The Driven Series Boxed Set - Limited Edition (Driven #1-4)

by K. Bromberg

  Her laugh fills the room and I just look at her, confused to why the hazy look in her eyes has been replaced with humor. What the fuck, Ry? This is not a laughing fucking matter.

  “When we first met, Haddie wondered if you fucked like you drive.”

  Talk about shifting gears when the only one I want to be shifting is into her … but her comment finally makes its way through my pussy-possessed mind and I can’t help but laugh at Haddie’s question. Hmm. Wonder how she answered.

  “And how’s that?”

  “A little reckless, pushing all the limits, and in it until the very last lap …” she says, her fingernail scraping down my chest causing my balls to tighten and priming every muscle in my body to pounce.

  But I hold myself back, know she’s playing some kind of game here. I can see it in her eyes, and I’m torn between letting it play out and giving in to fucking her senseless.

  I angle my head to the side and stare at her. I love when feisty Rylee comes out to play, so fuck yes I’ll accept the painful ache drawing this out will cause me.

  I’ll play the game all right, follow her lead, but she better be ready to let me win this round when all is said and done. A man has only so much restraint after all.

  “Well, was she right or do I need to take you for another spin around the track to refresh your memory?”

  You gonna say no, sweetheart? I love the look on her face, love that I caught her off guard. Tell me, show me, what’s flickering through those eyes of yours.

  Our eyes lock for a moment as I try to read what she’s thinking but fuck if I can hold them there when her fingers slide over my happy trail and then up over the scant excuse she’s wearing for panties.

  And then they sit there. Taunting me. They move slightly over the waistband like she’s as desperate to touch herself as I am.

  “Not sure I remember, Ace. It’s been a while since I’ve seen you in action.”

  This is the game she’s playing? Drive me crazy? Fuckin’ A, measure me for the straight jacket because I’m sure we could put it to some kind of kinky use.

  I don’t think she has any clue how much she owns me right now.

  Fucking owns every single part of me and doesn’t have a damn clue. Sitting astride me, fingers atop the little piece of Heaven that I’d die to claim right now, and the sarcastic dare falling from her mouth. My mind wanders to what exactly those fingers would look like nestled between those folds of flesh, and I have to stifle the groan at how fucking hot the vision is. And I think that’s exactly what she’s trying to do—tease me with what she won’t give me. With what I can’t claim yet.

  She wants to play, huh? Oh, I am so fucking game right now. Ready to knock it out of the goddamn park.

  “Baby, if you’re trying to get me to stop, then you shouldn’t throw around comments like that.” I shift in the bed and accidentally roll my hips again, feeding into the pleasurable pain as my aching cock rubs against her tempting pussy yet again. And this time I know I’ve hit her right where it counts because she throws her head back and the soft sigh that falls from her mouth is a dead giveaway no matter how unaffected she’s trying to play it.

  I can’t take my eyes off of her. The sight of her tits, weighted globes of perfection, right in front of my face. I force my eyes to move upwards and meet the challenge in hers. “If you think I fuck like I drive, you should see me drop the hammer and race you to the finish line.”

  I see her breath catch and her body stutter in its motion momentarily before she quickly recovers and regains her composure. My mind starts to try and figure what I just missed but my thoughts are pulled out from underneath me when she spreads her legs apart further, the wetness on her panties spreading wider. My fingers rub together, itching to touch.

  “I thought racing wasn’t a team sport,” she says coyly. “You know, more of an every man for himself kind of thing.” Her eyes hold mine as her fingers slip beneath the band of her red silken panties and still, my eyes darting between the two waiting for her to move them. Begging her to move them. The visual consuming my thoughts.

  I force myself to look away, to work a swallow in my throat that’s suddenly become dry. “Every man, yes,” I finally am able to get out. “It can be very dangerous too, you know?”

  “Oh really?” she asks, eyes locked on mine, the moan of pleasure that falls from her lips has my breath laboring as I look down to watch the movement of her fingers beneath the fabric in front of me.

