Raced

Many readers were curious what Colton thought during his first meeting with Rylee when she fell out of the storage closet. I was curious too; the problem was I had no idea. I didn’t even know why he was wandering backstage in the first place.

This scene was my first attempt at writing Colton’s point of view.

I started it at least seven times, trying to figure his motivation for heading farther away from the gala rather than being in the middle of it. The scene took me a long time to write but I’ll forever look at it as the one that changed FUELED’s direction … for the better.

What. The. Fuck?

My body jolts with the impact as she slams into me. Fingernails dig into my biceps. A pile of wild, brown curls is all I see when I look down at the top of her head. Her shoulders shudder with each hyperventilated breath—a sound that goes hand in hand with the earsplitting scream that will inevitably happen next.

Thank you social media! You can take your goddamn tweets and stalker.com posts and shove them up your asses. Thanks for helping another faceless, frantic, fangirl find me.

What the fuck is it with women attacking me in this place? First the auburn piranha in the alcove and now this.

Seriously? The damsel in distress route? Like I haven’t seen that one before. You’re one of millions, sweetheart. You want me to notice you, baby, you’ve got to have less clothes on. Well, unless you count thigh highs and heels. And nothing else. That’d sure as hell catch my attention.

I shift my feet but she doesn’t move. Okay, stalker girl, time’s up. Let the fuck go so I don’t have to be a dick and pry you off of—

Fuck me running.

The air punches from my lungs when her eyes—fucking magnificent eyes—look up at me from beneath dark lashes. Her head is still angled down so my only focal point is their unique bluish-purple color. Even with that crap smudged under them, the way she looks at me—shocked, terrified, relieved, all at once—stops the crass send-off from spewing out of my mouth.

What the fuck is wrong with me? Hysterics plus female equals crazy. A surefire sign to get the fuck away from her. Lesson learned a long ass time ago. She smells damn good, though. Focus Donavan, remember rule number one: Don’t ever dip the wick in the pool of crazies.

Her eyes break from mine, gaze slowly descending, and stop on my lips again, silently staring. Her body stiffens, fingers tensing on my arms, breath stopping momentarily before shuddering out in a fortifying sigh.

Wait for it. Wait for it. It’s coming. Her inevitable offer. The scripted rush of air and waste of breath where she tempts me with the wicked things she’ll let me do to her body in exchange for the bragging rights of spending a few hours with me.

Been there done that, sweetheart. Hence, rule number one. Shit—she can toss the salad any way she wants, it doesn’t mean that I’m gonna like the dressing.

She shifts onto her heels and stumbles further into me, firm tits pushing against my chest before jumping back like she’s touched a livewire.

That’s right, sweetheart, I’m electric.

It’s the first time I get a glimpse of all of her, and she’s definitely worth a second glance. She’s got more curves than I’m used to but fuck if she doesn’t wear them well. My eyes devour and take in the come-fuck-me heels, long, shapely legs, and the full, more than a handful-sized tits. And I’ve got big hands. I can’t help the quickening of my pulse. She might be crazy, but shit, fangirl has one smoking hot body.

I don’t hear the apology she fumbles through—her lame excuse why she was trapped—because my eyes travel further up and fixate on her mouth. Sweet Christ—perfect fucking lips. Now those lips I can picture just how perfect they’d look wrapped around my cock. It takes everything I have to not groan aloud at the image in my head of fangirl kneeling before me, those eyes looking up at me, and her cheeks hollowing as my dick slides in and out of her mouth.

Fuck this. Since when have I ever followed the goddamn rules?

Ha. Rule breaker, heartbreaker. I’ll gladly take the title in exchange for a moment of fun with her.

Buh-bye rule number one.

I force myself to look away from her mouth and drag my gaze up to gauge the intention in hers. So she wants a wild night with the notorious bad boy? After the self-imagined porno I’ve just created in my head with her as the star, fuck if I won’t give it to her.

But I’m going to make her work for it. Shit, what I’ve got is too good to give away for free. Fangirls are a dime a dozen, but I’m a fucking two dollar bill.

She averts her eyes again, and I watch them wander. Yeah, she likes what she sees all right … I don’t think she has any idea who she’s up against.

Undoubtedly like a good a stalker should, she’s read the rags and thinks this is going to be easy—that I sleep with anyone that spreads their legs for me. She so wants to play. Little does she know, I’m in the mood for a good game of hardball.

