by K. Bromberg
“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 fucked 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 fuck 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 clit. 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 fucking 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 s
ee 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.
Fuck, 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, pussy 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 motherfucking checkered flag.”
I can’t help the laugh that comes out and bubbles over. He can claim my checkered flag any day.
“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 m
eds 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.
