Madly Driven

by Tiye

Genres: Contemporary Romance

Synopsis

An addictive, enemies-to-lovers romance about fame, power, and two people fighting to stay in control, even as they fall madly, recklessly in love.

Kensie Garrett turned her worst heartbreak into a bestselling brand. As a social-media influencer and author of a hit self-help book teaching women how to find love without losing themselves, she’s built a career on staying in command. But one reckless night threatens everything she’s created when she gives in to the magnetic pull of Canaan Jackson, the infuriating race car driver she’s despised since college.

When a private video from that night leaks, Kensie’s credibility and Canaan’s shot at racing glory are suddenly on the line. To save them both, he does the unthinkable: announces their engagement during a live press conference. What begins as damage control quickly spirals into a dangerous chemistry neither can contain.

Thrown together under the scorching Miami sun in the months leading up to his first Formula One race, Kensie and Canaan must outmaneuver paparazzi, past betrayals, and a passion that refuses to stay off camera. But as lies blur into truth and old wounds resurface, Kensie has to decide whether protecting her image is worth losing her heart to the one man who may know her better than she knows herself.

Release date: June 30, 2026

Publisher: Black Odyssey Media

Print pages: 288

Sample

Chapter 1

Kensie

“Mm . . . Don’t stop,” I moaned as he thrust deeper and deeper. My nails left scars down his back, spurring him to increase his rhythm and become my undoing. Sensuality coursed through my body like a tornado, and I bit into his shoulder to prevent the scream of my explosive completion.

Canaan tucked his head into my neck to muffle his guttural noises. He continued to rock against me until his pace slowed to human. He then kissed my lips before pulling out and rolling flat on his back. “Damn, that was good.”

How in the hell did I end up sleeping with the enemy in the middle of a day spa in Montego Bay on New Year’s Eve? Still panting, I perused his magnificent, tattooed, sculpted body, and my inner goddess stirred. Damn it. We had already sexed twice in the last hour. I can’t be that hard up for a man I hate. Yet, his wayward hand that tweaked my nipple suggested otherwise.

“Hope these walls are soundproof.” His deep, gravelly, commanding voice evoked my femininity, and I snuggled under the arm that curved my body to his. “If I’d known you were so fucking hot under the sheets, I would’ve tamed you long ago.”

“Tamed me?” I asked, my hand slowly exploring the contours of his chest and abs suddenly stilled. I closed my eyes, praying he wouldn’t be the asshole I’d always known him to be when he was my best friend’s boyfriend in college.

He kissed my forehead. “Yes. That mouth of yours is reckless, and only a weak man would put up with it. Lucky for you, I’m not that man. All I need to do is kiss you, and you shut the hell up.”

“I swear you haven’t changed. I hate you so much.” I shoved him away as I scrambled to find my plush, pink terry cloth robe to cover my nakedness and escape Canaan.

“Shit, Kensie. Why do you have to mess up a perfectly good afternoon with being, well . . . you?” Canaan’s broad forehead dipped.

I hissed, “I don’t need to be tamed, and definitely not by you. Even if I wanted a man, it would be a cold day in the Sahara Desert before I would ever choose you.”

He sat up, his arms resting on his knees, his light brown eyes twinkling gold while I tried desperately to pull the sleeve of my robe from under his weight. “Calm down, and I’ll lift up.”

Refusing to give an inch, I continued to pull.

With his native Barbadian accent that disappeared at his will, he drawled, “Did you take physics?”

My ponytail bounced as I tugged again with all my might. “What?”

“If I move right now, you’re flying backward.” His hand covered my hands, and damn if I didn’t feel another spark. “Stop, Kensie. You look crazy.”

“Then get off my robe and let me go,” I implored. “You’ve wasted enough of my time.”

He picked up my hands like feathers, and I fell across him. My bare breasts pressed against his smooth chest again, nipples hardened from the intimate contact. Canaan took advantage of the situation before I could push myself off him. He wound my ponytail around his hand and captured my lips in a swoon-worthy kiss. My treacherous body melted into his, and I was once again trapped in his seductive web.