She just keeps staring, and I can’t help the smile that curls one side of my mouth. Her eyes widen and her breath hitches. Oh yeah, she’s definitely game. Talk about swinging for the fences.

After a beat, she drags her eyes back up to mine. Dilated pupils, parted lips, a flush creeping into her cheeks. Fuck, I bet that’s how she looks when she’s coming. My dick stirs at the thought of being the one to put that look on her face as I slide into the prize between her thighs.

Then walk away from her. What is it they say? Easy come, easy go.

“No apologies needed,” I tell her, smirking at how this boring event just became a helluva lot more interesting. Batter up. “I’m used to women falling at my feet.”

Her head snaps up and confusion mixed with what I’m guessing is disgust flashes through those extraordinary eyes of hers.

Welcome to the big leagues, sweetheart!

She opens her mouth again. Flustered. Stumbling over her words.

I make her nervous. Good.

“Thanks. Thank you. The-the door shut behind me. It jammed. I panicked—”

When she speaks this time, I actually hear her voice. The telephone-sex operator rasp of it. Shit. My dick’s doing more than stirring now. The sex-kitten purr is enough to make a monk hard. “Are you okay? Miss—?”

She just stares at me. Frozen. Indecision and confusion warring across her incredible features. She’s questioning her resolve already? Not a chance in hell. She’s not going anywhere. I always finish what I start, and this—the chance to hear her screaming my name while I’m buried in her later—is by no means over.

Game. On.

I reach out, cup the back of her neck, and pull her closer to me. That’s all I plan on doing. A little touch to up the ante—force her to place her cards on the table or call her bluff. I pull her close enough to touch her lips, tease her a bit to let her know the stakes behind this unexpected game we’re playing.

But fuck if I know what it is about her—something different, challenge or not—that’s got me reaching my free hand out and running it up her arm, across the curve of her neck, and over her cheek.

I don’t want to want her. Don’t need her. Shit, a simple text will have Raquel in my bed in a heartbeat for a nightcap. Fuck, she’s probably already there. Our arrangement may be nearing its end, but she’s still game.

And she has mad skills.

But there’s something about crazy fangirl that has me looking twice, has me forgetting this is a game.

Those eyes. Those curls, wild and fallen from her clip, looking like they’ve been fucked loose. Those plump, perfectly parted lips. Sweet Christ. I just might have to let her win this game because damn, she’s not playing fair.

Options of how to play her flicker through my head. Dive right in and consider the consequences later or draw this out and have some fun with her?

Then she sucks in a ragged breath that let’s me know she’s affected. Let’s me know she’s bitten off more than she can chew. Hints at that little bit of vulnerability I see flicker in her eyes. And that sound—the subtle shudder telling me her body wants to betray her mind’s warning to steer clear of me—is such a fucking turn on.

And desire overwhelms all logic.

Testosterone wins.

Just a little taste.

“Oh fuck it!” I slant my mouth over hers and use her surprised gasp to slip my tongue between her now parted lips. To taste what she’s offering. Holy shit! Talk about knocking me off of my stride. The woman tastes like nothing I’ve ever had before. You hear addicts say that their first line of coke is what hooks them, causes them to do irrational things for the next fix. I finally get it.

Sweet. Innocent. Sexy. Willing.

Fuckin’ A.

And before I can take more of what I suddenly want very badly, game be damned, she struggles and breaks her lips from mine.

Only one thought fills my head. Clouds my resolve.

More.

Her pulse quickens beneath my palm. Her panted breaths mix with mine. Her eyes flash with confusion and fear. And desire.

More.

“Decide, sweetheart,” I demand, an unbidden ache settling deep in my balls and taking hold. “A man only has so much restraint.”

Her eyes, so much contradiction flashes through them; they say “come fuck me” and “stay the fuck away” at the same time. Her lips part and then close. Her hands fist my lapel, indecision warring across her stunning features. Why the sudden resistance when she’s getting exactly what she came here looking for? Did the stakes just become too real for her? Ah … a boyfriend then. How can she not have one when she looks like that?

She just stares at me, eyes blank but body still responding, as every nerve within me shouts to drag her against me and take until I get my fill of her addictive taste. Time’s up, sweetheart. Decision’s mine now. I’ll show her what she wants. Give her what the boyfriend doesn’t. She had her chance to walk away and she didn’t. I sure as hell am not. I always get what I want.

