Crashed (Driven, #3)(35)

A sexy as hell groan comes from the back of his throat that doesn’t help stem the ache I have burning for him. I reach my free hand out and run it up the plane of his chest, loving the vibration humming beneath my fingers as a result of my touch. Chills prickle my skin and it’s not from the ocean breeze but rather the tidal wave of sensations my body misses desperately.

“Fuck, I’m dying to be in you, Ry,” he whispers against my lips as every nerve in my body stands at attention and begs to be taken, branded, and remade his all over again. And I am so close to saying f*ck the doctor’s orders that my hand is sliding down his torso to slip beneath his waistband, when I feel his body tense and his breath hiss out.

I’m immediately swamped with guilt over my lack of willpower to take the temptation so readily at my fingertips and I switch to high alert. “A bad one?”

The grimace on Colton’s face remains, eyes squeezed shut, as he just nods his head softly and shifts backward in the chair until he’s reclined. I reach for the medicine and put them in his hands.

I guess I’m not the only medicine he needs after all.





I wander the halls of the Malibu house—worry over Colton, homesickness for the boys, and missing Haddie all robbing me of sleep. This has been the longest I’ve been away from any of them, and as much as I love Colton, I’m needing that connection with my life.


I need their energy that always lifts my soul and feeds my spirit. I’ve missed Zander’s deposition, Ricky’s first home run, Aiden being called into the principal’s office for stopping a fight rather than starting one … I feel like a bad mother neglecting her children.

Not finding solace, I climb the stairs for the umpteenth time to check on him. To make sure he’s still knocked out from the cocktail of medications Dr. Irons prescribed on the phone earlier when Colton’s headache would not let up.

I’m still worried. I think I subconsciously fear falling asleep because I might miss something he needs.

Then I think of Colton’s revelations earlier before the headache hit, and I can’t help the smile that softens my face. The knowledge that he was trying to push me away to protect me may have been misguided, but perfect nonetheless.

There is most definitely hope for us yet.

I walk toward the bed, Halestorm playing softly on the stereo overhead, and can’t help the breath I hold as I sit down on the bed beside him. He’s lying on his stomach, his arms buried beneath the pillow and his face angled to the side of the bed facing me. The light blue sheets have fallen down below his waist, and my eyes trace the sculpted lines of his back, my fingers itching to touch the heated warmth of his skin. My eyes roam over the scar on his head and note that the patch of hair is starting to grow in with stubble. In no time at all no one will even know the trauma beneath his hair.

But I’ll know. And I’ll remember. And I’ll fear.

I shake my head and squeeze my eyes shut, needing to get control of my rampant stampede of emotions. I notice his discarded shirt on the bed beside him and can’t help picking it up and burying my nose in it, drinking in his smell, needing the mapped connection in my mind to lessen the worry that’s now a constant. It’s not enough though, so I crawl into bed beside him. I lean forward, careful not to disturb him, and press my lips to the spot just between his shoulder blades.

I inhale his scent, feel the warmth of his heated flesh beneath my lips, and thank God that I get this moment again with him. A second chance. I sit like this for a moment, silent thank yous running through my mind when Colton whimpers.

“Please no,” he says, the juvenile tone in the masculine timbre is haunting, unnerving, devastating. “Please, Mommy, I’ll be good. Just don’t let him hurt me.”

He thrashes his head in protest, body tensing, arms bracing as the sounds he’s making become more adamant, more upsetting. I try to wake him, take his shoulders and shake him.

“Please, Mommy. Pleeeaaassseeee,” he whimpers in a pleading voice wavering with terror. My heart lodges in my throat and tears spring to my eyes at that eerie combination of little boy within the grown man.

“Wake up, Colton!” I shove his shoulder back and forth again as he becomes more animated, but the strength of the prescriptions that Dr. Irons had me give him are too strong to pull him from the nightmare. “C’mon, wake up,” I say again as his body starts rocking, the all too familiar chant falling from his lips.

I hiccup a sob as he shifts again, voice silenced and rolls onto his back. He shifts a couple more times and I’m relieved that his nightmare seems to have left him. He still seems uneasy though, so I crawl up beside him and lay my head on his chest, leg hooked over his, and rest my hand on his frantically beating heart. And I do the one thing I can in hopes of soothing him, I sing.

I sing of little boys and imaginary dragons. Of believing in something unbelievable. Of forgetting and moving on.

“My dad used to sing that to me when I had nightmares.”

His rasp of a voice scares the crap out of me. I didn’t even know he had woken up. He places an arm around me and pulls me in closer to him. “I know,” I whisper into the moonlit room, “and you were.”

Silence hangs between us as he blows out a soft breath. I can tell his dreams are still on his mind, so I grant him the silence to work through them. He presses a kiss onto the top of my head and keeps his mouth there.