Crashed(book three)

I wander the halls of the Malibu house—worry over Colton, homesickness for the boys, and missing Haddie all robbing me of sleep. This has been the longest I’ve been away from any of them, and as much as I love Colton, I’m needing that connection with my life.


I need their energy that always lifts my soul and feeds my spirit. I’ve missed Zander’s deposition, Ricky’s first home run, Aiden being called into the principal’s office for stopping a fight rather than starting one … I feel like a bad mother neglecting her children.

Not finding solace, I climb the stairs for the umpteenth time to check on him. To make sure he’s still knocked out from the cocktail of medications Dr. Irons prescribed on the phone earlier when Colton’s headache would not let up.

I’m still worried. I think I subconsciously fear falling asleep because I might miss something he needs.

Then I think of Colton’s revelations earlier before the headache hit, and I can’t help the smile that softens my face. The knowledge that he was trying to push me away to protect me may have been misguided, but perfect nonetheless.

There is most definitely hope for us yet.

I walk toward the bed, Halestorm playing softly on the stereo overhead, and can’t help the breath I hold as I sit down on the bed beside him. He’s lying on his stomach, his arms buried beneath the pillow and his face angled to the side of the bed facing me. The light blue sheets have fallen down below his waist, and my eyes trace the sculpted lines of his back, my fingers itching to touch the heated warmth of his skin. My eyes roam over the scar on his head and note that the patch of hair is starting to grow in with stubble. In no time at all no one will even know the trauma beneath his hair.

But I’ll know. And I’ll remember. And I’ll fear.

I shake my head and squeeze my eyes shut, needing to get control of my rampant stampede of emotions. I notice his discarded shirt on the bed beside him and can’t help picking it up and burying my nose in it, drinking in his smell, needing the mapped connection in my mind to lessen the worry that’s now a constant. It’s not enough though, so I crawl into bed beside him. I lean forward, careful not to disturb him, and press my lips to the spot just between his shoulder blades.

I inhale his scent, feel the warmth of his heated flesh beneath my lips, and thank God that I get this moment again with him. A second chance. I sit like this for a moment, silent thank yous running through my mind when Colton whimpers.

“Please no,” he says, the juvenile tone in the masculine timbre is haunting, unnerving, devastating. “Please, Mommy, I’ll be good. Just don’t let him hurt me.”

He thrashes his head in protest, body tensing, arms bracing as the sounds he’s making become more adamant, more upsetting. I try to wake him, take his shoulders and shake him.

“Please, Mommy. Pleeeaaassseeee,” he whimpers in a pleading voice wavering with terror. My heart lodges in my throat and tears spring to my eyes at that eerie combination of little boy within the grown man.

“Wake up, Colton!” I shove his shoulder back and forth again as he becomes more animated, but the strength of the prescriptions that Dr. Irons had me give him are too strong to pull him from the nightmare. “C’mon, wake up,” I say again as his body starts rocking, the all too familiar chant falling from his lips.

I hiccup a sob as he shifts again, voice silenced and rolls onto his back. He shifts a couple more times and I’m relieved that his nightmare seems to have left him. He still seems uneasy though, so I crawl up beside him and lay my head on his chest, leg hooked over his, and rest my hand on his frantically beating heart. And I do the one thing I can in hopes of soothing him, I sing.

I sing of little boys and imaginary dragons. Of believing in something unbelievable. Of forgetting and moving on.

“My dad used to sing that to me when I had nightmares.”

His rasp of a voice scares the crap out of me. I didn’t even know he had woken up. He places an arm around me and pulls me in closer to him. “I know,” I whisper into the moonlit room, “and you were.”

Silence hangs between us as he blows out a soft breath. I can tell his dreams are still on his mind, so I grant him the silence to work through them. He presses a kiss onto the top of my head and keeps his mouth there.

When he speaks, I can feel the heat from his breath as he murmurs into my hair. “I was scared. I remember the vague sense of being scared those last few seconds in the car as I was flipping through the air.” And it’s the first time he’s admitted to me anything to confirm my fears in regards to the crash.

