Raced

Driven - Chapter Eleven

The Merit Rum launch party. Need I say more? A long-standing request from readers is what was Colton thinking that night? The following is Chapter Eleven from the moment Colton saw Rylee with Surfer Joe snuggling up against her until he asked her that now familiar line: “Decide, Rylee. Yes. Or. No.”
There’s something about Colton in the hallway, his inner-monologue that intrigued me. He seems to always be in a constant struggle—denying himself what he wants, rationalizing he can have it but on certain terms, mixed with the side of him wanting to protect Rylee from the hurt he knows he is going to cause. All three pull at your heart strings for certain reasons while at the same time cause you to wear a neck brace to protect you from the whiplash of his emotions and his actions.


Uh-uh. She’s mine, motherf*cker.
Over my dead f*cking body.
Or most likely his if he touches her again.
This club is so packed. So filled with more than willing Grade A p-ssy. And sponsorship obligations. F*cking obligations that have weighed me down like an anchor for the past two hours. Two hours wasted when I could have been with the cause of my shitty mood.
And the source of my current case of raging blue balls.
Sweet Jesus. Dancing with her like that? Pressed against each other from shoulder to knee. Moving in sync. Her body reacting to mine as if she knew each movement I would make before I did. Eyes telling me she’s mine for the taking.
The hint of how we’ll be together when she finally caves to what her body wants but that her mind keeps fighting. I almost came on the spot. Talk about a tease I can’t wait to devour.
And now I have Merit Rum execs in front of me, Raquel plastered to my side making it unmistakable to everyone that she’s my date, and Becks, the bastard, over their shoulders smirking at me like it’s your f*cking fault for asking her to come tonight.
But more importantly is what I can see through the crowd in interrupted bouts. The man who just sat next to Rylee. Whose arm is around her shoulders. Who is leaning into her, speaking in her ear.
Mine.
The thought snags in my mind and I can’t let it go. Let the thought of her go. I can’t concentrate on what’s being said. I look at the execs from Merit trying to act cool but failing miserably in an element they’re obviously uncomfortable in. I glance up at Becks and nod to the side in Rylee’s direction hoping he gets my drift and if he doesn’t, he will in about five seconds.
“If you’ll excuse me,” I interrupt the shorter one’s spiel about market demographics, “I need to use the restroom.” I look again at Beckett, the greatest f*cking wingman ever, and leave without another word. I just hope they don’t realize I’m walking the opposite direction of the head.
What the f*ck am I doing? Blowing off a sponsor for a chick? She must have the elusive voodoo p-ssy or something. F*cking Christ! It’s like someone has taken over my body—or my dick—because once again I can’t get her out of my goddamn system.
And I have to. There’s no other option. No other choice. Have to finish the f*cking meal I’ve had just a taste of right before it’s cruelly snagged away.
The f*cker is touching her. Again. Leaning closer.
“The lady’s with me.” The words are out before I can think. Grated out between my gritted teeth. My voice laced with the obvious threat. All four heads in the booth snap up at my comment and look at me. All except for Rylee. She stares at the blonde who works at PRX sitting across from her for a split second.
And then she turns ever so slowly against the chest of the prick sitting behind her, her posture stiffening with that defiance that causes my balls to tighten with unfiltered lust. Gone is the sexy siren from the dance floor earlier and the vulnerable girl from last night. Right now she’s a woman scorned. And when she raises those eyes, I can see it clear as day, but I don’t care because they are looking exactly where they need to be.
On me.
The only place I want them to be. But all I can focus on is him. His arm is still on her. His body still beside hers. I clench my jaw. Eyes locked with hers.
“I’m with you?” she asks, those f*cking bedroom eyes widening to saucers and her chin jutting out in obstinance. “Really? Because I thought you were with her?” she says sarcastically, scrunching up her nose the way she does when she’s pissed off—which I’ve happened to see a lot in the short time we’ve known each other—and looking behind me. “You know, the blonde from your arm earlier?”
F*cking Raquel. Why’d I invite her again? Her blowjob skills—her best asset frankly, even if thinking it makes me a prick—are a distant memory at the sight in front of me. Because right here, right now, all I can think of is Rylee. Her mouth. Her body. That p-ssy of hers that I’ll bet my life on as being the sweetest f*cking thing I’ll ever taste. Ever feel.