  “Sweet Jesus!” I can’t handle the unknown, needing to see for myself the show on display. And thank fuck my right hand decides to work when I need it most because the fragile fabric of her panties is snapped and dropped in an instant without a second thought.

  And Rylee doesn’t even skip a beat.

  Oh fucking my. The white French tips of her nails are a mind-dizzying contrast to the darkened pink flesh they dance across. Perfection. Addiction. Absolution. I glance up knowing she’s going to have that taunting smile on her lips and for the second time in as many seconds I’m knocked breathless.

  Fucking kryptonite.

  Rylee’s head is thrown back, curls tumbling all over the place, lips parted, tits pushed out, and the sexiest moan coming from her lips as she doesn’t just revel in the moment but becomes the fucking moment. Fuck me. The woman who used to tighten the sheet around her months ago in modesty now sits astride me in all of her glory, owning her body and sexuality with such a confidence that I’ve never thought her to be more sexy, more sensual, more everything than right now.

  She lifts her head forward, her hand sliding out from between her legs, moisture glistening off of her fingers for me to see. “Well, Ace, danger can be overrated. It seems I know how to handle a slick track perfectly well.” She smirks that smug smile I want to fuck off her face right now just before she slips her arousal coated fingers into her mouth and sucks on them, eyes taunting me all the while.

  Is she trying to kill me right now? Fucking voodoo pussy is back with a vengeance and fuck if I’m not ready to be the first and only victim. The woman has me strung tighter than a hair string trigger—volatile and ready to blow. My balls tighten, my body tenses wanting her so desperately, but my stubborn streak tells me I have to hold out, take the reins when the time is right. My body screams that time was ten fucking minutes ago, while my head loves when Ry gets feisty and defiant. When she makes me work for it like no one else ever has.

  “Slippery and wet, huh? Danger has never been more fucking tempting,” I tell her, my eyes watching as she pulls her fingers from between her very fuckable lips and follows the descent back down south. She adds torment to her tantalization by parting her seam with one hand so I can more than handily see her other fingers add the friction her sighs say is more than pleasurable.

  Fuck me this is brutal to watch and not partake in when all I want to do is urge her hips closer to my face and have her sweet taste on my tongue again. For that alone, it’s time for me to mess with her a little more and knock her out of the pleasure inducing coma that’s darkening the violet in her eyes.

  “You know, sometimes in a race, in order to reach the finish line, rookies like you have to tag team to get the result you want.”

  Her head snaps up, lips parting, and eyes flashing with shock momentarily until she regains her composure. Perfect. Threw you there didn’t I, sweetheart?

  “Sorry, but this engine seems to be doing just fine running solo.” She smirks at me, so arrogant that she thinks she dodged the proverbial bullet. Too bad I’m holding the only gun allowed to shoot that shell. And fuck me, she’s sliding her hands back down to my place between her thighs, her moan of pleasure when she finds purchase—my own personal Heaven and Hell.

  And then she stops and looks at me, lust in her eyes and evidence of her arousal on her hands. “I know exactly what it’s going to take to get me to the finish line.”

  “Oh, so you like to race dirty, huh? Break all the rules?” I ask, fingers trailing up her thighs, leaving vis
ible goose bumps in their wake, her body angling toward me the higher I go. Fuckin’ A straight. She can play the aloof card all she wants but she can’t deny that her body readily submits to me when I want it to. And fuck, how I want it to right now.

  “Oh, I most definitely can handle dirty,” she taunts as she trails a finger up my chest and rubs some of her moisture across my lips. My tongue darts out, unable to resist the temptation to taste what I’m craving and fuck me if it doesn’t make me want to flip her over, cuff her hands over her head, and fuck the defiance out of her until she’s screaming my name and owning my heart more than she already does.

  She grinds her hips down, that smarmy smile still teasing the corners of her mouth as she rocks back and forth over me. She leans forward, her breath a taunting whisper against my ear. “Being a seasoned pro such as yourself, you just might have to show this rookie exactly why they say rubbing’s racing.”

  She’s playing the temptress card and passing with flying fucking colors. I don’t even have time to recover from the notion that her pussy’s wetness is starting to soak through my boxer-briefs when she rocks her hips again. I try to remain unaffected, play her game, but I have to grit my teeth to prevent my eyes from closing at the rocket of sensation that just shot through me.

