Fueled (Driven, #2)(114)

“Then let me remind you,” he growls, and in my surprised state, I barely register his words, but they seep into my fuzzy conscience the moment before his lips claim mine. It’s amazing that regardless of how long it’s been—how hurt I am—when we connect, I feel like I’m home. A home currently set ablaze, but a home nonetheless. His mouth fervently possesses mine, and his hands map over every inch of my exposed flesh. Kneading. Stimulating. Possessing. I get lost in his taste; his touch; the low groan emanating in the back of his throat; the hard length of his body pressing into mine as one hand wraps around the waterfall of curls down my back and holds me captive to his mind-altering onslaught.

It takes a moment for my mind to work through the chaos and the bang of arousal he’s just created between my thighs. I struggle out of the desire-induced haze that renders my body boneless. Shit! Shit! Shit!

“No!” It’s a broken, strangled cry but a cry nonetheless. I push forcibly on his chest, tearing his mouth from mine. “I can’t. I just can’t! This doesn’t fix anything!”

I stand there staring at him with our chests heaving and pulses racing—a sure sign that our chemistry still remains—and his more than addictive taste still on my lips. His hands are wrapped around my wrists, holding my hands against his damp and alluring chest. “Rylee…”

“No!” I try again to push against his chest, but my strength is no match for his. “You don’t get to just take what you want, when you want it.”

“My God, woman, you are driving me insane!” he mutters into the air.

“Why? Because you got caught?”

“You have to do something wrong to get caught!” he shouts, releasing my wrists and pushing away from me, his face a mix of exasperation, frustration, and unsatisfied desire. “Nothing! Fucking! Happened!” His voice bellows around the empty room and echoes in the emptiness of my hurting heart.

“Tigers can’t change their stripes, Ace.”

“You and your f*ckin’ tigers and ducks,” he mutters before turning his back and walking farther into my room and away from me.

“Don’t forget jackasses!” I shout.

“Goddamn frustrating, pig-headed woman!” he says to himself before turning back around.

The man is infuriating, thinking he can just waltz in here and kiss me senseless so that I forget everything else. “C’mon, since when does the infamous ladies’ man, Colton Donavan, resist a half-naked woman?” I sneer, taking a step toward him, infusing sarcasm in my next comment. “And to think you were even generous enough to offer her the shirt off your back.” I snort. “With a track record like yours, I'm sure you offered what was in your pants as well. Oh, I’m sorry—we know you did because you made sure it was jacketed up. Nothing happened? Just a kiss? And I’m supposed to believe that?”

“Yes!” he shouts loud enough to make me wince. “Just like I was supposed to believe your excuse at Shane’s party. It was bullshit and you know it.”

“Don’t you dare turn this on me!” I yell at him.

“You really believe that we were just sex?” He grates out, jaw clenched, voice challenging.

“Oh, were we something more?” Sarcasm drips from my words.

“Yes goddamnit!” He pounds his fist against the wall, “and you know it!”

I take a step toward him, anger overriding any intimidation I normally would have felt. “Well by you acknowledging it, it just makes what you did even worse?”

“What did I do, Rylee? Tell me exactly what I did!” He shouts at me, stepping well within the realm of personal space.

“Now you want to rub it in? You want to shove my face in it by making me say it out loud? Fuck you, Colton,” I shout at him, anger starting to snake through my body and permeate through the hurt.

“No. I want to hear you say it. I want you to look in my eyes and see my reaction for yourself. What did I do?” he commands, giving my shoulders a slight shake. “Say it!”

And I refuse to. I refuse to watch the little smirk that I know will play at the corners of his mouth if I obey him so instead I say the only thing that comes to mind. “Quack!”

“Now you’re just acting like a child!” Exasperated, he releases me and shoves his hand through his hair before taking a few steps from me to control his temper.

“A child?” I sputter, shock radiating through me. Talk about the pot calling the kettle black. “A f*cking child? Look who’s talking!”

“You,” he says with a sneer and an arch of an eyebrow, “the child throwing the goddamn tantrum. The one so wrapped up in your own head, that you don’t realize your little fit is for all of the wrong f*cking reasons.”

I stare at him for a moment, our eyes locked on one another’s and I realize that we’re tearing each other apart and for what? We obviously can’t get past this. Me accusing. Him denying. “This is such a waste of time,” I say quietly, a single tear slipping down my cheek and resignation in my voice.

He takes another step toward me, and I just shake my head at him, unable to let go the tumultuous emotions inside of me. How can I love this beautiful man before me and despise him at the same time? How can I crave and desire him, all the while wanting to throttle him? I sag against the wall as I try to process everything that I was afraid of happening transpire.