Might even beg for.
I need to be buried in her so badly right now it’s painful. “Cute, Rylee.” I spit the words out, not trusting myself to say any more when I see Surfer Joe squeeze her shoulder. My glare shifts to his, my eyes sending the message.
Hands. Off.
I see that my warning’s delivered when he tenses as recognition slowly seeps in. Yeah, that’s right, cocksucker. I’m Colton F*ckin’ Donavan and she’s mine. And the exaggerations in the tabloids are perfectly accurate. I’ve got a quick f*cking temper and have no qualms getting my hands dirty with a few punches. Touch her again and I’ll show you.
Pretty please.
And of course because she always does the opposite of what I want, Rylee turns and puts her hand on the f*cker and reassures him that she’s not here with me. Then she turns back slowly to me, a derisive smirk on those beautiful lips and challenge in her violet eyes.
So that’s how this is going to go?
“Don’t push me, Rylee. I don’t like sharing,” I say, clenching and unclenching my fists to release the anger laced with arousal that’s firing through my veins. “You. Belong. With. Me.”
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 f*cking owns me. Owns me and I haven’t even had her yet. What the f*ck 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 f*cking 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. F*cking brilliant, if you’re a p-ssy.
She eyes me up and down, a little smirk at the corners of her mouth that irritates the f*ck out of me. Makes my dick hard. She’s playing me once again. F*cking 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 f*cking 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 is 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 f*cking 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 f*cking affected as I am. I know it. Can see it. F*ck 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 f*ck 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 f*cking 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.
F*ck! 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 f*cking pieces.
What the f*ck are you doing, Donavan? Since when do you care what people think? F*cking voodoo p-ssy, 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.
F*ckin’ A.
I look up and meet the blonde friend’s eyes. She just arches her eyebrow at me as if to say “You f*cking 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.
F*cking Rylee.
F*cking voodoo p-ssy.
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 f*ck if this woman hasn’t had me on the run since the get-go.
It’s easy to tell myself to let her go. F*ck 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 f*cking 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 f*cking woman more than any other.
I reach the bar and she catches sight of me, turns, and then hurries to the exit.
F*ckin’ 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 f*ck 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 f*ck to watch her ass sway. And therein lies the motherf*cking 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 f*cking 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 f*ck … I’m pissed.
Pissed that she hates me. Pissed that she wants me. Frustrated that I want to just walk away but for some f*cking reason I can’t.
I was seduced by her kiss and moved by her with her boys yesterday. We basically f*cked 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 f*ck, 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 f*cking hell, I want that.
“What the f*ck 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 f*ck 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 f*ck 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 f*cker’s hand on her, body up against hers. I see red then green. F*ck. 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 f*ck 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.
F*ck this.
F*ck her.
And f*ck me because that’s exactly the problem—wanting to f*ck her—but newsflash, I know this is too goddamn complicated. A quick f*ck is not supposed to be like this. Step away. Back the f*ck 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 f*cking bait.
We glare at each other, eyes devouring and warning all at the same time.
See? Complicated. Walk the f*ck away. Save yourself.
“Isn’t that what you want from me, Colton? A quick f*ck 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 mindf*ck that I’ve learned to keep at restraining order distance. So why the hell do I still want her so f*cking 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 f*ck.
Nice try, Donavan. Keep telling yourself that.
Maybe if I prove to her the a*shole that I am, she’ll take the reins here and walk the f*ck away. Deny me what I want since I’m being such a p-ssy 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 a*shole, that I think women are mere blips on my f*cking 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 f*ck 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 Raquel, the only word that flickers through my head is never.
F*cking 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.
F*ck 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, f*ck 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 f*cking timing to tell me I can’t do this to her, f*ck 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 to her. Tell her to take the f*ck 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. F*ck 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?
Tell me no. Please tell me no because I can’t find it in myself to walk the f*ck away like I should. Make the choice for me. Push me away. Hurt me.
She holds my gaze and then lifts her chin in a subtle nod.
F*ck! Every part of my body screams the word, each one holding a different meaning to the reaction.
She just said yes, and I swallow the fact that my warnings were all in my head. My excuse to fall back and ease my guilt later when I walk away.
But right now? Right now, I’m taking what she’s offering. Restraint obliterated and my dick in command.
