Driven

by K. Bromberg

  Copyright

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Copyright © 2013 K. Bromberg

  To B, B & C-

  May you always follow your dreams.

  The path will never be easy and you might have to chase them for years.

  There will be obstacles to overcome and criticisms to ignore.

  There will be periods of doubt and moments of insecurity.

  But you will reach them.

  And when you finally touch those dreams,

  No matter how old you are or where life has taken you,

  Hold on tight—savor that feeling of accomplishment—and never let go.

  Ever.

  CHAPTER 1

  I sigh into the welcoming silence, grateful for the chance to escape, even if only momentarily, from the mindsuck of meaningless conversations on the other side of the door. For all intents and purposes, the people holding these conversations are technically my guests, but that doesn’t mean I have to like or even be comfortable around them. Fortunately, Dane was sympathetic enough to my need for a reprieve that he let me do this simple chore for him.

  The clicking of my high heels is the only other sound coexisting with my categorically scattered thoughts as I navigate the vacant backstage corridors of the old theater that I’ve rented for tonight’s event. I quickly reach the old dressing room and collect the lists that Dane had set down and forgotten in our chaotic, pre-party rush to clean up. As I start to head back toward the festivities, I run over my mental checklist of things left to do before the start of tonight’s highly anticipated date auction. The niggling in the back of my mind tells me that I’m forgetting something. I reflexively reach for my hip where my cell phone with my always-compiled task list habitually rests, but instead, I come up with a handful of the copper-colored silk organza of my cocktail dress.

  “Shit,” I mutter to myself as I stop momentarily to try and pinpoint what exactly it is that I’m overlooking. I sag against the wall, the ruched bodice of my dress hindering my need to inhale deeply a sigh of frustration. Even though it looks incredible on, the damn dress should’ve come with a tag warning, ‘breathing optional.’

  Think, Rylee, think! With my shoulder blades pressed against the wall, I shift inelegantly back and forth to try and alleviate the pressure on my toes, which are painfully crammed into my four-inch heels.

  Auction paddles! I need the auction paddles. I smile widely at my brain’s ability to remember, considering I’ve been so overwhelmed lately with all of the various details as the sole coordinator of tonight’s event. Relieved, I push myself off of the wall and take about ten steps.

  And that’s when I hear them.

  The flirty, feminine giggle floats through the air, followed by the deep timber of a masculine moan. I freeze instantly, shocked at the audacity of our party’s attendees, when I hear the unmistakable sound of a zipper followed by a breathless but familiar feminine gasp of, “Oh yes!” in the darkened alcove a few feet in front of me. As my eyes adjust to the shadows, I become aware of a man’s black dinner jacket lying carelessly across an old chair shoved askew and a pair of strappy heels haphazardly discarded on the floor beneath it.

  Mortification fills me. At the thought of them finding out I’m here. For them in being overheard. At my curiosity in who is actually brave enough to do something like this. At how never in a million years would that be me there in that alcove. You couldn’t pay me enough money to do something like that in public. My thoughts are interrupted when I hear a hiss of breath followed by a masculine, exhaled, “Sweet Jesus!”

  I squeeze my eyes shut in a moment of indecision. I really need the auction paddles that sit in the storage closet at the end of the intersecting hallway. Unfortunately the only way to reach that hallway is to walk past the alcove currently being used as Lover’s Lane. I have no choice but to go for it. I send up a silent yet ludicrous prayer, hoping that I can skate unnoticed past their moment of blatant indiscretion.

  I scurry forward, keeping my blush-stained face angled to the wall opposite them while I walk on my toes to keep my heels from clicking on the hardwood floor. The last thing I need right now is to draw attention to myself and come face to face with someone I know. I breathe a silent sigh of relief when my clandestine tiptoe is successful, allowing me to make it unscathed to my destination.