I run my hand over his chest. “I was too.”

“I know,” he says as his hand finds its way beneath the waistband of my panties and cups my bare ass, pulling me up his body so my eyes can meet his. “I’m sorry you had to go through that again.” I can see the apology in his eyes, in the lines etched in his forehead, and I’m unable to speak, tears clogging in my throat at his acknowledgment of my feelings so I show him the next best way I know how. I lean in and brush my lips against his.

His lips part as I slip my tongue between them, a soft groan rumbling in the back of his throat, spurring me on to taste the one and only fix to my addiction. My hands run over his stubbled jaw to the back of his neck, and I take in the intoxicating mixture I’ve grown to crave. His taste, his feel, his virility.

His hands cradle my face, fingers tangled in my curls as he draws my face back momentarily so we’re inches apart, our breath whispering against each other’s and eyes divulging emotions we’ve previously kept guarded under lock and key.

I can feel the pulse of his clenched jaw beneath my palms as he struggles with words. “Ry, I …” he says and my breath catches. My soul hopes with bated breath. And I mentally finish the sentence for him, fill in the two words that complete it, complete us. Express the words that I see in his eyes and feel in the reverence of his touch. He works a swallow down his throat and finishes, “Thank you for staying.”

“There’s nowhere else I’d rather be.” I can see the words I breathe out sink in and register as he pulls me toward him, guiding my body to shift and settle in a straddle over his lap while his mouth crashes to mine. And it does crash. A frenzy of passion explodes as my need collides with his desperation. Hands roam, tongues delve, and emotions intensify as we refamiliarize ourselves with the lines and curves of one another.

Colton runs his left hand down my back and grips the flesh on my hip as I rock over the ridge of his boxer-brief clad erection. Sensation swells within, creating an ache so powerful, so intense it borders on painful. My body craves the all-consuming pleasure I know only he can evoke.

I swallow his groan as I am engulfed in the emotion—the connection between us—in this moment. I feel Colton’s right hand slide down to my other hip as he brings his hands to the sides of my tank top trying to pull it up and off. But when I feel his right hand fail to grasp the material, I quickly take control, not wanting it to affect this moment. I cross my arms over my front, grab the hem, and lift it over my head.

I sit astride him, bare except for a scant pair of panties, as his eyes scrape over the lines of my body, raw male appreciation apparent in his gaze. Unfettered lust. Undeniable hunger. He reaches back out to touch, to dance fingertips up my ribcage enabling him to guide my face back to his so that he can take, taste, tempt.

I moan at the feeling of my breasts pillowing against his firm chest, hardened nipples hypersensitive to the touch. Colton urges my hips back and forth again, and the sensation rocks me, nerves ready to detonate. I angle my body back, lost in the feeling when his mouth finds my breast, warm heat against chilled flesh.

I want him. Need him. Desire him like I never thought possible.

Our breaths pant and hearts race as we act on the instinct that has pulled us together since day one. And it’s in this moment that I feel his hand flex and hear the warning of Dr. Irons flash through my head. I want to ignore him, tell it to go the f*ck away so I can take my man again, pleasure him, own him as he owns me in every sense of the word. But I can’t risk it.

I bring my hands down to my hips and lace my fingers with his. I break from our kiss and rest my forehead against Colton’s. “We can’t. It’s not safe.” The strain is apparent in my voice, expressing how hard it is for me to stop from taking exactly what we both want. Colton doesn’t utter a sound. He just presses his hands into my hips as our labored breathing fills the silence in the bedroom. “It’s too much exertion.”

“Baby, if I’m not exerting myself then I’m sure as f*ck not doing it right.” He chuckles against my neck, stubble tickling my skin that’s already begging for more of his touch.

I force myself to sit up so I’m farther away from the temptation of his mouth, but neglect to realize that my new positioning causes more pressure on the weeping apex between my thighs as my weight settles down on his erection. I have to stifle the moan that wants to fall from my mouth at the feeling. Colton smirks, knowing exactly what just happened, and I try to feign that I’m not affected but it’s no use as he rolls his hips again.

