by K. Bromberg
I am nauseated by the sight of her hands on him and the thought of him giving any attention to her. I shake my head in condemnation as I cluck my tongue. “Case in point,” I say. I glance back at Haddie and the two men sitting with us. “I apologize, but please excuse me.” Haddie starts to gather her purse, concern on her face, and I subtly shake my head for her to stay.
I turn back and look at Colton one last time, hoping my eyes portray the message I’m sending. Here’s your choice. Me or her. You pick. Right now. Last chance.
I avert my eyes, breaking our connection. He stands static with the blonde draped over him like a cheap jacket. I guess he’s made his decision. I try to calmly exit the booth. Try to flee from the dangerous path that I undoubtedly know he will lead me down.
Once I feel like I’m clear from view, I blindly push my way through the mass of people, hurt bubbling up inside me. My heart aches from the knowledge that I’ll never be able to compete with someone like her. Never. I try to contain it as I push my way to the bar, wanting to numb the feelings I let myself believe were valid. Were reciprocated. Were possible again.
Shit! I swallow back the threatening tears as I squeeze into an open space at the crowded bar and by some miracle the bartender is right in front of me. “What’ll you have?” he asks above the noise.
I stare at him a moment, contemplating my options. I opt for quick and numbing. “Shot of tequila please,” I request, garnering the attention of the man standing next to me. I can feel him looking me up and down, and I roll my shoulders, bristling at the unwanted attention.
The bartender slides a shot of tequila across the bar to me and I grab it, looking at it for a moment, silently saying our toast. Right now I definitely need the courage portion. Even if it’s false courage. I toss it back without hesitation and scrunch my face up at the burn. I close my eyes as its warmth slides down my throat and settles in my belly. I sigh deeply before opening my eyes, ignoring the offer of another drink from the man beside me.
I grab my phone out of my purse and text Haddie that I’m fine, to enjoy herself, and I’ll see her at home. I know that if she weren’t here for work, she’d be at my side taking me home.
I glance up from my phone to look for the bartender. I need another shot. Something to numb the rejection. My eyes flicker down the length of the bar when I see Colton striding purposefully toward me.
Despite the hope surging inside of me, I mutter, “Fuck!” and throw some cash on the bar before turning on my heel and veering toward the closest exit. I find one quickly, and shove open the doors. I find myself in an empty, darkened corridor, relieved when the door shuts behind me, muffling the pulsating music. My moment of solitude is fleeting as the door is thrown open moments later, Colton pushing through. We lock eyes—I can see the anger in his and I hope he can see the hurt in mine—before I turn my back to him and rush down the hallway.
I let out a strangled cry in frustration as Colton catches up to me and grabs my arm, spinning me around to face him. Our ragged breathing is the only sound in the hallway as we glare at each other, tempers flaring.
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” he growls at me, his grip on my arm holding firm.
“Excuse me?” I sputter.
“You have an annoying little habit of running away from me, Rylee.”
“What’s it to you, Mr. I-Send-Mixed-Signals?” I throw back at him, wrenching my arm from his grip.
“You’re one to talk, sweetheart. Is that guy—is he what you really want, Rylee?” He says my name like a curse. “A quick romp with Surfer Joe? You want to fuck him instead of me?” I can hear the edge in his voice. The threat. In this dark corridor, his features hidden by shadows, his eyes glistening, he is every bit the intimidating bad boy that the tabloids hint at.
“Isn’t that what you want from me, Colton? A quick fuck to boost that fragile ego of yours? It seems you spend an awful lot of time trying to placate that weakness of yours.” I hold his glare. “Besides, why do you care what I do? If I recall correctly, you were pretty occupied with the blonde on your arm.”
He clenches and unclenches his jaw regarding me, rolling his head back and forth on his shoulder before answering me. “Raquel? She’s inconsequential,” he states as a simple matter of fact.
I can take that answer so many ways, and all of them paint his opinion of women in a less than stellar light.
“Inconsequential?” I question, “Is that what I’d be to you after you fuck me?” I stand my ground, shoulders squared. “Inconsequential?”
He stands there seething. At me? At my response? He takes a step toward me and I retreat, my back pressing into the wall behind me. I have nowhere left to run. He reaches out a hand and pulls it back in indecision, the muscles in his jaw clenching, the pulse in his throat pounding. He angles his head to the side, closing his eyes, swearing silently to himself. He looks back at me—frustration, anger, desire, and so much more burning in the depths of his eyes. Their intensity as they look into mine is unnerving, as if he is asking for my consent. I nod my head subtly, giving him the permission to take. The next time he reaches out, there is no hesitation.
Within a beat, his lips are on mine. All of the pent up frustration, irritation, and antagonism of the evening explodes as our lips clash, hands fist, and souls ignite. There is nothing gentle about our union. Rapacious need burns through me as one of his hands snakes around my back, grasps my neck and yanks me against him so his mouth can plunder mine. His other hand slides between the wall and my arching back, splaying against me in ownership. Gone are the gentle sips and the soft caresses from yesterday.
