Driven Collection

by K. Bromberg

  “Oh, there is most definitely a situation.” She smirks and her eyes look up to meet mine, lust and mischief dancing beneath her lashes.

  “And how do you suggest we fix it?” I ask enjoying the role of temptress she’s playing despite my balls desperately begging for release.

  She reaches out and wraps her hand around my cock. Damn that feels good. I lay my head back and drown in the sensation of her fingers on my tortured flesh. She strokes me with slow, even strokes that feel so fucking good it takes everything I have to not put my hand on top of hers and urge her to go faster. To pump harder.

  When it comes to Rylee, begging is not beneath me.

  “Well, it is race day, and I can’t exactly let my man go to the track without fixing this little problem we have here.”

  I flash my eyes open and take in the arch of her eyebrow and taunt on her lips. “Oh baby, there’s nothing little about it.”

  She moves forward, her hand still on my cock but tits back front and center in my view as she leans in close to my face. “There isn’t?” She angles her head watching my mouth fall lax as she works her dexterous fingers back up my dick. All I can do is bite my lip in response and shake my head as she pays special attention around its crest. Talking right now is not an option. “I guess I’ll have to find out for myself then. Don’t you think?”

  I stare at her. Take all of her in as she kneels over me—cheeks flush, eyes dancing, and mouth tempting—and I can’t believe after how bad I screwed up, that she’s still here. Still fighting for us. My fucking saint.

  A reply is on my lips—and hell if I remember what it is because it flies from my mind the minute she sinks down onto my cock.

  Wet fucking heat. Pleasure swamps me the instant I feel the velvet grip of her tight pussy wrapped around me. From the bottom of my spine all the way to the top of my sac tightens in a tingling surge of eye-roll into the back of your head type of ecstasy.

  “Sweet Jesus!” I groan out as she seats herself root to tip and stills so that she can adjust to my invasion.

  “No, not Jesus,” she murmurs as she leans in and slips her tongue between my lips adding torment to her tantalization. “But I can still take you to Heaven,” she whispers against my lips.

  And then she starts to move. Up and down. Her slick, wet heat spasming over my cock with her every rise and fall. Skin on skin. Soft to hard. Hers and mine. So damn good.

  Fucking Rylee.

  My fucking voodoo pussy.

  Shit. I stand corrected. Now this—Rylee’s voodoo pussy—is God’s greatest creation.

  Ever.

  And hell if Rylee wasn’t right.

  She does feel like fucking Heaven.

  I shove my legs into last night’s jeans, knowing I need to get my ass in gear. I’m excited for the day ahead of me—for the organized chaos and the rev of the motor at my command—but I’m just not ready to share Rylee yet. Not ready to burst this bubble around us and step into the blur.

  I look over at her as she shoves her arms through her T-shirt and I shake my head. What a fucking shame to cover those perfect tits up. But I have to admit, I kind of like the idea of a T-shirt with my name emblazoned on it pressed against them. Staking a claim.

  A sharp knock sounds on the door and before either of us can respond the door is shoved open. “You guys decent?”

  Beckett walks in, fire suit on but the sleeves are tied around his waist.

  “And if we weren’t?” I ask a little miffed. What if Ry wasn’t dressed yet? Or even worse, laid out beneath me naked and moaning. So not fucking cool. It’s not like Becks and I haven’t been drunk and screwing women in the same room before—but shit—this is Rylee we’re talking about here. My spark.

  “How the hell did you get in here?” I ask and he knows I’m pissed at the intrusion. And of course being fucking Becks, he smirks a little knowing smile to let me know he’s just testing the waters. That he’s pushing my buttons to see where she and I stand.

  Beckett looks back and forth between Rylee and myself before tossing the key card on the bed. “From last night,” he says in explanation to his room access. “You guys good now?” He looks over at Rylee, eyes holding hers for a beat, and I can see him searching her face to make sure that she is in fact okay. That we worked our shit out. Fucking Becks. He may be a cocksucker but he’s the best goddamn wing man a guy could ever have.