“Colton,” I moan, drawing out his name.

“You know you don’t want me to stop,” he says with a smirk and as he starts to speak again, I reach out and put a finger to his lips to quiet him.

“This woman is just trying to keep you safe.”

“Oh, but you forget that the patient is always right and this patient thinks that this woman,” he says as he draws my finger into his mouth and sucks on it causing desire to coil within, “needs to be thoroughly f*cked by this man.”

My legs tighten around him and I dig my hands into the top of my thighs as my body remembers just how thorough a f*cking by Colton Donavan can be. And despite my resolve, my body screams take me, brand me, claim me. Own every part of me, right here, right now.

“Safety,” I reassert, trying to regain some type of control over my body and the situation. Trying to think of his safety rather than the constant ache burning like a wildfire within me.

“Ryles, when have you ever known me to play it safe?” He smirks that devilishly handsome grin he knows I can’t resist. “Please … let me exert myself,” he pleads, but I know that beneath the playful tone is a man scavenging what’s left of his restraint. “I’m dying to take the driver’s seat and set the pace.”

I can’t help my laugh because his words cause a certain comment to come back to me. “When we first met, Haddie wondered if you f*cked like you drive.”

He snorts out a laugh, a mischievous grin gracing his lips and leaving that dimple I love. “And how’s that?”

“A little reckless, pushing all the limits, and in it until the very last lap …” I let my voice trail off as I tease a fingernail over the midline of his chest, his muscles flexing as he anticipates my touch.

He angles his head to the side and his arrogant smile grows wider. “Well, was she right or do I need to take you for another spin around the track to refresh your memory?”

I love seeing the Colton I know, the Colton I missed, so vibrant that I decide to have a little fun—play him at his own game. He wants sex that I’m not going to give him, but that doesn’t mean I can’t put on a good show to tide him over. Give him a little something to ease the burn.

Or intensify the ache.

I run my fingers back down his chest and then to my parted knees and up and over my thighs. His eyes follow their wanton progression as they sit on top of the triangular swatch of fabric covering my sex. “Not sure I remember, Ace. It’s been a while since I’ve seen you in action.”

He sucks in a hiss of breath and the reaction drives me, spurs me to go one step further. I rub my hands over my naked stomach and up to cup my breasts already weighted with desire. I purposefully drag my lip over my bottom teeth, breathing out a soft moan as I pinch my nipples between my thumbs and forefingers, the sensation ricocheting through my every nerve. Colton’s eyes darken, his lips part, and I feel his cock throb under my core at the sight of me pleasuring myself.

His reaction empowers me, allows me to have the courage and confidence to carry this out. A few months ago I would have never done this—touch myself so brazenly under the scrutiny of his stare—but he’s done this for me, shown me that my curves are sexy; the body I used to readily criticize is something he desires, something that turns him on. Is more than enough for him.

And because of that knowledge, I can give him this gift with steady hands and complete confidence.

I let another moan fall from my mouth, and as much as I can see the desire swell in green eyes, I can tell the minute he’s on to me. The slow, lopsided spread of a smile turning up one corner of his deliciously handsome mouth. He just shakes his head subtly, mirth dancing over his expression as he shows me he’s more than willing to play this game.

“Baby, if you’re trying to get me to stop, then you shouldn’t throw around comments like that.”

He rolls his hips beneath me, his rock hard length pressing exactly where I ache for it to fill—where I’m silently begging for it to stroke—and feeds my pleasurable pain. I try to stifle the reaction on my lips, try to play coy, but it’s no use when he does it again. My mouth falls lax, a satisfied purr comes from deep within my throat, and my hands fall without thought to press against the outside of my damp panties. Needing something to stifle the urge to take what I so desperately need, so desperately want.

Him.

When his hips settle, my fingers dig into the flesh of my thighs to prevent me from taking what I want—fingers ripping down boxer-briefs, taking his steeled length in my hands, guiding him into me, stretching me to sublime satisfaction—I gain enough composure to raise my eyes back up and lock onto his. To feign that I have a tight hold on the control that’s begging to be snapped.