Add another demon to the pile within because I sure as f*ck don’t deserve a quick stop in Heaven before I take the long ride to Hell, but I’m taking it.
Without thought, my hands frame her face and my lips are on hers. I’m hungry for the taste of her, desperate for the feel of her. Smooth skin, gentle moans, soft against hard.
She’s like a fix to an addiction. I thought if I had a taste, I’d want it less, but f*ck me, all I can think of is more. Take more, want more, feel more, need more.
One hand is on her neck, the other on her back, and I pull her against me, need her against me from chest to knee. My mouth takes, nips, and sips. Her reactions spur me on. The moan in her throat when I suck on her tongue. The arch of her back when I tug on her lip with my teeth. Her body begs for the things her lips refuse to ask me for. And f*ck if it’s not the hottest thing to know she wants this as desperately as I do, but I need to be in control here. Need to own the situation and the shit I keep pushing out of my head.
Her hands fist my shirt, need burning a hole through me, my dick aching, my body waiting to claim. In reflex, I grab her hands and pin them above the wall over our heads so she’s completely open to me.
Mine to control. To set the pace. To prevent her from revealing the shit that needs to stay behind lock and key.
I bring my free hand down to hold her chin so I can brand her lips again. Kiss her senseless so she has no other f*cking option than to say yes to the question I so desperately want to ask. But when my fingers hold her there, her eyes flutter up to look into mine, dark lashes framing the most unique of colors. And although my dick is rock hard and wanting to act, I stumble over thoughts I don’t mean to say but that fall out of my mouth before I can stop them.
“Not inconsequential, Rylee. You could never be inconsequential.” I close my eyes and rest my forehead against hers to give myself a moment to try and figure out what the f*ck is wrong with me. “No—you and me—together, that would make you mine. Mine.”
My confession shocks me. I mean it’s one thing to think the words and another f*cking thing to say them. Hell yes, they’re true, but since when do I say crap like this? Give a woman a drawer for her shit when I only plan on letting her pass through the ever-revolving bedroom door.
My honesty scares the shit out of me. Makes me question when I never second guess myself.
I take a deep breath and step back, releasing her hands still held by mine, our eyes never breaking. And I don’t know what it is now that I’m asking her because hell if I know. I’m confused as f*ck, desperate to bury myself in her and at the same time trying to figure out what this feeling in the pit of my stomach is.
It’s always been pleasure to bury the pain. The sex to quiet my head, override the shame coating my soul, so why the hell is my head screaming right now?
She reaches out to me, her fingers scraping against my abdomen, and f*ck if my body doesn’t jolt at the connection. I cuffed her hands because I’m used to being in control, used to setting the pace, so why the f*ck am I not stopping her. Why do her fingers feel like she’s lighting my skin on fire? Like she’s burning me with her touch.
I close my eyes, her hands on my back, and my breath labored with the desire that’s so strong I feel like I’m ready to snap. To take without asking.
And then her lips touch mine. Soft and sweet. That f*cking perfect contradiction against her hands pulling my body into hers. Her tongue teases by tracing my bottom lip and thoughts of how it can trace the line of my cock have me reaching up to touch her face.
I make my hands go there so I can control the need to rip zippers and feast on her flesh, take the usual route when she is anything but my usual, when the situation is so far from my norm that I’m flying solo without a pit crew for back-up. So instead I force myself to part her lips with my tongue, challenge myself to see how long I can last with this tender and soft when all I really want to do is be rough and sate my greed.
I push my limits. Control the desperation. Even when her fingers dig in my shoulders and urge me on, I rein it in. Every time she moves, my dick rubs against her lower belly and I kiss her a little deeper to lose myself for just a moment. To encourage my resistance.
And then she sighs.
Sweet Christ. How can such a simple sound make a man want to lose his f*cking control when he’s already held out against every other form of her unbeknownst seduction? But that sigh … f*ck, the sound owns me in ways I never thought possible.
I can’t take the assault on my senses anymore. I just f*cking can’t. I press my hands on the wall on either side of her head, my last attempt at restraint. And I’m such a dumbass that I think if my hands are not on her, I can control my urge to take her as I see fit. Take her in ways I don’t think by the innocence in her eyes she’s experienced yet.
Because shit, she’s a soft and slow, make love not just f*ck kind of girl and I’m the exact opposite. Physical overriding emotional every day because I can’t do emotional. And she deserves so much better than me. I might be a selfish prick but I know this much.
