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 could have been with the cause of my shitty mood.
And the source of my current case of raging blue balls.
Sweet Jesus. Dancing with her like that? Pressed against each other from shoulder to knee. Moving in sync. Her body reacting to mine as if she knew each movement I would make before I did. Eyes telling me she’s mine for the taking.
The hint of how we’ll be together when she finally caves to what her body wants but that her mind keeps fighting. I almost came on the spot. Talk about a tease I can’t wait to devour.
And now I have Merit Rum execs in front of me, Raquel plastered to my side making it unmistakable to everyone that she’s my date, and Becks, the bastard, over their shoulders smirking at me like it’s your fucking fault for asking her to come tonight.
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.