And right now, I want her.

I tighten my fingers on her neck, unable to hold back the smile on my lips as I think about pressing into her soft curves and wet pussy. And then I move. She resists as I claim her mouth. I’m skilled but far from gentle as I coax her trembling lips open and take my next fix.

One more taste.

That’s all I want. I lick my tongue against hers. Probing. Tasting. Demanding.

Sweet fucking Jesus. That’s the only thought I can manage when she begins to respond, our bodies connecting, her tongue playing with mine. Her hands move, fingernails scraping along my jaw, and fist in my hair. A fucking inferno burns its way down my spine and into my gut, a groan falling from my mouth as her body moves against my rock hard dick. Her soft yielding to my steel.

Every primal urge in my body begs to touch her, to claim her as mine. I drag one hand down the curved lines of her hips, our bodies vibrating with adrenaline and desire. I put one hand on her back pressing her into me, my cock against her stomach, my knee wedging between hers. She responds instantly, the Holy Grail between her thighs rubbing against my leg so I can feel her wet and wanting pussy through my slacks.

So fucking responsive. Her body just complies with the subtlest hints from mine, reacts to the slightest touch. Takes selflessly. Submits willingly.

God, I want to corrupt her.

And then she makes the softest, most erotic fucking sound I’ve ever heard. A gentle moan that begs and pleads and offers all at the same time.

And I’m decided. Consumed. Determined.

Fuck the game.

Mine.

I want her. Have to have her. I’m calling the shots now. Adrenaline hits me, coursing through me like the wave of the green flag.

I need to make her mine.

I nip her lower lip then lick away the sting. Pleasure to bury the pain. “Christ, I want you right now.” I murmur against her lips between kisses, my dick throbbing at the thought of slamming into her. My hands move to possess now. Desire fueling my fire. Fingers rub over hardened nipples just begging to be tasted as we crash against the wall. My hands roam to connect with naked flesh. I reach the silk of her nylons and skim my way up until I trace the lace tops of her thigh-high stockings. I groan into her mouth.

Motherfucking perfection. Silk, lace, and skin. If it’s possible to get any harder, I just did.

I guess fangirl doesn’t want to be considered a dime a dozen.

As she gains confidence, her tongue taunts mine in a dizzying barrage of maneuvers. My fingertips snake up the bare skin of her inner thigh—smooth softness just pleading for me to lick, suck, and nip. I reach the swatch of lace at my awaiting heaven just begging to be ripped off.

“Sweet Jesus,” I murmur as I feel how wet the material is, how ready she already is for me.

“No. No—I can’t do this!” She pushes me back a step, and I watch her bring a trembling hand to her mouth. Her eyes tell me no, but her body? Her treacherous body vibrates with anticipation: chest heaving, lips swollen, nipples pebbled.

I force myself to swallow. To breathe. To regain the equilibrium she just shook and pulled out from under my always steady feet. I’ve had more women than any guy could ever ask for, but she just rocked my fucking world with her lips alone.

She’s not going anywhere.

Mine.

“It’s a little late, sweetheart. It looks as if you already have.” Like you have any fucking choice now. You started this, fangirl, and I’ll say when it’s finished.

Fire leaps into her eyes and she lifts her chin in insolence. My God, that look alone gives new meaning to the word sexy.

“Who the hell do you think you are?” she spits at me. “Touching me like that? Taking advantage of me that way?”

We’re back to the damsel in distress thing again? “Really?” I scoff at her, running my hand over my jaw as I ponder what to say next.

It’s a little late for self-preservation, sweetheart.

“That’s how you want to play this? Were you not participating just now? Were you not just coming apart in my arms?” I can’t help the sliver of a laugh that escapes. “Don’t fool your prim little self into thinking that you didn’t enjoy that. That you don’t want more.”

I take a step closer and I can see a mixture of emotions flicker in her eyes. But most of all I see fear and denial. Resistance. Is she going to ignore what just happened between us? Fangirl just might be crazy after all. But fuck-all if I don’t already crave my next taste of her.

And I have every intention of having it.

She watches as I lift my hand and trace a finger along the line of her cheek. Despite the hard set of her jaw, she instinctively moves her face ever so subtly in response to my touch. Oh yeah. She’s definitely still interested, so why is she fighting it so hard?

