Page 42

Luna

The world explodes into chaos.

Wind rushes past me, a furious howl drowning out my terrified shriek as the motorcycle leaps forward like an unchained beast.

For one weightless moment, we’re flying. No, not flying. Falling. We weave through traffic at an impossible speed, each sharp turn a dance with death.

Horns blare. Tires screech. And my heart pounds a frantic rhythm against Cade’s back, my arms locked around his waist in a death grip.

Each curve forces me to mold myself closer to him until I can feel every breath, every subtle shift of muscle beneath his leather jacket.

This is insanity. This is freedom. This is . . . Oh God. This is something else entirely.

Mythighs clamp around the seat, gripping it so tightly I know my skin will bear imprints of the braided leather for days.

Between the heat of the engine and Cade’s body, I’m burning up, painfully aware that only my flimsy lace thong separates me from the vibrating beast beneath me.

Note to self: next time you’re fleeing for your life, opt for granny panties.

Though somehow I doubt even industrial-strength cotton would save me now. The engine’s vibration travels up through me, a wicked full-body massage that makes every nerve ending spark to life.

As we race down the highway, my world narrows to the points where our bodies connect. His back against my breasts. My thighs pressed to his. And his scent—leather and citrus—wraps around me like a physical touch, making my head spin.

As Cade accelerates through a clearing in traffic, the bike roars. The vibration shoots straight to my core, and I bite down hard on my lip, trapping the sound before it becomes something more embarrassing.

What the actual fuck?

Here I am, clinging to a possible psycho, fleeing for my life, and my traitorous body decides now is the perfect time to wake up? Though ‘wake up’ feels like an understatement—more like my body just mainlined pure electricity.

I don’t dare release my thigh’s death grip on the seat for fear of falling off, but every tiny adjustment only makes things worse. By the time my pussy begins clenching and I feel moisture slipping between my folds, I know I’m in serious trouble.

I grit my teeth, determined to stamp out the waves of pleasure because I’d rather die than leave evidence of my arousal on this grump’s bike. Talk about death by embarrassment.

I try desperately to focus on anything except the inferno building between my legs.

Deep breaths? Mistake. Every inhale fills my lungs with the pure essence of Cade, making my head swim.

Squeezing my eyes shut? Worse. Without vision, every other sensation intensifies—the rumble of the engine, the heat of his body, the way his abs tighten under my fingers with each turn.

Reciting the periodic table? I get stuck on ‘V’ because all I can think of is ‘vibration,’ and oh god, there’s so much of it.

With my thighs spread wide on the seat, my clit is exposed to the merciless thrumming beneath me.

My nipples are as hard as the piercings bisecting them, burning where they press against his back through my thin top. Every bump in the road, every shift of his body sends another jolt of pleasure through my sensitized flesh.

The wrongness of it all—the danger, the chase, this man I barely know—only feeds the fire. My fight-or-flight response has completely short-circuited, crossing wires with my libido until I can’t tell if I’m terrified or turned on. Maybe both. Probably both. Definitely both.

I should tell Cade I need a minute.Yeah, right. In the middle of a busy road with god-knows-who on our tail. ‘Sorry, could you pull over? I need to handle this inconvenient orgasm.’

But the alternative is unthinkable. I’m going to come. Right here. Right now. My thighs are already trembling against the leather seat, and I can feel my wetness seeping through my flimsy underwear.Shit. Shit. Shit.

I’m teetering on the edge of something I’ve never felt before. It’s not just the physical sensation. It’s the danger. The speed. The way Cade seems to control every aspect of this moment without even trying. It’s terrifying, but God help me, it’s also exhilarating.

“Cade,” I whisper, the word more plea than warning. “Stop—” But it’s too late. My muscles are cramping from fighting it, and I can’t hold back anymore.

I arch against him, breasts pressing into his back as my fingers dig into the hard plane of his abs.

His muscles jerk beneath my touch, his response shooting straight to my core. A lusty moan escapes before I can trap it behind my teeth.