  I’m still trying to place the woman’s voice when I reach the storage closet. I fumble clumsily with the handle, having to aggressively tug on it before finally yanking it open and flicking on the light. I spot the bag of auction paddles on the far shelf as I walk inside the closet, forgetting in my flustered state to prop the door open. As I grab the handles of the bag, the door at my back slams shut with such force that the cheap shelving units in the closet rattle. Startled at the sound, I whip around to reopen the door and notice that the arm on the self-closing hinge has disconnected.

  I immediately drop the bag. The sound of the paddles hitting the concrete floor and spilling out is a cacophony of clatter in the small space. When I reach for the handle, it turns but the door doesn’t budge an inch. Panic licks at my subconscious, but I suppress it as I push again on the door with all of my strength. It does not move. “Shit!” I chastise myself. “Shit, shit, shit!” I mutter loudly before taking a deep breath, shaking my head in frustration. I have so much to do before the auction starts. I don’t have time for this. And of course I don’t have my cell phone to call Dane to get me out of here either.

  It’s when I close my eyes in disbelief at yet another ridiculous situation I find myself in that my nemesis makes its move. The long, all-consuming fingers of claustrophobia slowly begin to claw their way up my body and wrap themselves around my throat.

  Squeezing. Tormenting. Stifling.

  The walls of the small room seem to be gradually sliding closer to each other, closing in on me. Surrounding me. Suffocating me. I struggle to breathe.

  My heart beats erratically as I push back the panic rising in my throat. My breath—shallow and rapid—echoes in my ears. Consuming me. Sapping my ability to suppress my haunted memories.

  I pound on the door, fear overwhelming the small hold I have left on my control. On reality. A rivulet of sweat trickles down my back. The walls keep moving in on me. The need to escape is the only thing my mind can focus on. I pound on the door again, yelling frantically. Hoping someone roaming these back corridors can hear me.

  I lean my back against the wall, close my eyes, and try to catch my breath—it’s not coming quickly enough and dizziness surfaces. Becoming nauseous, I start to slide down the wall and accidentally hit the light switch. I’m submerged in pitch-black darkness. I cry out, frantically searching for the switch with my trembling hands. I flick it on, relieved to have pushed the monsters back into hiding.

  But when I look down, blood covers my hands. I blink to try and snap out of my reverie, but I can’t shake it. I’m in a different place. A different time.

  All around me, I smell the acrid stench of destruction. Of desperation. Of death.

  In my ears, his thready breathing is agonizing. He is gasping. Dying.

  I feel the intense, blazing pain that twists so deep in your soul, you fear you’ll never escape it. Even in death. It’s my own screams I hear that shake me out of my reverie, and I’m so disoriented that I’m not sure if they’re from the past or the present.

  Get a grip, Rylee! I rub the tears off my cheeks with the backs of my hands and resort to my previous year in therapy to try to keep my claustrophobia at bay. I concentrate on a mark on the wall across from me, try to regulate my breathing, and slowly count. I focus
on pushing the walls out. Pushing the unbearable memories away.

  I count to ten, gaining a scrap of composure, yet desperation still clings. I know Dane will come looking for me shortly. He knows where I went, but the thought does nothing to alleviate my surmounting panic.

  Finally I surrender to my primal need to escape and start pounding on the door with the heels of my hands. Shouting loudly. Cursing sporadically. Begging for someone to hear me and open the door. For someone to save me again.

  In my ragged state of mind, seconds feel like minutes and minutes feel like hours. The passage of time is unknown to me, but I feel like I’ve been locked in this ever-shrinking closet forever. Endlessly shouting for help. Feeling defeated, I yell again and rest my forearms on the door in front of me. Bracing my weight on my forearms, I lay my head on them and succumb to my tears. Large, ragged sobs shake violently through me.

  And suddenly, I have the feeling of falling.

  Falling forward as I stumble into the solid length of man in my path. My arms wrap around a firm torso while my legs lie awkwardly bent behind me. The man instinctively brings his arms up and wraps them around me, catching me, holding my weight and absorbing my impact.

