Fueled (Driven, #2)(77)
That day in the conference room when I trapped her into my little deal, I could see the trepidation and the knowledge that I’d hurt her in those f*cking bedroom eyes, and as much as she knew it, she agreed for the sake of the boys, regardless of the damage it’d cause to her personally. And of course I’m a f*cking bastard for wondering the whole time how sweet her * would taste. I mean if her kiss was that f*cking addictive, then I couldn’t even imagine how the rest of her body would drug me. She’s sacrificing herself for her boys, and there I was thinking of my end game.
And that in itself f*cked me up, forced me to keep my guard up. I knew she was going to let me have her, but had no f*cking clue that first time together—when she looked at me with such a definitive clarity afterward—that she’d be able to look right into my goddamn soul. It freaked me the f*ck out, stirred things within me I never wanted churned up again. Things I had accepted living a lifetime without. No one knows the things I did—the things I allowed to be done to me. The poison living inside. How I loved and hated and did unimaginable things for reasons I didn’t understand at the time and still don’t understand now.
And I fear every minute of every f*cking day that she’ll figure it out, learn about the truths inside of me and then leave me so much worse off than she found me. She’s unlocked things in me I’d never intended to allow to see the light of day again. She pushes the concept of vulnerability to a whole new level.
But I can’t push her away. I can’t stop wanting to for her sake. But every time I try—every time I crack and she sees a glimpse of my demons—I’m scared shitless. God, I try to make her leave—even if it’s only in my f*cked up head—but I’m never successful. And I’m just not sure if it’s because she’s stubborn or because it’s a half-assed attempt on my part just so I can tell myself I actually tried.
I know what’s best for her is not me. Shit, last night…last night was…f*ck. I handed myself to her. Told her I’d try when every part of me screamed in protest from the fear of being ripped to shreds by allowing myself to feel. I’ve always used pleasure to bury the pain. Not emotions. Not commitment. Pleasure. How else can I prove to myself that I’m not that kid I was forced to be? It’s the only way I know. The only way I can cope. Fuck the therapists who had no clue what happened to me. My parents wasted so much f*cking money on people telling me how to overcome the issues they thought I had. That I could use hypnosis to regress and overcome. Fuck that. Give me a tight, wet, willing * to bury myself in momentarily and that’s all the proof I need.
Pleasure to bury the pain. So what do I do now? How do I cope with the one person that I fear can give me both? And she does, yet I still hurt her last night. I have a feeling I always will in some way or another. At some point she’s just going to stop forgiving or coming back. Then what, Donavan? What the f*ck are you going to do then? If I’m broken now, I’ll be f*cking shattered then.
I stare at her sleeping, so innocent and mine and f*ck all why I can’t stay away from her. I’m scared shitless and she f*cking did this to me. She f*cking grabbed ahold, forced me to listen to the silent words she spoke, and really hear them. Now what the f*ck am I supposed to do?
My God the way she looked at me last night with eyes filled with naivety and jaw set with obstinance, asking me if she was enough for me. First of all—f*cking Tawny—and then secondly, enough? I’m the one that’s not enough. Not hardly. I’m f*cking drowning in her, and I’m not even sure I want to come up for air. Enough? I shake my head at the irony. She stays despite, if not because of the darkness deep in my soul. A saint I’m not worthy of, shouldn’t taint.
She makes a soft noise in her throat and rolls onto her back. The sheet slips down off of her chest exposing her perfect f*cking tits. Fuck me. My dick starts stirring to life at the sight. It’s been what, like three hours since the last time I was buried in her, and I’m already f*cking ready to have her again. Addictive voodoo *. I swear to God.
She whimpers again and rocks her head back and forth on the pillow. I hear Baxter’s tail thump at the sound and the possibility that someone might be up already. My eyes trail over her lips and back to her tits. I groan at the sight of her pink nipples pebbling from the morning chill. I really should cover her back up, but f*ck me, the view’s pretty f*cking fantastic, and I don’t want to ruin it just yet.
Her shriek scares the shit out of me. It’s a piercing keening that causes my chest to tighten. She cries out again and it’s a tortured sound followed by her throwing her arms up to block her face. I sit up and try to gather her against me, but she bucks back.
“Rylee. Wake up!” I say, shaking her shoulders a couple of times. She finally wakes with a start and struggles out of my grip to bolt up in the bed. The sound of her gasping for breath makes me want to fold her into my arms and take the fear and pain that’s rolling off of her in waves away from her. I do the only thing I can think of and run my hand up and down the bare skin of her back—the only comfort I can offer. “You okay?”
She just nods her head and looks over at me. And in that one glance I’m paralyzed. Fucking paralyzed. As a guy you’re supposed to have that instinct to protect and care for. You always hear about how that’s your job. It’s ingrained. What-the-f*ck-ever. Besides the few times when Q had some bullies at school f*ck with her, I’ve never remotely felt that way. Never.