  “Yeah, we’re good now,” she answers him and the soft little smile she gives him has me shaking my head. Could she be any more perfect?

  “Good,” he states glancing over at me with a cat ate the canary grin, eyes telling me it’s about fucking time. “Don’t let it happen again.”

  I just shake my head at him as I rise from the bed and start buttoning up my jeans. I glance over to Rylee and notice her eyes watching my fingers trail over the ridged lines of my bare abdomen. The look in her eyes has me wanting to lock Beckett out and drag Rylee to the floor—or shove her up against the wall—I’m not picky and frankly beggars can’t be choosers—until I get my fill of her.

  Then again, that might take a long-ass time. I don’t think I’ll ever get my fill of her.

  “No time for that lover-boy.” Becks snorts when he sees the look Ry and I exchange. I have half a mind to tell him to get the fuck out so that I can get one more taste to last me through the race. Especially when I look over and see her cheeks flushed at being caught thinking naughty thoughts.

  “You’ve got fifteen minutes before we leave. Make the most of your time.” He winks at Rylee and I know she’s dying of embarrassment right now.

  Oh, I fucking plan on it.

  The air vibrates with anticipation around me as we walk through the pits. The guys are checking and making sure that everything is in order and ready for the green flag, but let’s face it, they’re just busying their hands to keep from looking nervous. And I love that my crew gets nervous about a race. Lets me know they care about it as much as I do.

  I should be nervous, but I’m not. I look over at Rylee beside me and squeeze her fingers that are laced with mine. She's the reason that I’m not. Fucking Rylee—the balm to soothe all problems: nerves, nightmares, broken souls, and healing hearts.

  My new superstition number one—her beside me.

  She smiles at me, eyes hidden behind her sunglasses, and the sexiest fucking smile on those lips.

  Out of habit I walk over to the car where it’s parked in front of my pit row designation and rap my knuckles on the hood four times. Superstition number two down. Rylee looks over at me and quirks an eyebrow. I just shrug in response.

  Superstitions are stupid fucking things but hey, whatever works.

  “Why the number thirteen?”

  She’s referring to the number on my car. My unlucky, lucky number. “It’s my lucky number.” I tell her as I wave at Smitty passing by.

  “How unconventional.” She smirks at me, pushing her sunglasses up into her hair and tilting her head to the side, her eyes steadfast on mine.

  “Would you expect anything less of me?”

  “Nope. Predictability doesn’t suit you.” She shakes her head and drags her bottom lip through her teeth. Hell if that’s not sexy. “Why thirteen?”

  “I’ve defied enough odds in my lifetime so far.” I lean back against the car behind me. “I don’t think a number’s going to change my luck now.” And it’s the date of the day my Dad found me. The thought unexpectedly flashes through my head, but I don’t say it—just think it—not wanting to put a damper on the moment.

  I tug on her hand and pull her against me, needing to feel her. The soothing balm to my aching soul. She lands solidly against me, and I swear more than our bodies jolt.

  My fucking heart does too. It jolts, trips, falls, tumbles, freefalls—no that’s not it—it crashes into that foreign fucking feeling pulsing through me.

  I lean down, needing a taste of her. I slant my lips over hers and revel in her sweetness. The move of her tongue. The taste of her lips. Th
e scent of her perfume. The quiet moan she sighs into me.

  The claiming of my heart.

  My God. The woman is my fucking kryptonite. How did this happen? How did I let her own me? More importantly and fucking shocking, I want her to own me.

  Every damn piece of me.

  Game over baby.

  She’s my motherfucking checkered flag.

  “DON’T I GET MY GOOD luck kiss?” Colton looks over and smirks at me as he pulls his lucky shirt over his head and throws it on the couch behind him. My God. The man knows how to knock the wind out of me. He stands before me, that arrogant as sin grin spreading his mouth wide and his eyes reflecting all of the dirty things he’d love to do to me right now.

  And the thoughts are not unreciprocated.

