Page 8 of Raced (Driven 3.50)
I just used my mother to get out of fucking Raquel. There is something extremely pathetic about my state of mind right now. Is the Apocalypse coming? Is Hell freezing over?
What. The. Fuck?
She accepts reluctantly, I apologize again, lie about being busy, and end the call. Sammy catches my eyes and just raises his eyebrows. “I take it I should drive to Broadbeach instead, now?”
I scrub a hand through my hair and sigh. “Yeah.” I shake my head trying to figure out what in the fuck I just did. “Sammy, did I just pass up pussy?”
“Yep. Sounded like it. You feeling okay? Dick still attached? It didn’t fall off with all of the hobnobbing at the event?”
Fucking Sammy. Dude’s funny as hell. I grab my dick and adjust it. “Still there, Sam. Still there.” My voice trails off as my thoughts wander.
Rylee Thomas. It’s gotta be because of her. How could three fucking hours of defiance make me look at wet and willing and think it’s too damn easy? That working for a piece of ass might be fun for a change.
It’s her fucking fault I’m headed home to my hand and some lube. And even I know it’s fucked up so I start to tell Sammy to head to the Palisades but nothing comes out of my mouth. Because as hot at as Raquel is and as good as she can ride me, my interest is elsewhere.
Back at the benefit. With curves and class and holy fuck that ass of hers. And that’s just scratching the surface of everything I plan on touching.
My phone rings again and I’m immediately irritated. Raquel needs to drop it and leave me the hell alone. “What?” I bark the word into the phone, Sammy’s shoulders moving as he laughs at my self-inflicted misery.
“Wow. Someone needs to get laid. Relieve stress and shit.” Shit. Guess I should have looked at the screen. I was so lost in what I can’t have right now that I assumed it was Raquel and not Becks.
“Sorry,” I tell him. “I thought you were Raquel.”
“Damn, dude.” He laughs. “I guess she’s holding out on you tonight by the pissiness in your tone. She make other plans or something besides being at your beck and call?”
Fucker. I grunt out a laugh. “Hardly. Just not on the menu tonight.”
Becks chokes out a cough on the other end of the line. Fuck, I just left him an open door to walk right through. “Well considering your menu is usually pussy pie, I guess you’re looking for a new diner to eat it out of besides Raquel.”
The smile is wide on my face but my silence tells him volumes.
“Who’d you meet, Wood?” I can hear the here we go again in his voice and just shake my head because he’s right. “What woman has made you look at Raquel like she’s an inconsequential notch in that belt of yours?”
The only belt notch I’m thinking of is mine coming undone so I can take Rylee beneath me and hear that oh God fall from her mouth. My head fills of lace-top thigh-highs, her smart-assed mouth, and violet eyes filled with contempt. Two of the three should turn me off but fuck if it doesn’t make my dick jerk thinking of the whole fucking package.
“Nobody.” I lie to protect myself from the one thing I fear the most.
That Rylee just might be the somebody I told myself I’ll never allow myself to have.
She’s a forever kind of girl and I’m a just for the night kind of guy.
But fuck if it’s not going to be fun to see just how far we’ll each bend to break our own rules.
The Merit Rum launch party. Need I say more? A long-standing request from readers is what was Colton thinking that night? The following is Chapter Eleven from the moment Colton saw Rylee with Surfer Joe snuggling up against her until he asked her that now familiar line: “Decide, Rylee. Yes. Or. No.”
There’s something about Colton in the hallway, his inner-monologue that intrigued me. He seems to always be in a constant struggle—denying himself what he wants, rationalizing he can have it but on certain terms, mixed with the side of him wanting to protect Rylee from the hurt he knows he is going to cause. All three pull at your heart strings for certain reasons while at the same time cause you to wear a neck brace to protect you from the whiplash of his emotions and his actions.
Uh-uh. She’s mine, motherfucker.
Over my dead fucking body.
Or most likely his if he touches her again.
This club is so packed. So filled with more than willing Grade A pussy. And sponsorship obligations. Fucking obligations that have weighed me down like an anchor for the past two hours. Two hours wasted when I coul
d have been with the cause of my shitty mood.
And the source of my current case of raging blue balls.
