Fueled (Driven, #2)(23)

Colton lets out a dissatisfied grunt. “We’re just having dinner at home,” I tell him, “but it’s a big deal because we haven’t seen each other.” Stop rambling, Rylee, or he’ll know you’re lying. “I can’t go back on my promise to her.”

Colton places a finger under my chin and lifts my head up to meet his green irises, studying me. “Well you’re not trying very hard then,” he admonishes despite humor alight in his eyes.

Confusion flits through me, unsure of what he’s talking about. “Trying hard at what?” I shake my head not understanding.

He smirks arrogantly at me. “At being what I want you to be.” The breath I exhale is audible as his eyes remain locked on mine. “Because if you were really trying,” he explains, finishing the game I’d started, “you’d be where I want you. Wet, warm, and beneath me tonight.”

I hold his stare while I try to think of what to say next. My body quivers at his words. It takes a few seconds for my brain to recover from his comment, and when it does, I take a step back from him. Distance is essential when dealing with him.

“Yeah, I guess you’re right.” I exhale, watching the surprise on his face from my admission. “Why would I want to be someone’s beck and call girl? Predictable is boring, Ace. And from what I hear, you seem to get bored real quick.”

When he just stands there and stares at me, a bewildered look on his face, I skirt around him. He reaches out and grabs on to my arm, turning me to face him. “Where are you going?” he demands.

“To see my brother,” I tell him, looking over at his hand and then back at him. “Let me know when you get your shit together.” I shrug from his grip and yank the door open to the kitchen without looking back. All I hear before the door shuts is Colton laughing and swearing at the same time.





Fucking temperamental women!

My lungs burn. My muscles ache. My feet pound into the treadmill belt as if I’m trying to punish it. It doesn’t matter. No matter how hard I push, my head is still f*cked up. Rylee’s still mucking up my thoughts. Constantly.

What the f*ck is wrong with me? I asked for the goddamn pit stop. Took my shot at putting it back on more familiar footing. So why am I the one that feels like she’s left me behind?

Fucking women. Complicated. Temperamental. Necessary. Fuck me.

The music pounds in my earbuds. The driving beat of Good Charlotte pushes me harder, but the pressure in my chest doesn’t dissipate. I count my footsteps when I run. Only to ninety-nine and then I start over again. I swear to God I’ve restarted the count a hundred f*cking times so far and nothing has helped.

I’ve never played f*cking games with women before, and I have no intention of starting now. I say when. I say whom. I give the terms.

I take what I want. When I want it.

And any and all of my previous bedside companions abide by my parameters without so much as a f*cking flinch. No questions asked except for “Baby, how do you want me tonight? Knees or back? Cuffs or restraints? Mouth or *?”

All except for Rylee.

Fucking frustrating. First, I almost go to blows with her brother today, and then she walks away refusing to see me tonight. I know she wants me. It’s written all over her ridiculously hot body. It’s reflected in those magnificent eyes that draw you in and swallow you whole. And f*ck me, if I don’t want her every minute of every hour. But what the f*ck? She walked away, left me there, and didn’t even hesitate at saying no about tonight.

No? Are you f*cking kidding me? When is the last time I heard that? Oh yeah. Right. From Rylee. Shit. Now all I can think about is her. Seeing her. Hearing her. Burying myself in her until she sighs that little sound right before she’s about to come. It’s so goddamn sexy it’s ridiculous.

I am not *-whipped. No way. No how. Not even close.

So why not call somebody else for a quick, uncomplicated f*ck then? Why does the thought not even sound appealing? You’re losing it, Donavan. I must’ve dipped my wick in the pool of crazies one too many times, and now it’s f*cking up my head.

I shove a finger at the screen and bump up the incline, forcing myself into ignoring my own damn thoughts. The song switches to Desperate Measures but the sarcasm in the lyrics I usually love does nothing for me.

Goddamnit! Nothing works. Music. Incline. Speed. Fuck! I keep seeing her in the bathtub, fingers firm on my balls, eyes heated with intensity, lips telling me how exactly she deserves to be treated. What she won’t put up with from me again.

That’s a first. Someone setting parameters for me. Has hell frozen over and no one told me? She had my balls in a f*cking vice, and all I could think of was how much I wanted her. In my bed. In my office. At the track. In my life.

And not just on her back.

She must have a voodoo * or something. Reeling me up and snagging me in her hooks without realizing it. I’m just f*cking horny. That’s gotta be why my head’s all f*cked up. A week’s a long time for me to go without sex. Shit! I can’t remember the last time I’ve had a dry spell like this.

So why’d you pit stop her then the other day, dumbass? She’d have been beneath you tonight if you hadn’t. Why’d you open your mouth?

I groan in frustration at my stupidity. At my need for release that this stupid-ass treadmill is definitely not helping with.