  When I look from her hand back up to her eyes, she raises her eyebrows in the final coup de grace. “Big bad professional race car driver like you afraid to show a newbie how to drive stick, huh?”

  And I can’t take it anymore. Fuse lit and control shot. Within a beat, I’ve pushed her back up to sitting, pulled her feet flat on the bed beside my ribs and knees spread wide, because if I’m watching the feature presentation, I better have a goddamn front row seat.

  “I’m shifting gears, sweetheart, because I’m the only one allowed to drive this car.” My hands slide up again until they reach the juncture of her thighs. My thumbs brush over her tight strip of curls before I readjust and tuck my fingers into her. She cries out, her tight walls flexing around me and milking against my fingers as they stroke the nerves within. And between her wetness on my fingers and the memories of her gripping my dick has me pre-coming like a fucking adolescent school boy but fuck me, I’ll take it. I’ll take anything I can from her because Rylee? She’s fucking everything.

  She doesn’t take long to climb because she’s so addled with pent up need—and the fact that it’s only for me is not lost in the frenzied moment. Her fingernails score my skin, body tenses, and pussy convulses as the broken cry of my name fills the room around us.

  My name moaning from her lips. God-fucking-damn is that not the sexiest sound I’ve ever heard.

  I give her a moment to gain her breath, the senses I’ve just finger-fucked out of her, and when I think she’s coherent enough, I let her know that even though she’s just come, I’m the one who just won the race.

  “Hey, rookie?”

  She lifts her head forward and looks at me from beneath weighted eyelids heavy with satisfaction. “Hmm?” is all she can manage and I fucking love that drowsy just-been-fucked-right look on her face. The one that only I can put there.

  “I’m the only one that’s allowed to drive you to the motherfucking checkered flag.”

  She just throws her head back and laughs, cheeks flushed, tits jiggling.

  Fucking gorgeous.

  Like I said, she’s everything.

  The Holy motherfucking Grail.

  “OH, BUDDY, I’M SO PROUD of you!” I fight back the wave of guilt that rolls over me. I missed helping Connor study for a test in his most dreaded subject—math. “I knew you could do it!”

  “I just used that little trick you told me about and it worked!” The pride in his voice brings tears of joy to my eyes, and at the same time, grief over not being there.

  “I told you it would! Now go get ready for baseball. I’m sure Jax is waiting for you already!” He laughs telling me I’m right. “I promise I’ll see you a little later in the week, okay?”

  “’Kay. I Lego you.”

  “I Lego you too, bud!”

  I hang up and look out toward the patio as laughter filters in above the crash of the waves—years worth of friendship breaking though Colton’s bad mood. I’m so thankful to Beckett for stopping by. I hear them belt out another laugh, and as much as I wish I was the one putting the smile on Colton’s otherwise scowling face of late, I’m just grateful that it’s there.

  Beggars can’t be choosers.

  I watch them clink the necks of their beer bottles over something and I sigh out loud, wanting the tension between Colton and me to go away. I’m sure it’s because we’re both sexually frustrated. To need and want and desire when temptation is right beneath your fingers, but to not be able to take and devour, is brutal in every sense of the word.

  And yes, his more than skillful fingers brought me a small ounce of the release I needed the night before last, but it’s not the same. The connection was made but not cemented, because when Colton is in me, literally stretching me to every depth imaginable, I am also completely filled figuratively in every sense of the word. He completes me, owns me, has ruined me for anyone else ever again.

  I feel closer to him right now—spending so much time with him—and yet further away. And I hate it.

  I shake myself from my pity party and think how much worse things could be right now. I slip my shoes off and head out onto the deck for fresh air. I walk between Colton and Beckett’s lounge chairs and sit in one of my own, facing them.

  Behind my sunglasses I take in the sight before me, and I know there isn’t another woman in the world that wouldn’t want to be in my shoes right now. Both men are relaxed, clad in board shorts, ball caps, and sunglasses. I let my eyes roam lazily with more than ample appreciation for the defined lines of their bare torsos and fight the smile that wants to pull at the corners of my mouth.

