Crashed (Driven, #3)(24)

“That’s just it,” he sighs. “I remember bits and pieces. Nothing flows though, except you were there in most of them. Can you tell me what happened? How the day went so I can try to fill in what’s missing?”

“Mmm-hmm.” I nod my head gently, smiling at the memory of how our morning started.

“I remember waking up to the best sight ever—you naked, on top of me.” He sighs in appreciation that causes parts within me that have been ignored over the past week to stir to life. I don’t even fight the smile that spreads across my lips when I feel his growing arousal beneath the sheet next to me. Glad I’m not the only one affected by the memory.

“Becks came in without knocking and I was pissed at him for that. He left and I do believe your jeans were on the floor and your back was up against the wall in a matter of seconds after the door was shut.” We fall silent for a moment, that undeniable charge crackling between us. “Sweet Christ what I wouldn’t give to be doing that right now.”

I start laughing and this time when I shift myself to sit up and look at him, he allows me. I turn to face him and can’t help the chills that blanket my skin when I lock eyes with his. “Now I don’t think Dr. Irons would approve of that,” I tease, silently sighing with relief that we feel like we are right back where we left off before the accident. Playful, needing, and each other’s complement. I can’t stop my hand from reaching out and lingering on his cheek. I hate the thought of not being in contact with him.

“Well,” he says, “I’ll make sure that’s the first thing I ask Dr. Irons when I see him.”

“The first thing?” I ask and swallow around my heart that’s just somersaulted into my throat when he turns his face and presses a kiss into the palm of my hand. The simple action knotting the bow on the ribbon already tied around my heart.

“A man has to have his priorities.” He smirks. “If one head’s f*cked up, at least the other one can be used to its maximum potential.” He starts to laugh and winces, bringing his left hand up to hold his head.

Alarm shoots through me and I immediately reach out to push the call button, but his hand reaches out and stops me. And it takes a second for me to register that it’s his right hand he’s just used. I think Colton realizes it at the same time.

He works a swallow down his throat, his eyes shifting to watch his hand as he releases my arm. I follow his gaze to see his fingers tremor violently as he unsuccessfully tries to make a fist. I notice a sheen of sweat appear on his forehead below the bandage as he wills his fingers to tighten. When I can’t bear to watch him struggle any more, I reach out and grab his hand in mine and start massaging it, willing it to move myself.

“It’s a start,” I reassure him. “Baby steps, okay?” All I want to do is wrap him in my arms and take away all of his pain and frustration, but he seems so fragile that I fear touching him, despite how much it would lessen the lingering unease that tiptoes in my head. My usual optimism has been put through the ringer these past few weeks, and I just can’t seem to shake the feeling that this isn’t the worst of it. That something else is lurking on the horizon waiting to knock us down again.

“What else do you remember?” I prompt, wanting to get his mind off of his hand.

He gives me his recollections of the day, little pieces are missing here and there. The details aren’t too major but I do notice that the closer he gets to the start of the race, the bigger the voids are. And each piece of the puzzle seems to get harder and harder to recall, as if he has to grab each memory and physically pull it from its vault.

Giving him a moment to rest, I return from the in-suite bathroom to put away the mouthwash he’d requested. I find Colton looking out the window, shaking his head at the media circus below. “I remember being in the trailer. The knock on the door.” His eyes angle over to me, salacious thoughts dancing within his glints of green as I return to my seat on the bed beside him. “A certain checkered flag I never got to claim.” He purses his lips and just stares at me.

And resistance is futile.

It always is when it comes to my willpower and Colton.

I lean in, doing what I’ve wanted to do desperately. Giving into the need to feel that connection with him—to feed my one and only addiction—and brush my lips against his. I know it’s ridiculous that I’m nervous about hurting him. That somehow the lascivious thoughts behind our innocent brush of our lips are going to cause pain to his healing head.

But the minute our lips touch—the minute the soft sigh escapes his mouth and weaves its way into my soul—I find it hard to think clearly. I withdraw a fraction, needing to make sure he’s okay when all I want to do is devour the apple tempting me.

But I don’t have to because Colton hands it to me on a silver platter when he brings his left hand to the nape of my neck and draws my mouth back down to his again. Lips part, tongues meld, and recognition renews as we sink into each other in a reverent kiss. We’re in no hurry to do anything other than enjoy our irrefutable connection. The annoying beep of the monitors is overtaken by the soft sighs and satisfied murmurs signaling the affection between us.

I am so lost in him, to him—when I feared I might never taste him again—all I can think about now is how will I ever get enough of him?

I feel the tightening of his lips as he grimaces in pain and guilt immediately lances through me. I’m pushing him too hard, too fast to soothe my own selfish need for reassurance. I try to pull away but his hand holds my head firm as he rests his forehead against mine, noses touching, breaths feathering over each other’s lips.