He reaches a hand up and draws a line down the middle of my chest at an excruciatingly slow pace. His smirk spreading to both corners when my nipples pebble from his touch, proving that despite my strong façade, I’m affected by him in every possible way.

“Well, if you think I f*ck like I drive, you should see me drop the hammer and race you to the finish line.”

I can’t help the breath that catches in my throat. It has to be coincidence that he uses the term race—it is his profession after all—but every single part of me hopes momentarily that I’m wrong. That he’s using the term to tell me he remembers. But as quick as the thought soars with hope, it burns out, shutters the breath in my lungs. So I do the only thing I can, to help to make me forget, and help him remember.

It’s time to give him the show I’ve been tempting him with.

As his eyes flicker back and forth between my eyes and my fingers, I spread my legs further apart wanting to make sure he can see everything I’m doing. My fingers slip just beneath the waistband of my panties and then stop, my own body aching for my touch as much as I can see he is by the look in his eyes and his own fingers rubbing together, itching to touch me himself. But he’s still in control. Still so calm.

Time to test that restraint.

“I thought racing wasn’t a team sport,” I say from beneath my lashes. “You know, more of an every man for himself kind of thing.” I make sure he’s watching, make sure he sees my fingers slide a little farther south. And I know he does because his Adam’s apple bobs as he works a swallow down his throat.

“Every man, yes,” he finally says, his voice strained. “Racing can be a dangerous sport too, you know?”

“Oh really?” I respond.

I take it upon myself to give into the sweet torture of parting myself and rubbing the evidence of my arousal around so I can apply the much needed friction to my *. And as good as it feels—the pressure, the friction, his hardened dick rubbing against me—nothing turns me on more than the look on Colton’s face. Undeniable arousal and complete concentration as he watches movements he can’t see but can only guess at through the silky red fabric.

I want more from him. I want that stoic restraint snapped, and so I give into the feeling, into the eroticism of the moment—of him watching me while I pleasure myself—and I do the one thing I know will help push him over the edge, pull that hair-string trigger I know he has so tightly wound. I lift my head back, close my eyes, and let “Oh, God!” slip from my lips.

“Sweet Jesus!” he swears, restraint snapped right along with the strings of fabric holding my panties together.

I keep my head back knowing he’s watching me move my fingers—absorb the pleasure—because there is something unexpectedly liberating about him stripping my clothes so he can see. I am unbound, unashamed, and utterly his for the taking, both physically and mentally.

I feel my pulse quicken. Warmth spreads through me like a tidal wave of sensation that I willingly want to be drowned in. Colton groans out in front of me and I come back into the present, lift my head up, and open my eyes to find his trained on the delta between my thighs. I hiss a moan as I bring my hand out for him to see the evidence of my arousal glistening on my fingers. I struggle to control the burning fire spreading through me, igniting places I didn’t even know exist and try to find my voice.

“Well, Ace, danger can be overrated. It seems I know how to handle a slick track perfectly well,” I purr, unable to fight the smirk that plays as his fingers dig deeper into the flesh at my hips. I keep my eyes locked and taunting on his as I bring my fingers up to my lips and suck slowly before withdrawing them.

The muscle in his jaw tics. His dick pulses beneath me in reaction. His breath rasps out. “Slippery and wet, huh? Danger has never been more f*cking tempting,” he drawls before his tongue darts out and wets his lips as he tracks my hands sliding back down my torso, over my breasts, down my stomach, and back down to between my thighs. This time though, I spread my knees wider as I use one hand to part my cleft so he can see my other hand slide down between the swollen, pink flesh. I can see the struggle flicker across the magnificent lines of his face, watch the desire swamp him, and the knowing smile that curls up his lips somehow fits him with absolute perfection.

My handsome, arrogant rogue.

A little cocky.

A lot imperfect.

And completely mine.

“You know,” he rasps, trailing a fingertip up one thigh, purposely missing my core clenching in anticipation before continuing down the other leg. “Sometimes in a race, in order to reach the finish line, rookies like you have to tag team to get the result you want.”