  “Well if it isn’t Florence Nightingale,” Beckett drawls in that slow, even cadence of his as he brings the bottle to his lips.

  “Well I think if I was Ms. Nightingale, I’d be telling my patient, Mr. Donavan here, that he probably shouldn’t be drinking alcohol with all of those pain meds running through his blood.”

  “More like Nurse Ratchet.” Colton snorts, looking at me from beneath the shadow of his bill, green eyes running over the length of my legs stretched out on the chaise in front of me. A quick dart of his tongue over his lips tells me he wants to do a whole lot more than just look.

  “Nurse Ratchet, huh?” I ask as I slide my foot up and down the calf of one of my legs trying to not feel insulted.

  “Yep,” he says, pursing his lips as his eyes watch me over the top of his beer bottle. “If she gave me what I really wanted, I’d be able to recover that much quicker.” He raises his eyebrows at me, the suggestion in his eyes devouring me.

  “Well shit,” Beckett swears, “if I’m not trying to get the two of you back together, I’m fucking trying to keep you apart.”

  “Fucking,” Colton drawls in Beckett fashion, “now there’s a word.”

  Becks just snorts a laugh and rolls his eyes. “Definitely a good word indeed.”

  Colton breaks our eye contact for the first time and angles his head over to look at his oldest and best friend. “Rest assured, bro, when the doc clears me, nothing—and I mean nothing—is going to be coming between Rylee and me for a long fucking time, except for maybe a change of sheets.”

  My cheeks burn red at his frankness but my body clenches at the promise of his words. And I don’t care that Beckett just heard because I’m focused on the words long, fucking time.

  “So noted,” Becks says as he takes another tug on his beer.

  “I gotta take a piss,” Colton says, shoving himself up from the chaise. As I’ve learned to do over the past days, I force myself to remain seated as Colton struggles momentarily with his lack of balance and the sudden dizziness that I know assaults him. After a few moments he seems steady and goes to place his beer bottle on the table next
to him. About a foot from the table, Colton’s right hand’s grip gives way and the bottle clatters to the deck below.

  Becks’ eyes flash to mine momentarily, concern passing through them before he laughs and pretends not to notice. “Party foul!” he laughs. “I think Nurse Ratchet just might be on to something in regards to mixing all those drugs with that alcohol.”

  “Fuck off,” he tosses over his shoulder as he turns toward the house. “Just for that I’m grabbing another!” I watch Colton walk into the kitchen, and when he thinks no one is looking, he looks down at his hand and tries to make a fist out of it before shaking his head.

  “How’s he doing?”

  I turn to face Becks. “The headaches are coming less and less but he’s frustrated. He keeps finding little things here and there he can’t remember. And he’s feeling confined.” I shrug. “And you know how he gets when he feels confined.”

  Beckett blows out a loud breath with a shake of his head. “He needs to get back out on the track as soon as possible.”

  I stare at him, mouth lax. “What?” slips from between my lips, feeling a stab of betrayal at his words. This is his best friend. Doesn’t he want to keep him safe? Keep him alive?

  “Well, you say he’s feeling confined … the track is the one place he’s always been free of everything,” Becks says, holding my stunned stare. “Besides, if he doesn’t get behind the wheel soon, he’s going to let that fear he has eat at him, embed itself in his head, and fucking paralyze him so when he does actually think he can get back in the car, he’ll be a danger to himself.”

  I’m an intelligent person and maybe if I weren’t still surprised by Beckett’s first comment, I would really hear what he’s saying—see the whole picture—but I don’t. “What are you talking about? Since he’s been home all he’s been grumbling about is getting back on the track.”

  He just chuckles and even though it’s not condescending, I feel like my back is up against the wall here and grit my teeth at the sound. “Fuck yeah, he’s scared, Ry. Scared out of his fucking gourd. If it’s not his hand that he uses as an excuse, it will be something else … and he needs to get over it. If he doesn’t, the fear is just going to eat him alive.”