K. Bromberg: Raced

But more importantly is what I can see through the crowd in interrupted bouts. The man who just sat next to Rylee. Whose arm is around her shoulders. Who is leaning into her, speaking in her ear.

Mine.

The thought snags in my mind and I can’t let it go. Let the thought of her go. I can’t concentrate on what’s being said. I look at the execs from Merit trying to act cool but failing miserably in an element they’re obviously uncomfortable in. I glance up at Becks and nod to the side in Rylee’s direction hoping he gets my drift and if he doesn’t, he will in about five seconds.

“If you’ll excuse me,” I interrupt the shorter one’s spiel about market demographics, “I need to use the restroom.” I look again at Beckett, the greatest fucking wingman ever , and leave without another word. I just hope they don’t realize I’m walking the opposite direction of the head.

What the fuck am I doing? Blowing off a sponsor for a chick? She must have the elusive voodoo pussy or something. Fucking Christ! It’s like someone has taken over my body—or my dick—because once again I can’t get her out of my goddamn system.

And I have to. There’s no other option. No other choice. Have to finish the fucking meal I’ve had just a taste of right before it’s cruelly snagged away.

The fucker is touching her. Again . Leaning closer.

“The lady’s with me.” The words are out before I can think. Grated out between my gritted teeth. My voice laced with the obvious threat. All four heads in the booth snap up at my comment and look at me. All except for Rylee. She stares at the blonde who works at PRX sitting across from her for a split second.

And then she turns ever so slowly against the chest of the prick sitting behind her, her posture stiffening with that defiance that causes my balls to tighten with unfiltered lust. Gone is the sexy siren from the dance floor earlier and the vulnerable girl from last night. Right now she’s a woman scorned. And when she raises those eyes, I can see it clear as day, but I don’t care because they are looking exactly where they need to be.

On me.

The only place I want them to be. But all I can focus on is him. His arm is still on her. His body still beside hers. I clench my jaw. Eyes locked with hers.

“I’m with you?” she asks, those fucking bedroom eyes widening to saucers and her chin jutting out in obstinance. “ Really? Because I thought you were with her?” she says sarcastically, scrunching up her nose the way she does when she’s pissed off—which I’ve happened to see a lot in the short time we’ve known each other—and looking behind me. “You know, the blonde from your arm earlier?”

Fucking Raquel . Why’d I invite her again? Her blowjob skills—her best asset frankly, even if thinking it makes me a prick —are a distant memory at the sight in front of me. Because right here, right now, all I can think of is Rylee. Her mouth. Her body. That pussy of hers that I’ll bet my life on as being the sweetest fucking thing I’ll ever taste. Ever feel.

Might even beg for.

I need to be buried in her so badly right now it’s painful. “Cute, Rylee.” I spit the words out, not trusting myself to say any more when I see Surfer Joe squeeze her shoulder. My glare shifts to his, my eyes sending the message.

Hands. Off.

I see that my warning’s delivered when he tenses as recognition slowly seeps in. Yeah, that’s right, cocksucker . I’m Colton Fuckin’ Donavan and she’s mine . And the exaggerations in the tabloids are perfectly accurate. I’ve got a quick fucking temper and have no qualms getting my hands dirty with a few punches. Touch her again and I’ll show you.

Pretty please.

And of course because she always does the opposite of what I want, Rylee turns and puts her hand on the fucker and reassures him that she’s not here with me. Then she turns back slowly to me, a derisive smirk on those beautiful lips and challenge in her violet eyes.

So that’s how this is going to go?

“Don’t push me, Rylee. I don’t like sharing,” I say, clenching and unclenching my fists to release the anger laced with arousal that’s firing through my veins. “You. Belong. With. Me.”

Her eyebrows shoot up at my claim. I can see the insolence just beneath her composed exterior. “How so, Ace? Last night you were with me, and tonight you’re with her .” She says her like the meanest of slurs, and I can’t help but think the same thing. I send a silent thanks to Becks for getting my hint and keeping Raquel occupied right now. “Seems to me like—She. Belongs. With. You.” She mimics me.

Sweet Christ! The woman fucking owns me . Owns me and I haven’t even had her yet. What the fuck is wrong with me? I never chase. Never. But the goddamn woman is constantly pulling me in two opposing extremes. I swear to God she’s got some kind of fucking hold on me I can’t break from.

I drag my hand through my hair in frustration as I take in the other three sitting in the booth, witness to the stringing of my balls by a singular woman. “Rylee.” I sigh, trying to rein in the impatience in my voice. “You—you …” She’s what, you dumbass ? Grab your balls back firmly and own them. Tell her how it’s going to be. “You test me on every level. Push me away. What am I supposed to think?”

Yeah. That was brilliant, Donavan. Fucking brilliant, if you’re a pussy.

She eyes me up and down, a little smirk at the corners of her mouth that irritates the fuck out of me. Makes my dick hard. She’s playing me once again. Fucking toying with me.

And enjoying it.

“ I’m not sure if I want you yet ,” she antagonizes, startling everyone else at the table, I assume because of my rumored temper and unpredictability. “A girl’s allowed to change her mind,” she taunts, angling her head and deliberately looking me up and down. “We’re notorious for it.”

“Among other things.” I shoot back instantly and then take a sip of my drink, watching her above the rim all the while. “Two can play this game, Ryles, and I think I have a lot more experience at it than you do.”

Her lips part slightly at my words and I want to groan out loud at the fucking image that flickers through my head. Of exactly how I can fill that space between them. I grit my teeth in need as I level my stare at her. She slowly removes her hand from Surfer Joe’s knee and scoots toward the edge of the booth.

Toward me .

That’s right, sweetheart. Let’s end this. Right here. Right now. Come to Daddy.

“You’re playing hard to get, Rylee.”

She glances over at her girlfriend and then slowly rises from her seat, and all I see is her sweet curves and soft flesh and my head fills with thoughts of how desperately I want her beneath me, naked and coming undone. “And your point is …?”

Her words force me to focus back to now. To winning her over, despite the combustible sexual chemistry between us that she’s constantly fighting. But when I see her—hear her—her shoulders are proud with defiance and her chin, strong.

She wants to go this route? Keep up the charade that she doesn’t want me despite her fucking unbelievable body announcing otherwise. I can play this like nobody’s business. Run circles around her. I shake my head at her and take a step closer.

Needing to be closer.

She lowers her eyes under my intense scrutiny. “I hope you’re enjoying yourself because it’s quite a show you’re putting on here.” I reach out and force her chin up so she has no other option but to look me in the eyes. “I don’t like games, Rylee,” I warn, my blood thundering through my veins from being so close to her. “… and I won’t tolerate them played on me.”