Fueled (Driven, #2)(134)

I look over at her as she shoves her arms through her T-shirt and I shake my head. What a f*cking 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 the f*ck if Ry wasn’t dressed yet? Or even worse, laid out beneath me naked and moaning. So not f*cking cool. It’s not like Becks and I haven’t been drunk and f*cking women in the same room before—but f*ck—this is Rylee we’re talking about here. My spark.

“How the f*ck did you get in here?” I ask and he knows I’m pissed at the intrusion. And of course being f*cking 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 f*cking 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 f*cking 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 f*ck 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 f*cking 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 f*cking 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 f*cking 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 f*cking 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. Fuck 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 f*cking heart does too. It jolts, trips, falls, tumbles, freefalls—no that’s not it—it crashes into that foreign f*cking 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. The scent of her perfume. The quiet moan she sighs into me.

The claiming of my heart.

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