Driven

“Are you having fun?” he asks approaching me, tugging on the ear of the stuffed dog.

I grin stupidly at him. As if he even has to ask that question. I’m with him, aren’t I?

He reaches out and runs a fingertip down my cheek. “I love your smile, Rylee. The one you have right now,” he cups my neck, the pad of his thumb running over my lower lip. His translucent eyes look into mine and search inside of me. “You look so carefree and lighthearted. So beautiful.”

I angle me head, my lips parting at the touch of his thumb. “As opposed to you?” I question. He quirks his eyebrows in question to my comment. “When you smile it screams mischief and trouble,” and heartbreak, I think. I shake my head when the exact smile I’m talking about graces his lips. I run my free hand up the plain of his chest liking the hiss of his breath I hear in response to my touch as well as the fire that leaps into his eyes, “and it has ‘I’m a stereotypical bad boy’ written all over it.”

The grin widens, “Bad boy, huh?”

Right now, in this moment, there is no way I’ll ever be able to resist him with his tousled hair, emerald eyes, and that smile. I look up at him through my lashes, my bottom lip between my teeth.

“Are you one of those girls who like bad boys, Rylee?” he asks, his voice gruff with desire, his lips inches from mine, his eyes glistening with a dare.

“Never,” I whisper, barely having enough composure to find my voice.

“Do you know what bad boys like to do?” He takes a hand and places it on my lower back, pressing me forcibly against him. Flash points of pleasure explode every place our bodies connect.

Oh my! His touch. His hard length of body pressed against mine, makes me need things I shouldn’t want. Shouldn’t need from him. But I don’t have the strength to fight it anymore. I suck in a ragged breath, not trusting myself to speak. “No,” is all I can manage to say for an answer. Between one breath and the next, Colton crushes his mouth to mine in a heat-searing kiss tinged with near violent desire. He kisses me as if we are in the privacy if his bedroom. His hands run up the length of my torso, flutter over my neck, and cup my face as he slowly eases the intensity of the kiss.

He places his now-signature kiss on the tip of my nose before pulling back, the devilish look still smoldering in his eyes. “Us bad boys?” he continues, while my head still spins. “We like to,” he leans in, his lips at my ear, the warmth of his breath tickling my skin. I think he is going to tell me something erotic. Something naughty he wants to do to me for his pregnant pause leaves me suspended in thought. “Eat dinner!”

I throw my head back and laugh loudly at him, using my hand on his chest to push him away. He laughs with me, taking the stuffed dog from my arm. “Gotcha!” he says as he grabs my hand, saying goodbye to the carnival.

We make our way to the car, chatting idly as we pull out of the parking lot. Colton turns the radio on and I softly sing along as we drive.

“You really do like music, don’t you?”

I smile at him, continuing to sing.

“You’ve known the words to every song that’s played.”

“It’s my little form of therapy,” I answer, adjusting my seatbelt so that I can turn and face him.

“The date’s that bad you need therapy already?” he jokes.

“Stop!” I laugh at him. “I’m serious. It’s therapeutic.”

“How’s that?” he asks, his face scrunched in concentration at the traffic we have hit on the I-10.

“The music, the words, the feeling behind it, what’s not being said,” I shrug, “I don’t know. Sometimes I think music expresses things better than I can. So maybe vicariously, when I’m singing, everything I’m too chicken to say to someone, I can relay in a song. That’s the best way to describe it, I guess.” A blush creeps over my cheeks, as I feel stupid for not being able to explain better.

“Don’t get embarrassed,” he tells me as he reaches out and rests a hand on my knee, “I get it. I understand what you’re trying to say.”

I pick imaginary lint off of my jeans, a nervous habit I have when I’m put on the spot. I laugh softly, “After the accident,” I swallow loudly, shocked that he makes me comfortable enough that I’m volunteering this information freely to him. Pieces of me that I rarely talk about. “It helped me tremendously. When I came home from the hospital, poor Haddie was so sick of hearing the same songs over and over, she threatened to put my iPod in the garbage disposal.” I smile at the memory of how serious she’d been. How fed up she’d been at hearing Matchbox Twenty. “Even now, I use it with the kids. When they first come to us or if they are having a hard time dealing with their situation, if they can’t verbalize how they’re feeling, we use music to help them.” I shrug, “Sounds lame, I know, but it works.”

Colton glances over at me, sincerity in his eyes. “You really love them, don’t you?”

I answer without hesitation. “With all my heart.”

“They are very lucky to have you fighting for them. It’s a brutal road for a kid to have to go down. It easily fucks you up.” He shakes his head, lapsing into silence. I can feel the sadness radiate off of him as he reaches back to some unfathomable memory. I reach down and link my fingers with the hand he has resting on my leg and give it a reassuring squeeze. What happened to this beautiful man who one minute is playful and sexy and the next quiet and reflective? What can put that haunted look in those piercing green eyes? What has given him that roughshod drive to get his way, to succeed at all costs?