His lips slant over mine and his tongue darts in my mouth, tangling, teasing, and tormenting mine. His hands slide over mine where they’re fisted in his shirt. He grabs my wrists and pulls them over my head, presses them to the wall, and handcuffs them with one of his hands. He brings his free hand down and cups my jaw as he breaks from our kiss. He draws his face back and his eyes, darkened and vibrant with arousal, hold mine.
“Not inconsequential, Rylee. You could never be inconsequential.” He shakes his head subtly, the vibration of his voice resonating in me. He rests his forehead to mine, our noses brushing each other’s. “No—you and me—together,” he grinds the words out, “that would make you mine.” His words feather over my face, enter my soul, and take hold. “Mine,” he repeats, making sure that I understand his intentions.
I close my eyes to savor the words. To relish the thought of Colton wanting me to be his mine. Our foreheads remain touching as I surrender to the moment, to the feeling, and to the easing of doubts. He steps back from me and gently releases my hands from above my head. Our eyes stay connected and I see what I think is a momentary flash of fear blaze through his.
I reach out tentatively to him and touch his hips, working my hands under his untucked shirt so that I can place my hands on his skin. So that I can feel this vibrant, virile man beneath my fingertips. It’s always been his hands on my skin. Him in control. I haven’t had the chance to appreciate the feel of him beneath my palms yet.
I find my purchase, my fingers caressing the firm warmth of his defined muscles as they tense at my touch. I slowly run them up the front of his torso, feeling each delineation, each breath he takes in reaction to my touch. It’s a heady feeling to hear his response, see his pupils dilate in desire, as I glide my hands from his pecs, smoothing them over ribs and under his arms to scrape my nails up the plains of his back.
He closes his eyes momentarily in rapture, clearly enjoying my slow, teasing assault on his senses. I lean up on my toes and hesitantly lean into him and brush my lips against his. I press my hands into his shoulders, pulling his body into mine. I slant my mouth over his and run the tip of my tongue over his bottom lip.
His fingers slowly brush against my cheeks, his palms resting on the line of my jaw to frame my face as he tenderly deepens the kiss. His lips sipping, his tongue slowly, sweetly parting my lips and melding with mine. Hi
s quiet affection touches me in my core, slowly unraveling me and winding me into a ball of need. He takes my breath away with each caress. I sigh into the kiss, my fingers digging into his shoulders, the only sign of my impending impatience at wanting more. At needing more.
I can feel Colton’s struggle to control his need, his body taut beneath my hands, his impressive erection pressing into my belly. He continues his tender and unrelenting assault on my senses by concentrating solely on my mouth. Seducing my lips. His breath is mine. His action is my reaction.
He stops abruptly, placing his two hands on the wall beside my shoulders and braces himself, letting his forehead drop to my shoulder so that his nose and mouth are buried in the nape of my neck. I feel his chest heaving for air like mine, and I’m relieved that he appears to be as affected by this encounter as I am. I’m a little confused by his actions, but I take the moment to allow him to collect himself while I settle my racing heart. I subconsciously squeeze my knees together to try and quiet the relentless pressure at the delta between by thighs.
I can feel the warmth of his breath as he pants against my neck, struggling for control. “Sweet Jesus, Rylee,” he murmurs as he shakes his head, rolling it on my shoulder before scattering innocent kisses along my collarbone. “We need to get out of here before you unman me in the hallway.”
He raises his head to look at me as I still from his words. There is no doubt that this is what I want. That he is who I want. But I can’t deny the fact that I’m nervous—anxious—afraid I’ll disappoint him with my lack of experience in this department.
“Come.” He doesn’t give me time to speak before he grabs my hand, wraps his arm around my shoulder, pulling me into him, and walks us deeper into the corridor. “I have a room here for the night.” His strong arm helps support me, leading me toward my apple in the Garden of Eden.
I follow obediently, trying to quiet the doubt and noise in my mind, for it is actively chattering away now that his mouth is not on mine, blunting my ability to reason. We quickly make it to an elevator at the end of the hallway and within seconds we are stepping in. Colton pulls a key card out of his pocket and inserts it into the panel, effectively unlocking the top floor. The penthouse.
He steps back toward me as the elevator lifts and places a hand on the small of my back. The silence between us is audible and only intensifies the butterflies that are churning in my stomach. “Why the change?” Colton asks as he tugs on my straightened hair, trying to ease my mounting anxiety.
“Just trying to fit the mold,” I quip reflexively, referring to the numerous pictures on the Internet of him with straight haired women. His brow furrows, trying to figure out what I mean, when I offer up, “Sometimes change is good.”
He uses his hand on my back to turn me toward him. He angles his head down so that we are eye to eye. “I like your curls,” he says softly, my ego preening from the compliment. “They suit you.” Now that he has me positioned, he raises a hand up to wipe an errant strand off my face. He then places his fingers on the side of my jaw and holds me there, his eyes searching mine. “You have one chance to walk away,” he warns me as the elevator alerts us we’re at his floor. The husky tone of his voice wreaking havoc on my willpower.
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.”
