Fueled

For the first time in a month, the riot in my head is quiet as I sleep. Nightmares are non-existent. The events of last night flicker through my head as the morning hour pulls me from slumber.

That and the feel of Rylee’s weight settling over me.

I groan involuntarily as she sinks down, sitting astride me. The heat of her pussy has me straining to be released from the sheets she’s now pinned against my body. Talk about sweet fucking torture.

Fuck me if this isn’t the best wake-up call ever.

Fingertips feather up my abdomen, circle around my nipples, and then trail back down to my hipbone. “Good morning,” she whispers in that rasp of hers before pressing a soft kiss against my lips. Her fingers continuing to tease my skin. To taunt me with the drug to my addiction.

I grunt a response and squint open my eyes to find one of the most terrific sights I have ever seen. Tits—Rylee’s tits to be exact—full and pert with pink nipples hardened in arousal dominating my line of sight. I take a moment to admire God’s greatest creation ever before I drag my eyes away and scrape them over the rest of her sun-kissed skin to meet her eyes.

Those eyes.

The ones that have held me captive and owned parts of me I never even knew existed since that first moment they looked up at me amidst a mass of fallen curls.

“Good morning,” she says again, her sleepy eyes hold mine and a sluggish smile tugs up the corners of her mouth.

I feel like my heart beats for the first time. She’s real and she’s here. Relief floods me. Today may be the first race of the season, but waking up with her, here with me after all the shit from the past couple of weeks? I’ve already fucking won.

I cock an eyebrow up at her as her fingers tickle further south, my cock pulsing up in response to her touch. “It is good indeed,” I grumble needing my mind to catch up with my body that’s already revved and raring to go. “Any time I can wake up with a sight like this, is indeed a good fucking morning.” I can’t help the smile that curls up my lips. Fuck she’s gorgeous.

And mine.

Seriously? What the fuck did I do to deserve her? Hell has most definitely frozen over.

“Well,” she says drawing the word out into a purr. “We seem to have a dilemma here?”

“A dilemma?”

“Yes, I seemed to be underdressed and you Mr. Donavan, you seem to be very overdressed.”

I quirk an eyebrow up at her, all systems fully awake now, and more than ready to go. “I think you look fucking perfect.” I shift some and prop the pillow further under my head so that I most definitely do not miss a single thing from the vision in front of me. “But you think I’m overdressed, huh?”

“Most definitely,” she says, “and I think it’s time to fix the situation.” She shifts her weight, and I can feel her fingers scrape over my hips as she pulls the sheet down. Fuck if she’s not teasing me. My cock springs free from the confines of the sheet and it aches for her to touch it. To be buried in that sweet heat of hers. I watch her look at my cock and when she licks her tongue over her bottom lip it takes everything I have to not pin her to the bed and take what that mouth is tempting.

“Oh, there is most definitely a situation.” She smirks and her eyes look up to meet mine, lust and mischief dancing beneath her lashes.

“And how do you suggest we fix it?” I ask enjoying the role of temptress she’s playing despite my balls desperately begging for release.

She reaches out and wraps her hand around my cock. Fuuuccckkk that feels good. I lay my head back and drown in the sensation of her fingers on my tortured flesh. She strokes me with slow, even strokes that feel so fucking good it takes everything I have to not put my hand on top of hers and urge her to go faster. To pump harder.

When it comes to Rylee, begging is not beneath me.

“Well, it is race day, and I can’t exactly let my man go to the track without fixing this little problem we have here.”

I flash my eyes open and take in the arch of her eyebrow and taunt on her lips. “Oh baby, there’s nothing little about it.”

She moves forward, her hand still on my cock but tits back front and center in my view as she leans in close to my face. “There isn’t?” She angles her head watching my mouth fall lax as she works her dexterous fingers back up my dick. All I can do is bite my lip in response and shake my head as she pays special attention around its crest. Talking right now is not an option. “I guess I’ll have to find out for myself then. Don’t you think?”

I stare at her. Take all of her in as she kneels over me—cheeks flush, eyes dancing, and mouth tempting—and I can’t believe after how bad I fucked up, that she’s still here. Still fighting for us. My fucking saint.

A reply is on my lips—and fuck if I remember what it is because it flies from my mind the minute she sinks down onto my cock.

Wet fucking heat. Pleasure swamps me the instant I feel the velvet grip of her tight pussy wrapped around me. From the bottom of my spine all the way to the top of my sac tightens in a tingling surge of eye-roll into the back of your head type of ecstasy.

“Sweet Jesus!” I groan out as she seats herself root to tip and stills so that she can adjust to my invasion.

“No, not Jesus,” she murmurs as she leans in and slips her tongue between my lips adding torment to her tantalization. “But I can still take you to Heaven,” she whispers against my lips.

And then she starts to move. Up and down. Her slick, wet heat spasming over my cock with her every rise and fall. Skin on skin. Soft to hard. Hers and mine. So fucking good.

Fucking Rylee.

My fucking voodoo pussy.

Shit. I stand corrected. Now this—Rylee’s voodoo pussy—is God’s greatest creation.

Ever.

And motherfucker if Rylee wasn’t right.

She does feel like fucking Heaven.

I shove my legs into last night’s jeans, knowing I need to get my ass in gear. I’m excited for the day ahead of me—for the organized chaos and the rev of the motor at my command—but I’m just not ready to share Rylee yet. Not ready to burst this bubble around us and step into the blur.

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

“How the fuck did you get in here?” I ask and he knows I’m pissed at the intrusion. And of course being fucking 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 fucking 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 fucking 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 fuck 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 fucking 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 fucking 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 fucking 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 fucking 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 fucking heart does too. It jolts, trips, falls, tumbles, freefalls—no that’s not it—it crashes into that foreign fucking 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 fucking kryptonite. How did this happen? How did I let her own me? More importantly and fucking shocking, I want her to own me.

Every fucking piece of me.

Game over baby.

She’s my motherfucking checkered flag.