Driving to meet with my manager for dinner at The L Spot, I cursed myself repeatedly. Not only for making the mistake of having sex with Canaan, but also for my inability to stop getting hot every time I thought of the egomaniac. It’d been over a month since I accidentally entered the wrong relaxation room where a sleeping Canaan Jackson had burrowed under the white sheets. Feeling refreshed after a full-body massage and a sauna jaunt, the bed beckoned me. I’d dropped my robe, tripped on the edge of the mattress, and tumbled on a hard object.

The sheet dropped low enough to see his bare hip and a hint of the triangle of hair that led to his manhood when he shot up from his slumber. He yelped in surprise and, anticipating my scream, quickly covered my mouth with his hand. I bit his hand, and though he grimaced, he held firm. “Shh . . . It’s okay. You just walked in the . . .” His eyes had adjusted to the dimness of the tranquil room. “Kensie Garrett? Wow. Crazy, small world.”

My eyes widened in recognition before daggers shot from them, and though I yelled at him to release me and cursed him royally, my words were mumbled and incoherent. Based on the grin that graced his handsome features, he’d correctly guessed my thoughts about him.

Canaan wisely kept his hand on my mouth. “If I move my hand, promise you won’t yell, scream, or bite me again. Don’t want to be accused of being a pervert or a rapist when you were the one who walked into the wrong room.” He smirked. “Then again, maybe you knew I was here and wanted to catch me naked.”

I shoved his hand from my mouth and sat up. “Canaan, please. Only in my worst nightmare . . . or is this a nightmare right now, and I’m waiting to be awakened?” I belatedly realized his amused gaze had drifted to my naked breasts. I firmly crossed my arms, shielding my body from the desire now glinting in his eyes.

Canaan chuckled. “I should be offended, but you always could make me laugh.” He tapped the space next to him. “This is a huge bed, and I have this room for the rest of the afternoon. Might as well chill and catch up. Haven’t seen each other in what . . . seven years?”

I remembered my devastated roommate after Canaan unceremoniously dumped her for another girl. I corrected impatiently, “Eight years. We have nothing to talk about and definitely don’t want to talk to your ass while we’re both butt naked. Seriously, Canaan, why are you in my room?”

I focused on his face, too afraid to look anywhere else. I’d known Canaan was fine. After all, he had all the women on campus crazy over him. I just didn’t realize that he was that fine. My lower half clenched at his virile nearness. I could so easily picture myself riding him into the sunset. Truth be told, if he were anyone besides Canaan Jackson, I would be happily sliding across his lap. The sculpted contours and dips in his tatted arms and chest suggested a clean diet and daily trips to the gym. And something about the way he grinned with those sparkling eyes promised blissful nights and satiated mornings. In these last few minutes, I finally understood my old roommate’s inability to let go of a man who was clearly wrong for her.

“You mean my room. This is the men’s side.” He pointed to the blue abstract art on the wall and imitated the spa host’s voice. “Blue is for men. Red is for women.”

“Sorry,” I mumbled, rolling my eyes. Hating that I couldn’t see without my contacts and that I’d made a colossal mistake, I quickly covered my nipples with one arm and reached for my robe with the other. Unfortunately, my just-out-of-reach robe teased me. I looked back at an amused Canaan, who’d turned on his side, propping his head on his palm. Although the sheet still covered the most intimate part of his body, his sexy chest and arms laughed at my insistence of feigning disinterest. “Can I have the sheet to get my robe?”

“And risk you seeing how attracted I am to you right now? Wouldn’t want to tempt you more than you already are.” One of his brows raised.

My resistance slipping, I snapped, “Then be the gentleman you’re not, and please close your eyes.”

He replied calmly, “Or you can be the fierce woman I know you are and look at this as an opportunity. Of all the spas in the world, we end up at the same one in Montego Bay, miles away from home, and we’re both naked.”

