Raced Read online

  Copyright © 2014 K. Bromberg

  Raced by K. Bromberg

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  All Rights Reserved. In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading, and electronic sharing of any part of this book without the permission of the publisher or author constitute unlawful piracy and theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like to use material from this book (other than for review purposes), prior written permission must be obtained by contacting the publisher at [email protected]. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.

  FBI Anti-Piracy Warning: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of a copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, in investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to five years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000.

  Cover art created by Tugboat Design

  Copyediting by Maxann Dobson of The Polished Pen

  Formatting by: Champagne Formats

  Except for the original material written by the author, all songs, song titles, and lyrics mentioned in the novel Driven are the property of the respective songwriters and copyright holders.

  Other Works by K. Bromberg

  Dedication

  Foreword

  Driven

  Driven - Chapter One

  Driven - Chapter Three and then some

  Driven - Chapter Eleven

  Driven - Chapter Fourteen

  Driven - Chapter Twenty-One

  Fueled

  Fueled - Chapter Three.Five

  Fueled - Between Chapter Five and Chapter 6

  Fueled - Chapter Twenty-Two and a Half

  Fueled - Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Crashed

  Crashed - Chapter Twelve

  Crashed - Chapter Fourteen

  Crashed - Chapter Twenty-Two

  Crashed - Chapter Forty-One and a Half

  Crashed - Chapter Forty-Four

  Exclusive Excerpt of Slow Burn

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Other Works by K. Bromberg

  Driven

  Fueled

  Crashed

  UnRaveled (a novella)

  Slow Burn (February 24, 2015)

  US Amazon

  UK Amazon

  Sweet Ache (June 2015)

  To my readers …

  You are the checkered in my flag and complete my alphabet, A to Z.

  You’ve given me the rain to dance in and the voice to quack with.

  Your endless support, continued enthusiasm, and unwavering faith in my abilities overwhelm me on a daily basis.

  This is the book I never intended to write, but you guys can be quite convincing … so this one is for you.

  I race you. I book you. I chocolate you. I thank you.

  Kristy

  When I started this journey, I had no intention of writing any part of these books in Colton’s point of view. Rylee was my girl. I knew how she thought, plotted out her motivation from one scene to the next, and understood her resistance yet draw to the egotistical mess of a man that is Colton Donavan.

  Not once did I contemplate what Colton was thinking other than why he would push her away.

  All of the books I’d been reading were from the first person female point of view. I connected with the heroine this way, related to her actions, and that’s what I set out to do for the readers when I wrote DRIVEN.

  When DRIVEN was released, a blog commented in their review that they’d love to see some of the scenes through Colton’s eyes because he was so complex. I struggled with the criticism, not because it was invalid but rather quite the opposite. The reviewer was spot on in saying this, but hell, I’d never written from a guy’s perspective before. The thought scared the crap out of me.

  I decided to challenge myself. I reached out to the blog and asked if they wanted a Colton point of view as an extra for their site. They accepted. And then I realized how lost I was because yes, I knew the dialogue that would take place, but not once did I ever question Colton’s thoughts.

  So writing the scene was rough going at first. I had to find his internal voice, his personality. And after days of type, delete, type, delete, repeat, I was finally finished.

  And it was in that moment I realized I loved Colton even more than I thought I did. I loved his tell-it-like-it-is nature, his sarcasm, and better understood the demons that haunted him. There was something so liberating writing the scene through his eyes. I loved the challenge, enjoyed figuring out how his mind worked, and loved stepping outside of the story and looking at it with fresh eyes and in a totally different perspective.

  Feedback was positive on the scene when the blog posted it. I looked at FUELED, which was about eighty percent complete and all in Rylee’s point of view, and decided I needed to write some chapters from Colton’s perspective. After the ending of DRIVEN, I figured the only way to get him back in the good graces of readers was to tell that last chapter through his eyes. I wanted readers to understand him so they could forgive him a little more.

  I sat down and wrote the prologue of FUELED in one sitting. That had never happened to me before. But when I was done, I knew I was going to be ripping apart eighty percent of the book I had completed so I could add in more of Colton’s voice.

  In both FUELED and CRASHED, I was selective in the scenes I told from his perspective. I never wanted to give away too much or too little and always wanted his scenes to pack a punch, serve a purpose, but it never seemed like there were enough in the readers’ eyes. I was (and still am) messaged constantly, and asked what he was thinking in this or that scene. I debated the idea of rewriting the series through his eyes but thought maybe his humor, his draw, would lose its luster to readers. That they’d become bored with a story they knew all the ins-and-outs of already.

  But I did think certain events would still hold merit if retold, so I asked you guys, my readers, which scenes those were. Not surprisingly, many of them were the same as the ones I wanted to write.

  So here they are, the Colton Points of View. A few are revamped versions of ones you may have read previously on a blog, some are new chapters retold, and some are scenes you’ve never read before because we saw what Rylee was doing but never knew what Colton was doing.

  I hope you enjoy them, I know I did writing them. It was fun getting back into his complex and humorous mind, experiencing him conquer his demons, and watching him learn how to race blindly off the track.

  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 se
ttling 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.