I don’t fight the smile that comes or hide the shudder of breath as his fingers leave my skin. I lean forward placing my hands on his chest and look straight into his eyes. “Sorry, but this engine seems to be doing just fine running solo,” I say, scraping my fingernails in lines down his chest as I sit back up. His muscles convulse beneath my fingers proving that even though the arrogant curl to his lips remains, his body still wants and needs what I have to offer. I slip my fingers between my thighs again and deliver the line I’m hoping will push him over the edge. “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?” he taunts, tossing the ball right back into my court.

“Oh, I most definitely can race dirty,” I tease with a raise of my eyebrows before I reach a hand out, his eyes narrowing as I bring a finger, coated with my moisture, to his lips. His hand flashes up immediately and grabs my wrist, guiding my fingers into his mouth, the low hum in the back of his throat reverberating over me, through me, into me. And my own restraint is tested as his tongue swirls over them, my hips grinding down and rocking over him in automatic response. Holy shit that feels like Heaven. My nerves reach the fever pitch of ache as I rock back again, his hard to my soft, and all I can think about is the need coursing through me. The moisture pooling between my legs. The thought of his fingers on me, in me, driving me.

F*ck, I need him now. Desperately. So I do the only thing I can without downright begging. I deliver the last coherent dare I have left because all of my thoughts are jumbling in my head with this onslaught of sensation. I lean forward, the feather of my lips up his whiskered jaw line, and inhale his scent before I whisper, “Being a seasoned pro such as yourself, you just might have to show this rookie exactly why they say rubbing’s racing.”

I rotate my hips over the top of him and I can feel his teeth grind in willpower. I repeat the motion one more time, a satisfied exhale slipping between my lips as my body begs for more. “Big bad professional race car driver like you afraid to show a newbie how to drive stick, huh?”

I forgot how fast Colton can move, bad hand and all. Within a heartbeat he’s pushed me so I’m sitting back up again. My feet have been pulled forward so they’re flat on the bed on either side of his rib cage, and he pushes my knees as far out as they can go.

Bingo.

Fuse lit.

That razor thin edge of control snapped.

Thank God!

He must be mistaking the look on my face—the one of relief edged with desperation—as confusion because he says, “I’m shifting gears, sweetheart, because I’m the only one allowed to drive this car.” I can hear the hum deep in his throat as he slides his hands up my thighs, stopping to sweep his thumbs up and down my tight strip of curls. A teasing touch that sends tiny tremors ricocheting through me, hinting at what’s to come, the level of pleasure he can bring me to.

His fingers still and he drags his eyes up my body to meet mine, a smug grin ghosting his mouth. He holds my stare—almost as if daring me to look away—as he moves one hand to part my swollen flesh while the other tucks his fingers inside of me. My head falls back as I cry out at the feeling, fingers moving, manipulating, circling to stroke over the responsive bundle of nerves. He slides his fingers in and out, my walls clenching around him, gripping onto him in pure, carnal need. Greed.

I watch his face. See his tongue slip between his lips, the desire cloud his eyes, watch the muscles ripple in his arms as he works me into a fever pitch. Causes me to climb quickly because I’m so pent up—so addled with need—that the sight of him, the feel of him, the memory of him, pushes me over the edge.

My fingernails score down his forearms as my body tenses, p-ssy convulses, and the broken cry of his name fills the room around us. I fall forward, collapsing on top of Colton’s chest as the heat spearing through me in waves liquefies my insides. Makes coherency a distant possibility. I want the feel of my skin on his. Need to feel the firmness of him against me and the security of his arms wrapped around me as I swim through the sensation he just flooded me with.

I pant out in short, sharp breaths as my body settles, his fingertips tracing lines up and down my spine. I can feel his soft chuckle against my chest. “Hey, rookie?”

I force myself to look up at him—to pull myself from my post-orgasmic coma. “Hmm?” is all I can manage as I meet the amusement in his eyes.

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

I can’t help the laugh that comes out and bubbles over. He can claim my checkered flag any day.