  “Good luck kiss? Or good luck…” I let my words trail off, raising my eyebrows at him, my eyes licking their way over the bronzed skin and defined lines of his naked torso and stopping at those completely devastating lips. I let my gaze rest on his amused sparks of green as he watches me appreciatively take in the sight of him.

  He quirks his eyebrow up as he unties the loose sleeves of his fire suit around his waist. “Good luck what?” he teases as he takes a step toward me and leans over, bracing his hands on either side of the arms of my chair.

  I look up at him and feel a million miles away from where the two of us were twenty-four hours ago. I feel like it was a really bad dream but am oddly glad it isn’t. There is something between us now, an ease or contentment I guess, that has shown us we can muddle through. That we can fight and love and despise, but in the end, we can find us again. That we can use each other’s pleasure to bury the pain.

  “Not sure…I’ve never done this race thing before…” I smirk as I give into the temptation—take what really is mine now—and tease my fingertips up his chest and tickle them along his jaw until they find their way into his hair.

  He dips his head down and captures my mouth with a languorous exploration of his tongue against mine. The slide of my fingertips over his skin. The hum of approval deep within his throat. My soft sigh he breathes in and deepens the kiss. He shows me how he feels about me with an underlying urgency and complete veneration.

  The pounding on the motor home door has me jerking back from Colton and him swearing one of his favorites as he looks over at it. I look up at him and allow the emotions to flow through me, welcome them in their still dreamlike state. My achingly handsome rogue standing before me, really is mine.

  “Showtime?” I ask on a sigh.

  “Checkered flag time, baby.” He smirks and presses one last, chaste kiss against my lips. I catch him by surprise as I cup the back of his neck and slip my tongue between his lips and just take. Take everything I’ve needed and wanted and been too afraid to ask for over the past few months. And although I catch him by surprise, he gives unflinchingly without questioning. I end the kiss and pull back a fraction to look into his eyes—telling him without words how much he just gave me. A smile ghosts his lips, that lone dimple I love deepening, and he just shakes his head at me, trying to figure out what that was all about.

  “Checkered flag time, baby.” I smile at him as I rise from the chair. He reaches behind him and tugs on a new T-shirt—an endorsement T-shirt—to wear beneath his fire suit now that the requisite lucky T-shirt has been worn for the superstitious allotted amount of time. I glance over at the clock and am struck by the nerves that start fluttering when I realize that there’s only a short time left before the cranking of the engines while he seems so calm and collected.

  “Don’t worry,” Colton says bringing me back to the here and now, not realizing that I had pressed a hand to the butterflies in my stomach. “They’ll hit me the minute we walk out of the RV.” He points to my stomach and then nods his head toward the door before shoving a hat on his head. His lucky hat. And I smile softly when I realize it’s the same hat that he wore on our date to the carnival.

  Mr.-I’m-So-Sure-Of-Myself wore his lucky hat on our first official date. As if my heart could swell any more.

  “You ready?” he asks as he walks a few steps and then turns and holds his hand out to me.

  “Hey, Ace?” Colton stops with the door ajar and looks back at me with curiosity. Time for me to show him just what’s waiting at the finish line. I’d found the skimpy pair of black and white checkered panties that have Revved and Raring embroidered across the butt at a little novelty store back at home. With the state of things between Colton and me, I’m not sure why I’d even brought them on the trip, but obviously with last night’s turn of events, I’m glad that I did. His eyes widen as I unzip my shorts and wiggle my hips, pushing them down so that he can see a hint of the lace and checkering on the fabric. “This is the only checkered flag you need, baby.”

  His smile widens and the open door is forgotten as he strides two steps back toward me and yanks my body against his. He stops a moment and stares at me, mouths a whisper apart and emotion brimming in our eyes before he crashes his lips to mine in a kiss of pure hunger and carnality. He breaks away just as suddenly as he starts it and looks at me with a smirk. “You can bet your ass that’s one checkered flag I’m definitely claiming.”

  I CAN FEEL IT.

