by Bromberg, K.
My heart beats erratically. I shake my head in unconvincing acceptance when I can’t find the words to speak to him.
He ignores the opening elevator door behind him and continues to look intently into my eyes. “I won’t be able to walk away, Rylee,” he says as he scrunches up his eyes as if the admission is painful. He blows out a loud breath, releasing me and running his fingers through his hair. He turns his back to me, reaches out, and stabs the door open button, bracing his hands against the elevator wall. His broad shoulders fill the small space. His head hangs down as he mulls over his next words. “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 fuck 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.”
I have to bite my lower lip to stifle a groan. I fight the need to sag against the wall for some kind of relief.
“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.” His voice is pained, quiet, and chock-full of conviction. He turns back to me, his face filled with emotion. His eyes reflecting a man tinkering on the edge of losing control. “Decide, Rylee. Yes. Or. No.”
UH-UH. SHE’S MINE, MOTHERFUCKER.
Over my dead fucking body.
Or most likely his if he touches her again.
This club is so packed. So filled with more than willing Grade A pussy. And sponsorship obligations. Fucking 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 fucking 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 fucking 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 fuck am I doing? Blowing off a sponsor for a chick? She must have the elusive voodoo pussy or something. Fucking 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 fucking meal I’ve had just a taste of right before it’s cruelly snagged away.
The fucker 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 fucking 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?”
Fucking 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 pussy of hers that I’ll bet my life on as being the sweetest fucking 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 Fuckin’ Donavan and she’s mine. And the exaggerations in the tabloids are perfectly accurate. I’ve got a quick fucking 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 fucker 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 fucking owns me. Owns me and I haven’t even had her yet. What the fuck 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 fucking 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. Fucking brilliant, if you’re a pussy.
She eyes me up and down, a little smirk at the corners of her mouth that irritates the fuck out of me. Makes my dick hard. She’s playing me once again. Fucking 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 ru
mored 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 fucking 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 are 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 fucking 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 fucking affected as I am. I know it. Can see it. Fuck 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 fuck 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 fucking 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.
Fuck! 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 fucking pieces.
What the fuck are you doing, Donavan? Since when do you care what people think? Fucking voodoo pussy, 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.
Fuckin’ A.
I look up and meet the blonde friend’s eyes. She just arches her eyebrow at me as if to say “You fucking 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.
Fucking Rylee.
Fucking voodoo pussy.
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 fuck if this woman hasn’t had me on the run since the get-go.
It’s easy to tell myself to let her go. Fuck 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 fucking 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 fucking woman more than any other.
I reach the bar and she catches sight of me, turns, and then hurries to the exit.
Fuckin’ 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 w
hat that something else is.
But why, Donavan? Why the fuck 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 fuck to watch her ass sway. And therein lies the motherfucking 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 fucking 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 fuck … I’m pissed.
Pissed that she hates me. Pissed that she wants me. Frustrated that I want to just walk away but for some fucking reason I can’t.
I was seduced by her kiss and moved by her with her boys yesterday. We basically fucked 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 fuck, 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.
