Fueled
Copyright
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.
Copyright © 2013 K. Bromberg
Fueled
by K. Bromberg
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. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.
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Cover art created by
Tugboat Design
with Shutterstock image # 89919298
Copy and Line editing by
The Polished Pen
Final Proof by
Polished Perfection
Formatting by
Hayson Publishing
Except for the original material written by the author, all songs, song titles, and lyrics mentioned in the novel Fueled are the property of the respective songwriters and copyright holders.
To J.P. -
Thanks for your patience while I take on this challenge that's always been a dream of mine. Oh and hey, it's not just a hobby anymore...
Table of Contents
Fucking dreams. Jumbled pieces of time that tumble through my subconscious. Rylee’s here. Filling them. Consuming them. And fuck if I know why the constant sight of her in a place that’s usually clouded with such horrible memories fills me with a sense of calm—of what I think might be hope—allowing me to realize that I might actually have a reason to heal. A reason to overcome the fucked up things that lurk here. That the black abyss in my heart just might have the capacity to love. Her presence here in a place so dark lets me think the wounds that claimed my soul and have always been raw and festering just might be finally scabbing over.
I’m dreaming—
I know I’m dreaming
—so how come she’s everywhere, even in my sleep? She’s robbing me of thoughts every minute of every goddamn day, and now she’s woven her way into my fucking subconscious.
She pushes me.
Unmans me.
Consumes me.
Scares the ever-loving shit out of me.
She feels like the start of a race, stopping my heart and speeding it up simultaneously. She makes me think thoughts I shouldn’t. Digs deep into the black within me and makes me think in
whens
, not
ifs
.
Fuck me!
I must really be dreaming if I’m thinking fucking shit like this.
When did I become such a pussy?
Becks will hand my ass to me if he hears me talking shit like this. It can’t be anything more than just needing to be buried in her again. Have her warm body beneath me to sink into. Soft curves. Firm tits. Tight pussy.
That’s all it is
. I’ll be fixed then. My head will return to where it needs to be.
Well, both heads actually
. And once satisfied, I’ll be able to focus on something else besides useless shit like feelings and a heart beating that I know is incapable of giving or accepting love.
It has to be the newness of her that has me feeling like a needy little bitch—so much that I’m dreaming about
her specifically,
not just the faceless, perfect body that usually frequents my dreams. There’s just something so fucking hot about her that I’m losing my mind. Shit, I actually look forward to the time spent before fucking her as much as I do the time I am fucking her.
Well, almost.
Unlike the numerous chicks that throw themselves at me with their overtly sexual ways: tits hanging out, eyes offering me to take them any way I want to, legs spreading at the drop of a dime—and believe me, most of the time I’m fucking game to their willingness. With Rylee though, it’s just been different from the start, from the moment she fell out of that fucking closet and into my life.
Images flicker through my dreams. That first jolt as she looked up at me with those fucking magnificent eyes of hers. That first taste of her that seared my mind, crept down my spine, grabbed hold of my balls, and told me to not let her leave―that I had to have her at any cost. The image of her ass swaying as she walked away without a backward glance, reeling me in with something I’d never considered sexy before. Defiance.
Pictures continue to circle. Rylee kneeling down to Zander, trying to coax his damaged soul out of hiding; her sitting on my lap in my favorite t-shirt and panties, straddled over me last night on the patio; showing up at her office, confusion mixed with anger warring across her incredible features from my non-refutable offer; Rylee standing before me in lacy lingerie, offering herself to me, selflessly giving everything to me.
Wake the fuck up, Donavan.
You’re dreaming
. Wake up and take what you want. She’s right next to you. Warm. Inviting. Tempting.
Frustration fills me, wanting her so desperately and not being able to shake this damn dream to take her sexy as sin body as I see fit. Maybe that’s what it is about her. That she doesn’t realize how sexy she actually is. Unlike the countless others before who spent hours staring at and critiquing themselves and their best sides, Rylee has no fucking clue.
Images of her last night consume me. Looking up at me with violet eyes, her bee-stung bottom lip tugged between her teeth, and her body instinctively responding to me, submitting to me. Her signature scent of vanilla mixed with shampoo. Her addictive taste—sinfully sweet. She’s irresistible and innocent and a vixen all mixed into one tempting, curvaceous package.