  That complete certainty that hits you like a fucking freight train on very few days in your life. I have it today. I feel it today. It’s in the air circling around me as my head flickers here and there through what I need to do today when I hit the track and the rubber connects. Stay clear of Mason—the fucker’s got it out for me—like I knew he had his sights on that barfly last year. It’s not like he was waving a flag or anything staking his fucking claim. Bad blood is never good on the track. Never. Stay high and tight through turns two and three. Binders light. Pedal heavy. Bring it in low on one. I keep repeating my responsibilities in my head, over and over. My way of making sure that I don’t have to think down the chute. Just react.

  Today I’m taking the checkered flag, and not just those dick hardening panties that fucking Rylee has on. Sweet Christ, am I claiming that flag. But I can feel it. Everything feels right with the world, and shit, maybe I’m being a pussy but that right feeling started when I woke up with Rylee wrapped in my arms, head nuzzled under my neck, lips pressed to my skin, and heart beating against mine.

  Right where she’s supposed to be.

  I take a bite of another of my pre-race superstitions—a Snicker’s bar—and look up to search her out. She’s sitting quietly out of the way toward a corner, and her eyes lock with mine immediately. Her lips form that shy smile that turns me motherfucking inside out, and instead of the fear that usually snakes through my system, I feel settled. At ease. Can you say fucking pussy to the whip? But you know what? I’m okay with it because I’m pretty sure she’ll be gentle with me. Won’t crack it too hard. Well, unless I want her to.

  “Wood?” I turn and look at Beckett.

  Now Becks on the other hand is still going to hand my ass back to me in a hand basket once the stress of this race is over and he realizes it’s minutes before a race and I’m thinking about my fucking voodoo pussy. My fucking Rylee.

  I flash a quick smile at Ry before I turn to Becks. “Yup?” I say as I stand and begin the routine of zipping up my suit.

  Getting ready to race.

  Getting ready to do the one thing I have always loved.

  Getting ready to take that motherfucking checkered flag.

  THERE IS SO MUCH TO take in. So many sights and sounds to assault and overwhelm. Hand over my heart, I stand beside Colton as the national anthem is sung on the stage at our backs. Flags wave. The breeze blows. The crowd sings. And my nerves go into overdrive for the man beside me who has transformed into an intense, introspective man as he focuses on the task at hand.

  He reaches out a free hand and places it at the small of my back as the camera crew makes its way down the line of drivers standing on pit row with their crew and significant others at their sides. The fact that he’s trying to com
fort me in a moment strictly about him warms my insides. I’d tried telling him that I could sit in the pit box during the anthem—that it wasn’t a big deal to me—but he refused. “I’ve got you now, sweetheart, I’m not letting you out of my sight,” he’d said. Argument won. Hands down.

  Fireworks boom as the song comes to an end, and all of a sudden pit row is a flurry of activity. Crews going to work to try and make all of their hard preparation come to fruition for their driver. Men descend around Colton before I can wish him one last good luck. Ear buds are stuffed in and taped down. Velcro is fastened. Shoes are double checked to make sure nothing will interfere with the pedal. Gloves are pulled on and situated. Last minute directions are given. I allow myself to be led from the craziness and am helped over the wall by Davis.

  “Rylee!” In all of the complete, organized chaos, his voice rings out. Stops me. Starts me. Completes me.

  I turn around and face him in all of his suited up glory. His white balaclava is in one hand and helmet in the other. So achingly handsome. So damn sexy. And all mine.

  I look at him confused since we already had our moment of privacy in the motor home. Did I do something wrong? “Yeah?”

  His smile lights up. A solid figure standing still while everyone else moves in one big blur around him. His eyes hold mine, intense and clear. “I race you, Ryles,” he says in a voice that’s implacable and unwavering amidst the swirling chaos.

  My heart stops. Time stands still and it feels like we’re the only two people in the world. Just a damaged boy and a selfless girl. Our eyes lock and in that exchange, words that I can’t shout out in the chaos between us are said. That after the little he explained last night, I know how horribly difficult it is for him to utter those words. That I understand he’s telling me he’s still a broken child inside, but like my boys he’s giving me his heart and trusting that I will hold it with gentle, compassionate, and understanding hands.