“Let’s get one thing clear,” I warn through gritted teeth, trying to mask my irritation at having to fight for something that all of a sudden became complicated. “I. Do. Not. Take. What’s. Not. Offered. And we both know, sweetheart, you offered. Willingly.”

She jerks her chin from my fingertips. Who knew defiance could be so goddamn arousing? And irritating. I can’t remember the last time I had to work to get a woman beneath me.

Her body vibrates with anger. Or desire. Of which I can’t tell. I step back into her personal space, pissed at myself that I’ve allowed her to affect me this much.

“That poor defenseless crap may work with your boyfriend who treats you like china on a shelf, fragile and nice to look at. Rarely used.” I shrug as if I don’t care, but all I want is a reaction out of her. Anything to tell me what she’s thinking behind her stoic façade. “But admit it, sweetheart, that’s boring.”

“My boy—“ she stutters, hurt flashing in her eyes. Hmm. She must have just broken up with him. Perfect time for a pump and dump, then. “I’m not fragile!”

Bingo!

“Really?” I want to push more buttons. Get her to admit she wants me. I reach out and grip her chin with my thumb and forefinger to make sure she can’t hide from my stare. “You sure act that way.”

She jerks her chin from my hand as “Screw you!” grates from between her beautiful lips. The heat in her eyes holds me captive.

And to think I was going to pass up fangirl without a second thought.

“Oh, you’re a feisty little thing!” I can’t help the smirk on my lips. If she’s this lively now, I can only image how wild she’ll be between the sheets. “I like feisty, sweetheart. It only makes me want you that much more.”

So many emotions pass over her face that I can’t begin to comprehend them. She steps to the side of me, putting distance between us in our silent stand-off. Just as I think she’s about to speak, the door down the hallway opens, flooding the quiet corridor with noise from the party beyond. Right before fangirl whirls around at the sound, I see a flicker of relief on her face.

I glance around her to see an average-sized guy standing with his back to the door, eying us with blatant curiosity. For a second I can’t place him, but then realize I saw him earlier with some of the Corporate Care bigwigs. “Rylee? I really need those lists. Did you get them?”

Rylee? What the fuck?

“I got sidetracked,” she mumbles to the guy as she glances back at me, her expression a mix of relief, regret, and disappointment. She works with him? For Corporate Cares? She says something else to the guy that I don’t hear because I’m trying to wrap my head around the fact that crazy fangirl isn’t a fangirl at all.

Or crazy.

Rylee. It sounds vaguely familiar. I mentally roll her name around on my tongue, liking the way it sounds, the way it feels.

She skirts past me and avoids making eye contact before stepping into the storage closet. I stop myself from reaching out for her because we’re far from finished here. I follow her, hold the door open, and watch her jerky movements as she hurriedly shoves auction paddles into a bag. I can feel her co-worker’s eyes boring holes in my back as he tries to assess the situation. Guaranteed he’s telling me to step off.

The same way that I feel about him. Step off buddy so we can finish what we started here. I glance back to Rylee and she straightens up with the bag in hand, squares her shoulders, and walks past me without a second glance.

Anger fires in my veins. I do not get dismissed. “This conversation isn’t over, Rylee.”

“Like hell it isn’t, Ace.” She throws the words over her shoulder as she stalks down the corridor.

I watch her walk away. Hips swaying with purpose. Curves begging to be touched. Heels—heels I want left on with nothing else but those fucking lace top stockings—clicking against the floor.

Since when have I ever considered a woman walking away to be one of the hottest fucking sights I’ve ever seen?

The door closes behind them, and it’s silent once again. I run a hand through my hair and lean back against the wall, trying to wrap my head around the past twenty minutes. I blow out a loud breath, confused as to why I’m pissed.

You must be losing your touch, Donavan.

Shit, when they walk away, it’s supposed to be a good thing. Lessens the chance of complications. I don’t chase. It’s not my thing—never has been, never will be. There are too many willing women; why bother wasting my time on the ones that make things difficult? Why work for it when life’s complicated enough as it is? I fuck whom I want, when I want. My pick. On my terms. To my benefit. Rules two through six.

But shit … that … her … how can I just let her—Fuck me!

Nobody walks away until I say I’m done. And I have every intention of finishing what I started with her. Checkered flag’s mine. I’ll definitely be crossing that finish line.

Here’s to a night of firsts.

First a brunette.

Next a pursuit.

Bring it on.

Wave that checkered flag, sweetie, because I’m gonna claim it.