  I look up, quickly registering the shock of dark hair spiked haphazardly, bronzed skin, the slight shadow of stubble … and then I meet his eyes. A jolt of electricity—an almost palpable energy—crackles when I meet those guarded, translucent green irises. Surprise flashes through them fleetingly, but the intrigue and intensity with which he regards me is unnerving, despite my body’s immediate reaction to him. Needs and desires long forgotten inundate me with this one, simple meeting of eyes.

  How can this man I’ve never met make me forget the panic and desperation I felt only moments before?

  I make the mistake of breaking eye contact and glancing down at his mouth. Full, sculpted lips purse as he regards me intently, and then very slowly, they spread into a lopsided, roguish grin.

  Oh, how I want that mouth on me—anywhere and everywhere all at once. What in the hell am I thinking? This man is way out of my league. Like light years away out of my league.

  I draw my gaze back up to see amusement brimming in his eyes as if he knows my thoughts. I can feel a flush slowly spread over my face as embarrassment for both my predicament and my salacious thoughts registers in my brain. I tighten my grip around muscular biceps as I lower my gaze to avoid his obvious assessment and try to regain my composure. Bringing my feet back under me, I accidentally stumble further into him, my balance compromised by my inexperience with such sky-high heels. I jump back from him as my breasts brush against his firm chest, setting my nerve endings ablaze. Tiny detonations of desire tickle deep in my belly.

  “Oh … um … I’m so sorry.” I hold my hands up in a flustered apology. From a step back, the man is even more disarming now that I’m able to drink in the whole length of him. Imperfectly perfect and sexy as hell with a smirk suggesting arrogance and an air exuding trouble.

  He raises an eyebrow, noticing my slow perusal of him. “No apologies needed,” he responds in a cultured rasp of a voice with just a hint of edge. A voice evoking images of both rebellion and sex in the same breath. “I’m used to women falling at my feet.”

  My head snaps up at the conceit in his comment. I can only hope he’s joking, but his enigmatic expression gives nothing away. He watches my response, bemusement in his eyes, and that cocksure smile widening, causing a single dimple to deepen in his defined jaw.

  Despite having taken a step back, I am still close to him. Too close for me to gather my wits, but close enough for me to feel his breath feathering over my cheek. To smell the clean scent of soap mixed with his subtle, earthy cologne.

  “Thanks. Thank you,” I respond breathlessly. I see the muscle in his clenched jaw pulse as he regards me. Why is this man making me nervous and feeling like I have to justify my situation? “The-the door shut behind me. It jammed. I panicked—”

  “Are you okay? Miss—?”

  My response falters as his hand cups the back of my neck, pulling me closer and yet holding me still. He runs his free hand up and down my bare arm in what I assume is an attempt to make sure that I’m not physically harmed. My body registers the trail of sparks his fingertips blaze on my naked flesh while my mind becomes acutely aware that his sensuous mouth is only a whisper away from mine. My lips part and my breath hitches as he moves his hand up the line of my neck and then uses the back of it to run his knuckles softly down my cheek.

  I have no time to register the confusion mingled with a heavy dose of desire that surges through me when I hear him mutter, “Oh fuck it,” seconds before his mouth is on mine. I gasp in utter shock, my lips parting a fraction as his mouth absorbs the sound, giving him an opening to caress his tongue over my lips and dart slowly between them.

  I push my hands against his chest, trying to resist the uninvited kiss from this complete stranger. Trying to do what logic tells me is right. Trying to deny what my body is telling me it really wants. To suppress the need to take as he is taking. To abandon inhibition and let myself enjoy this one, random moment with him.

  Common sense wins my internal feud between lust and prudence, and I manage to push him back a fraction. His mouth breaks from mine, our breaths panting over each other’s faces. His eyes, wild with lust, hold steady to mine. I find it hard to ignore the seed of desire that’s blooming deep in my belly. The vehement protest that’s screaming in my mind dies silently on my lips as I succumb to the notion that I want this kiss. I want to feel what I have been so devoid of—what I have purposely denied myself. I want to allow myself this one moment in time where I act recklessly and have “that kiss”—the one that books are written about, love is found in, and virtue is lost with. For deep down in the depths of my soul, I know this kiss will be that for me.

