Home > Driven (Driven #1)(3)

Driven (Driven #1)(3)
Author: K. Bromberg

I have no time to register the confusion mingled with a heavy dose of desire that surges through me when I hear him mutter, “Oh fuck it,” seconds before his mouth is on mine. I gasp in utter shock, my lips parting a fraction as his mouth absorbs the sound, giving him an opening to caress his tongue over my lips and dart slowly between them.

I push my hands against his chest, trying to resist the uninvited kiss from this complete stranger. Trying to do what logic tells me is right. Trying to deny what my body is telling me it really wants. To suppress the need to take as he is taking. To abandon inhibition and let myself enjoy this one, random moment with him.

Common sense wins my internal feud between lust and prudence, and I manage to push him back a fraction. His mouth breaks from mine, our breaths panting over each other’s faces. His eyes, wild with lust, hold steady to mine. I find it hard to ignore the seed of desire that’s blooming deep in my belly. The vehement protest that’s screaming in my mind dies silently on my lips as I succumb to the notion that I want this kiss. I want to feel what I have been so devoid of—what I have purposely denied myself. I want to allow myself this one moment in time where I act recklessly and have “that kiss”—the one that books are written about, love is found in, and virtue is lost with. For deep down in the depths of my soul, I know this kiss will be that for me.

“Decide, sweetheart,” he commands. “A man only has so much restraint.”

His warning, the insane notion that simple me can make a man like him lose control, bewilders me, confusing my thoughts so that the denial on my tongue never crosses my lips. He takes advantage of my silence, a lascivious smile curling the corners of his mouth before tightening the hold he has on the nape of my neck. From one breath to the next, he crushes his mouth to mine. Probing. Tasting. Demanding.

My resistance is futile and lasts only seconds before I surrender to him. I instinctively move my hands over the rasp of his unshaven jaw to the back of his neck and tug my fingers in the hair that curls over the top of his collar. A low moan comes from the back of his throat, bolstering my confidence, allowing me to part my lips and take more of him. My tongue entwines and dances intimately with his. A slow, seductive ballet highlighted with breathy moans and panted whimpers.

He tastes of whiskey. His confidence exudes rebellion. His body evokes a straight punch of lust to my sex. A heady combination hinting he’s a bad boy that this good girl should stay clear of. His urgency and adept skill hint at what could come. Images flash through my mind of back-arching, toe-pointing, sheet-gripping sex that no doubt would be as dominating as his kiss.

Despite my submission, I know this is wrong. I can hear my conscious telling me to stop. That I don’t do these kinds of things. That I’m not that kind of girl. That I’m betraying Max with each continuing caress.

But God, it feels so incredibly good. I bury all rationality under the surmounting desire that rages through my every nerve. My every breath.

His fingers stroke the back of my neck while his other travels down to my hip, igniting sparks with every touch. He splays his hand on my lower back and presses me into him. Laying claim to me. I can feel his erection thickening against my midsection, sending an electric charge to my groin. Making me damp with need and desire. His leg slightly shifts and presses between mine, pressuring the apex of my thighs and creating an intense ache of pleasure. I push further into him, softly mewling as I crave for more.

I am drowning in the sensation of him, and yet I’m not willing to come up for the air I so desperately need.

He nips my lower lip as his hand moves down to knead my backside, pleasure spiraling through me. My nails scrape the back of his neck in reaction as I stake my claim.

“Christ, I want you right now,” his husky voice pants between kisses, intensifying the ache in the muscles coiling below my waist. He moves the hand from the back of my neck and traces it down my ribcage and over until it cups my breast. I cry out a soft moan at the sensation of his fingers rubbing over my hardened peak through the soft material of my dress.

My body is ready to consent to his request because I want this man too. I want to feel his weight on me, his bare skin sliding on mine, and his length moving rhythmically in me.

Our entangled bodies bump up against the small alcove in the hallway. He presses me against the wall, our bodies franticly grabbing, groping, and tasting. He skims his hand down to the hem of my cocktail dress, finding purchase when he touches the lace tops of my thigh-high stockings.

“Sweet Jesus,” he murmurs against my mouth as he runs his hand at a painstakingly slow pace up my outer thigh to the small triangle of lace that serves more as a decoration than as panties.

What? Those words. When they finally register, I recoil as if whiplashed and push on his chest trying to shove him away from me. Those are the same words that I’d heard earlier in the darkened alcove. They hit me like cold water to my libido. What the hell? And what in the hell am I doing anyway, making out with some random guy in the first place? And more importantly, why pick now to do this while I’m in the midst of one of my most important events of the year?

“No. No—I can’t do this.” Staggering back, I bring a trembling hand up to my mouth to cover my lips swollen from his. His eyes snap up to mine, the emerald color darkened by desire. Anger flashes through them fleetingly.

“It’s a little late, sweetheart. It looks as if you already have.”

Fury flashes through me at his sardonic comment. I’m intelligent enough to infer that I’ve just become another in the line of his evening’s conquests. I look back at him, and the smug look on his face makes me want to hurl insults at him.

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