“You don’t know anything about me.” Okay, that’s lame. Disagreeing with the truth for the sake of not agreeing with Canaan, when I prided myself on being independent and strong.

“So, the boldness you present to the world is only a façade for your book?” Canaan asked, observing me.

“You know about my book?”

He smoothly replied, “Your pretty smile caught my attention while browsing books one day. I read some of it. I can admit you kept my attention.”

I lowered my eyes, assessing the man I’d grown to hate over his mistreatment of my ex-roommate. To be fair, he was a man I hadn’t seen in years except through an occasional social media post. A man who’d grown impossibly sexier as he neared thirty. A man who aroused all my senses, including the sixth one, the moment our eyes connected in recognition.

“Come on, Kensie. Fuck whatever you think of me and give in to your urges. We’re in a spa on the last day of the year, needing to unwind, and there’s nothing more relaxing than a good orgasm.”

“With the right person,” I added, returning my other arm to block my breasts from his hungry gaze and keeping my lower half tilted away.

“I’m exactly the right person who’ll make you come hard.” Canaan touched the junction of my arms, barely hiding my breasts, and he commanded softly, “Let me see you.”

His gentle yet firm tone evoked my most primal instinct, and I lowered my arms. My breath rattled, watching the fire build in his eyes as he admired me. He leaned forward and slowly pulled my nipple into his mouth.

Knock. Knock.

“Kensie?”

Startled, I shook the memories of Canaan and looked out of the window at Saraj, my friend and manager.

“Were you on a call or something? We’re about to lose our reservations, and if I have to wait any longer, you’re paying for my meals for the next month.”

I spoke through the closed window. “I already pay for your meals.”

“Well, I’ll eat double. Now, get out of the car.” He impatiently shuffled from foot to foot and pressed his wool hat down more securely over his ears.

“Go inside and get warm. I’m coming.”

Saraj hurried inside, and I flopped my head against my seat. I was frustrated that I hadn’t gotten Canaan Jackson out of my mind. It didn’t help matters that his popularity in the racing world increased with every appearance. His face had been everywhere on the local news, ESPN, and the internet lately in his quest to be the first Black man to win a NASCAR and a Formula One race. Or that I sincerely doubted he’d given another thought about me except as another notch. I didn’t even want to acknowledge the guilt of sleeping with my best friend’s ex. An ex she never really got over, even though Emme was engaged to a man who treated her exceptionally well and was someone everyone adored. Yep. The New Year’s Eve I spent fucking Canaan Jackson was going to my grave. Hopefully, the toe-curling thoughts of him would die sooner rather than later.

Chapter 2

Canaan

“Coming in third isn’t good enough if I’m going to make it in a Formula One race. I’m lucky that Ferrari is even considering bringing me on the team midseason.” After a strenuous workout in the complex’s state-of-the-art gym, I stepped off the elevator to my penthouse condo overlooking Memorial Park in downtown Houston. I opened the door to destruction. My latest fling had ripped my leather sofa with a knife, and feathers covered my hardwood floor and the overturned coffee table. I shrugged dispassionately, went to my refrigerator, and grabbed a Beck. My maid service would be coming in later this morning, and Ms. Murielle, my private chef, was used to the antics of my so-called women.

I looked around at the proof of why I ended things yesterday when she started bugging me about spending Valentine’s Day together, since I didn’t spend New Year’s with her. Dahlia had been too clingy and expected more than I would give after a few months of dating nonexclusively. My only regret was that she knew my code and fucked up my place while I flew back from training in Phoenix. I hoped she didn’t take her anger to social media. The last thing I needed was another mark against me after sleeping with the wife of one of my sponsors, who neglected to tell me that I worked for her husband. My crew had to break up the fight between her enraged husband and me during practice before my race in Vegas last year.

“Glad I don’t have to remind you,” Pops replied wryly. “There’s not enough of us out there, and you can’t afford to run another race like you did. You don’t need them to have another reason not to give us a chance.”