  “Decide, sweetheart,” he commands. “A man only has so much restraint.”

  His warning, the insane notion that simple me can make a man like him lose control, bewilders me, confusing my thoughts so that the denial on my tongue never crosses my lips. He takes advantage of my silence, a lascivious smile curling the corners of his mouth before tightening the hold he has on the nape of my neck. From one breath to the next, he crushes his mouth to mine. Probing. Tasting. Demanding.

  My resistance is futile and lasts only seconds before I surrender to him. I instinctively move my hands over the rasp of his unshaven jaw to the back of his neck and tug my fingers in the hair that curls over the top of his collar. A low moan comes from the back of his throat, bolstering my confidence, allowing me to part my lips and take more of him. My tongue entwines and dances intimately with his. A slow, seductive ballet highlighted with breathy moans and panted whimpers.

  He tastes of whiskey. His confidence exudes rebellion. His body evokes a straight punch of lust to my sex. A heady combination hinting he’s a bad boy that this good girl should stay clear of. His urgency and adept skill hint at what could come. Images flash through my mind of back-arching, toe-pointing, sheet-gripping sex that no doubt would be as dominating as his kiss.

  Despite my submission, I know this is wrong. I can hear my conscious telling me to stop. That I don’t do these kinds of things. That I’m not that kind of girl. That I’m betraying Max with each continuing caress.

  But God, it feels so incredibly good. I bury all rationality under the surmounting desire that rages through my every nerve. My every breath.

  His fingers stroke the back of my neck while his other travels down to my hip, igniting sparks with every touch. He splays his hand on my lower back and presses me into him. Laying claim to me. I can feel his erection thickening against my midsection, sending an electric charge to my groin. Making me damp with need and desire. His leg slightly shifts and presses between mine, pressuring the apex of my thighs and creating an intense ache of pleasure. I push further into him, softly mewling as I crave for more.

  I am drowning in the sensation of him, and yet I’m not willing
to come up for the air I so desperately need.

  He nips my lower lip as his hand moves down to knead my backside, pleasure spiraling through me. My nails scrape the back of his neck in reaction as I stake my claim.

  “Christ, I want you right now,” his husky voice pants between kisses, intensifying the ache in the muscles coiling below my waist. He moves the hand from the back of my neck and traces it down my ribcage and over until it cups my breast. I cry out a soft moan at the sensation of his fingers rubbing over my hardened peak through the soft material of my dress.

  My body is ready to consent to his request because I want this man too. I want to feel his weight on me, his bare skin sliding on mine, and his length moving rhythmically in me.

  Our entangled bodies bump up against the small alcove in the hallway. He presses me against the wall, our bodies franticly grabbing, groping, and tasting. He skims his hand down to the hem of my cocktail dress, finding purchase when he touches the lace tops of my thigh-high stockings.

  “Sweet Jesus,” he murmurs against my mouth as he runs his hand at a painstakingly slow pace up my outer thigh to the small triangle of lace that serves more as a decoration than as panties.

  What? Those words. When they finally register, I recoil as if whiplashed and push on his chest trying to shove him away from me. Those are the same words that I’d heard earlier in the darkened alcove. They hit me like cold water to my libido. What the hell? And what in the hell am I doing anyway, making out with some random guy in the first place? And more importantly, why pick now to do this while I’m in the midst of one of my most important events of the year?

  “No. No—I can’t do this.” Staggering back, I bring a trembling hand up to my mouth to cover my lips swollen from his. His eyes snap up to mine, the emerald color darkened by desire. Anger flashes through them fleetingly.

  “It’s a little late, sweetheart. It looks as if you already have.”