K. Bromberg: Fueled

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.

“Don’t I get my good luck kiss?” Colton looks over and smirks at me as he pulls his lucky shirt over his head and throws it on the couch behind him. My God . The man knows how to knock the wind out of me. He stands before me, that arrogant as sin grin spreading his mouth wide and his eyes reflecting all of the dirty things he’d love to do to me right now.

And the thoughts are not unreciprocated.

“Good luck kiss? Or good luck…” I let my words trail off, raising my eyebrows at him, my eyes licking their way over the bronzed skin and defined lines of his naked torso and stopping at those completely devastating lips. I let my gaze rest on his amused sparks of green as he watches me appreciatively take in the sight of him.