The problem is she’s so goddamn addictive that even though I’ve occupied my hands, I allow myself one small hit. I rest my forehead against the curve of her neck, nose buried. My chest heaves for air. The scent of her perfume and shampoo make my balls tighten and use up my last ounce of control.
“Sweet Jesus, Rylee.” I lace kisses along her shoulder while my body aches painfully to have her wrapped around me. “We need to get out of here before you unman me in the hallway.”
I raise my head and look into her eyes. Last chance, Ryles. Escape while you can. But she stands her ground, unwavering, accepting of the warning in my eyes and the dominance in my stance.
“Come.” God help me because when all is said and done, I think I’m going to need it to walk away from her. She bites her bottom lip to stop it from quivering. Even she knows I’m inviting her into the lion’s den.
I give her a soft smile, pretending I can’t see the vulnerability in her eyes, ignoring it as I draw her further in … and that makes me even worse of a man than I already thought.
We walk, desire leading us and desperation owning our thoughts. I think I mumble an explanation that I have a room, but I’m not sure because my thoughts are consumed by every single thing about her. F*cking consumed when I’ve never been this way before.
I usher her into the elevator, unlock the penthouse all the while my dick is begging me to push the red button, halt the elevator right here, right now and take her on the floor. Feed the greed and be done with her.
Return to familiar ground and be the a*shole I know that I am.
I reach out to touch her back, begin the process, but I can’t bring myself to do it. I can’t treat her like she’s inconsequential and prove her right. I mutter something about her hair, asking why she’s changed the curls I’ve thought about holding in one hand so I can watch while my cock f*cks her mouth. She responds about not fitting a mold but shit my mind is back onto the image of her bobbing her head up and down with hollowed out cheeks and I can’t focus.
“Sometimes change is good.” She’s staring at me when I break from my thoughts.
I mumble a response about liking her curls, sounding so innocent but really being anything but because my mind is thinking about how f*cking bad I want her right now. And then her comment breaks into my thoughts … sometimes change is good.
Is that what this is? A change from my typical so it’s got my dick in a twist?
Gotta be.
The warnings flood my head again. I need to tell her I’m in uncharted territory, that I don’t know what the hell is going on but the one thing I do is that she deserves a chance to leave before I can’t turn back.
“You have one chance to walk away.” The elevator dings, shattering my concentration that’s scattered as it is. I stare at her, need to see her eyes and hear her tell me she wants this without hesitation. “I won’t be able to walk away, Rylee.”
And that’s exactly what I need to do to ease the unsettling I already feel deep down in the parts of me I buried so very long ago. In the dark recesses where the promises I made to myself feel like they are beginning to unseat themselves.
Am I doing the right thing here when I know that f*cking her just might hurt … both her and me?
F*ck. That’s exactly what all this is. I turn from her, needing a minute myself to decide whether the discorded peace in my soul is worth disturbing.
Snap out of it, Donavan. Quit being such a p-ssy. You have a woman willing right now. The same one you’ve passed up Raquel and her blow job skills for twice. You obviously want this. So f*cking take it. You know how to walk when the sex turns to emotion so get your shoes and put them by the door for an easy escape.
But f*cking hell take what she’s offering. Man the f*ck up. Tell her how it’s going to be and then do it. Give her the option to only say yes because sweet f*cking Jesus, if her kiss is that goddamn sweet imagine what the f*ck her p-ssy tastes like.
Problem solved. Everything back on its mental shelf.
I stab the button with my finger for the elevator door and then hang my head as I figure out how to say it all. “I want to take my time with you, Rylee. I want to build you up nice and slow and sweet like you need. Push you to crash over that edge. And then I want to f*ck you the way I need to. Fast and hard until you’re screaming my name. The way I’ve wanted to since you fell out of that storage closet and into my life. Once we leave this elevator, I don’t think I’ll have enough control to stop … to pull away from you, Rylee. I. Can’t. Resist. You.”
My confession is cathartic. Allows me to f*ck her without the guilt because I’m giving her a choice. More steady in my shoes that I momentarily stepped out of, I finally turn back to face her. I need to see her eyes when I give her the only choice I’m going to until after we’ve come and are panting out of breath and spent.
“Decide, Rylee. Yes. Or. No.”