“Pops, can you give me a break?” I’d just been chewed out by my crew chief and best friend, Malcolm, for having slower times in Phoenix than my last competition. After losing the Las Vegas Motor Speedway in October, I had remained there to regroup. I exercised and practiced driving nonstop during the holidays, right through Christmas. Emotionally and physically drained, I decided to take a short break, bring in the New Year at a spa, and relax in Jamaica. Maybe with a woman or two. Maybe not. I had become comfortable with being alone.

Relationships were complications I didn’t need in my already-hectic life. Exhibit A: My destroyed living room and whatever other damage I hadn’t yet seen. Except I couldn’t stop thinking about Kensie Garrett. I hadn’t expected ever to see her again. And I surely didn’t expect to find her incredibly arousing and bring in New Year’s with my former archenemy in my bed.

I never cared for the outspoken Kensie, who had a couple of classes with me before I started dating her roommate, Emme. Kensie and I argued almost every time I was in the apartment she shared with my ex-girlfriend. She didn’t trust me and made it clear that she hated men like me who used their looks and money to get whatever they wanted from women. Although she spoke the truth, I didn’t like that she called me on my shit and dismissed her as an angry woman destined to be alone. I’m not proud of what I used to think about her or of how I criticized her for speaking the truth. Chalk it up to immaturity.

Several years ago, I read her entire book and thought it was funny, entertaining, and insightful about the complex relationships between Black men and women. Her degree in sociology and psychology had paid off. I’d seen some of her interviews and social media posts and found myself entertained by her humor and directness about love. Admittedly, I thought she’d grown into one sexy woman, much different from the awkward girl with glasses too large for her cute face. If she weren’t Kensie Garrett, I would’ve messaged her for a date. So, one glance at her voluptuous body once I realized who’d fallen into my bed, and I was all in, at least for the rest of the day and night.

By morning, she’d slipped out of my private suite while I slept, though we’d made plans to spend the day together. We never exchanged numbers, and I was surprised that she left without saying goodbye, never to be heard from again. I thought we had fun in and out of bed, realizing we loved Doechii, Kendrick Lamar, jerk chicken nachos, and Fresh Prince reruns. I should’ve been happy that she wasn’t the type to think that because we brought in the year together, that meant something. Yet, I couldn’t deny that I was bothered that, weeks later, she hadn’t tried to connect.

“Canaan, are you listening, boy?”

“Yes, sir.” I quickly downed the rest of my beer and tossed it in the trash as I refocused on my grandfather.

“You asked us to push you no matter what, and that’s what we’re doing until you win a Formula One.” Pops added, “You’re too caught up with loose women and the celebrity world when your attention needs to be on winning.”

Taking in the stunning panoramic view of the Houston skyline from my floor-to-ceiling windows, I argued, “Women come with the territory, Pops. Winning races may make history and bring more sponsors, but the wealth that Dad can respect comes from deals made off the track. Got to use my hotness for more than just the women,” I bragged as I pulled off my T-shirt and checked out myself in the gold mirror across from my king-size bed. I kept my hair cut close, emphasizing my prominent cheekbones, round nose, full lips, and copper-colored skin. Add on the imposing height and muscles, and I’d been a winner before I won any actual races. My natural charm, mischievous eyes, and a broad smile enhanced my appeal to the masses. I had already received modeling and endorsement contracts outside the racing world.

“Boy, that big head of yours will get you in trouble. Arrogant like your daddy. It’s why he couldn’t hold on to your mama. Too focused on acquiring money and women instead of being a husband.”

