpredictable man whose continual verbal sparring makes me uncomfortable. Makes me desire. Churns up feelings and thoughts that died that day two years ago. And yet, rather then head the other way as I should, all I want to do is straddle him right here on that blanket, run my hands up the firm muscles of his chest, fist my hands in his hair, and take until I surrender all my rational thoughts.
I brave meeting his eyes again for I know he is watching me appraise his body. I make sure that my eyes reflect none of the desire I’m feeling. “So, what about you, Colton?” I question, turning the tables on him. “You said you don’t do the girlfriend thing, and yet you always seem to have a lady on your arm?”
He arches his eyebrows at me. “And how would you know what I always have on my arm?”
How do I know that? Do I admit to him that I occasionally glance through Haddie’s subscription of People and roll my eyes at the ridiculous commentary? Do I confess that I peruse Perezhilton.com as a distraction when I’m in the office sometimes and that I usually skip over the gossip about self-absorbed Hollywood brat-packers like him, who think they’re better than everyone else? “Well, I do stand at the checkout lines in the grocery store,” I admit. “And you know how true all of those tabloids are.”
“According to them I’m dating an alien with three heads and my photoshopped picture is right next to the caption stating a chupacabra was found in a movie theater in Norman, Oklahoma,” he says, animating his expression, eyes wide in a mock stare of horror.
I laugh out loud. Really laugh. So glad that he takes the media in stride. Happy that he’s added some levity to the heavy topics of conversation. “Nice change of topic, but it’s not going to work. Answer the question, Ace.”
“Oh, Rylee—all business,” he chides. “What is there to say? I hate the drama, the points system of who is contributing how much, the expectation of the next step to take, trying to figure out if there is an ulterior motive for them being with me …” He shrugs. “Rather than deal with that bullshit, I come to a mutual agreement with someone, stated rules and requirements are laid out, specifics are negotiated, and expectations are managed way before they even have a chance to begin or get out of hand. It simplifies things.”
What? Negotiations? So many things run through my head that I know I’m going to have to think about later, but with his eyes boring into mine, awaiting my reaction, I decide that humor is the best way to mask my surprise at his response.
“So a guy with a commitment issue...” I roll my eyes “...like that’s something new!” He remains quiet, still regarding me as I think about him, about this, about everything. “So what were you hoping for?” I continue sardonically, “that I’d just look into your gorgeous green eyes, drop my panties, and spread my legs when you admit that you like women in your bed but you won’t let them in your heart?” Despite my sarcasm, I’m being brutally honest. Does he think that just because he is who he is, it’ll negate all my morals? “And they say romance is dead.”
“You do have such a way with words, sweetheart,” he drawls, shifting onto his side, propping his head on his elbow. A slow, measured smile spreads across his face. “I assure you, romance is not something I actively subscribe to. There’s no such thing as happily ever after.”
The hopeless romantic in me sighs heavily, allowing me to ignore his comment and the smirk on his face—the one that makes me forget all the thoughts in my head because he is in fact that damn attractive and his eyes are that mesmerizing. “You can’t be serious? Why the emotional detachment?” I shake my head. “You seem to be such a passionate person otherwise.”
He shifts on the blanket, lying on his back and placing his hands behind his head, exhaling loudly. “Why is anyone the way they are?” he answers vaguely, the silence hanging between us. “Maybe that’s how I was born or what I learned in my formative years … how’s one to know? There’s a lot about me you don’t want to know, Rylee. I promise you.”
I look at him, trying to decipher his verbal maze of explanations as he lies quietly for a few minutes before reaching a hand out from behind his head and placing it on mine. I revel in this rare sign of affection. Most of the time when we touch it’s explosive, carnal even. Rarely is it simple. Undemanding. Maybe that’s why I enjoy the warmth of his hand seeping through the top of mine.
I’m still pondering what he’s said despite the distraction of his touch. “I disagree. How can you—”
I’m stopped mid-sentence as he tugs on my arm, and within seconds has me lying on the blanket, looking up at his face hovering over mine. I’m not sure how it’s possible, but my breath speeds up and stops at the same time. He very slowly, very deliberately uses one hand to brush an errant hair off of my face while the other rests on the base of my neck just under the crease of my chin.
“Are you trying to change the subject, Mr. Donavan?” I ask coyly, my heart thumping and desire blooming in my belly. His touch leaves electric charges on my skin.
“Is it working?” he breathes, angling his head to study me.
I purse my lips and narrow my eyes in thought. “Hmmm … no, I still have my questions.” A smile plays on my lips as I watch him watch me.
“Then I just might have to do something about that,” he murmurs with painstaking slowness as he lowers his head until his lips are a whisper from mine. I fight the urge to arch my back so that my body can press against his. “How about now?”
How is it we are outdoors but I feel as if all of the oxygen has been vacuumed away? Why does he have this effect on me? I try to slowly breathe in and all I smell is him—woodsy, clean, and male— a heady, intoxicating mixture that is pure Colton.
I can’t find my voice to answer his question, so I just give him a noncommittal “Hmm-hmmm.” I’m oblivious to everything around us: the seagulls squawking, the surf crashing, the sun heading slowly toward the ocean on the horizon.
Due to our proximity, I can’t see his lips but I know that he smiles because I see the lines crinkle at the corners of his eyes. “Should I take that as a yes or should I take that as a no?” he asks. His eyes hold mine, daring me. When all I do is breathe in a shaky breath, he says, “Then I guess I’ll just take.”
And with those words, his mouth is on mine.
He sets a slow, mesmerizing pace, feathering light kisses over my lips. Each time I think he is going to give me what I want—deep, passionate kisses—he pulls back. He leans on one elbow, and then cups the back of my neck. His other hand slowly travels down the side of my body, and stops on the side of my hip. He grabs hold there, gripping my flesh through my jeans and presses my body closer to him.
“Your. Curves. Are. So. Damn. Sexy,” he murmurs between kisses. The riot of sensation he is causing within me is both exhilarating and tormenting. I run my hands under his shirt, up the plains up of his torso and then his back, as he continues his languorous assault on my lips.
If I were the intelligent woman that I claim to be, I would step back a moment and rationally assess the situation. I’d realize that Colton is a guy used to getting what he wants without preamble or precaution. And at this time, he wants me. He has tried the direct, get-to-the-point approach and basically had me up against a wall within ten minutes. He’s tried coercion, a contract, annoyance, and even admitted he doesn’t do girlfriends, commitment, or relationships. The rational part of me would acknowledge these facts and realize he’s failed the challenge thus far, so now he is moving onto seduction. I’d argue that he’s changing his approach, taking his time by making me feel and making me want him. Letting me think this situation is on my terms now. I’d realize that this has nothing to do with emotions and wanting ‘an after’ with me, but rather he is trying to get me in his bed any way he can now.
But I’m not listening to my rational self and the snarky doubts she’s trying to cast. I vaguely push away the niggling feeling that she’s trying to force into my subconscious. My common sense has long been forgotten. It has been overrun, inundated, and is being thoroughly obliterated by my new addiction, otherwise known as Colton’s mouth. His mouth worships mine with slow, leisurely licks of tongue, grazes of teeth, and caresses of lips.