My grandparents had been married for over fifty years. My father couldn’t make it five years with my mother, and she returned to her native island of Barbados with me. My mother and I lived alone until my disruptive behavior at home and school was so out of control at the age of ten that she dumped me on her parents’ doorstep. My mother had washed her hands of me, her parents, and the island in search of happiness. I rarely saw her since she’d remarried, had two more children, and moved to Chicago. It was like her firstborn had never existed. What used to burn a raging hole in my stomach now remained a gut clench whenever someone brought up my mother. I understood why she didn’t want to be with my controlling and philandering father, but not why she gave up on me. My grandparents, who never left Barbados, barely spoke to my mother, either, disappointed in her treatment of me. Truly a shame since they longed to know their granddaughters, whom they’d only seen in the occasional school pictures my mother sent. Family above all else had always been of value to them.

“You worry too much, Pops. Besides, I’m not on that family track. Got to stay focused on the goal. Remain on the grind.” I stripped to my boxer briefs and plopped down on the bed, needing to shower. “I’m almost thirty years old and almost too old for NASCAR. I’ll have time for wifey and a kid or two whenever I retire or win several cups and Formula One races. Whatever comes first.” I didn’t have the heart or courage to tell Pops, who believed so firmly in marriage and family, that I didn’t share the belief. Being the product of an unhappy union, witnessing the destructive power of love, and my own heartbreak, disillusioned my view of marriage—no fairy tales for me. The stakes were too high to take a risk on love, even for a man who loved to gamble with his life every time I slid into a car and raced at deadly speeds.

“You keep getting caught up with the wrong woman. The right one isn’t a distraction. That’s your daddy speaking,” Pops said firmly. “I don’t know why you don’t hear my voice.”

“Dad is good, and his life is even better. He doesn’t need a wife with how busy he is. All she would do is nag him.” Although I was closer to Pops than to my father, I couldn’t deny that I was proud of my father, a self-made billionaire through a Houston-based engineering and oil company he had founded. I also couldn’t deny that my father was often a tyrant, unhappy with my choice to race cars instead of running the company with him. I can still hear the disappointment in his voice and the yells once I graduated from college with honors in engineering and geology and used my trust fund to finance my dreams of motor racing.

“Then you’re choosing to see him through rose-colored glasses. Because he’s your father, I understand why you can’t see him in any other light.” Weariness and acceptance permeated his tone. “I’ll talk to you later. Make sure you call Mama G and wish her a happy birthday tomorrow.”

“Yes, sir. Her gift should arrive tomorrow too.” My grandmother was a pillar in her community and church in Barbados. She’d been an elementary school teacher for years. She kept up with her students and was always invited to events or functions. “Where is she anyway?”

“One of her former students’ weddings.”

I chuckled. “She stays gone.”

“That’s because she’s missing you.” Pops paused before continuing. “Come home soon. You’re only a plane ride away. Love you.”

“Love you too.” I ended the call without making any promises I couldn’t keep. I honestly didn’t know when I would get a chance to go back to the island. As much as I loved my grandparents, going to Barbados brought back unpleasant memories of my mother. The minute I graduated high school, I moved near my father, started college at Prairie View, a university outside of Houston, and rarely looked back. I turned onto my side, pushed worrying thoughts about my family and fascination with Kensie aside, and crashed into a much-needed deep sleep.

Chapter 3

Kensie

Candle-lit dining room. First-class service. White, linen-covered tablecloths. Pleasant chatter and tinkling glasses. A live jazz band, playing smooth renditions of modern pop classics, permeated the upscale restaurant. I loved the ambiance and class of the restaurant. The L Spot always made me feel like a queen. Worthy. Growing up in Shreveport, I’d been a pauper with visions of the very life I had now and all before the age of thirty. A life where I could afford what I needed and mostly what I wanted. A life where I vacationed alone in exotic and beautiful places worldwide. All because of my social media presence and a book. What started as thesis research on Black love led to followers seeking my opinions on men and relationships. As my followers grew, I strategized using information I’d recalled from the one marketing class I’d taken on a whim while pursuing degrees in sociology and psychology. Now, I have a top-selling book and over three hundred thousand followers who have heeded my relationship advice. At the same time, I pursued my doctorate in sociology at the prestigious Rice University.

I toyed with the crab rice on my plate and barely ate the South African lobster t. . .