Page 4 of Nitro (Redline Kings MC #3)

NITRO

I bent and sealed my mouth over one nipple, sucking hard as if the word restraint had never existed.

Her spine bowed, her wrists flexed against my grip, and a sound somewhere between moan and curse tore out of her.

I bit—gently, then not so much—and soothed it with my tongue.

Her freckled skin heated under my hands, and her knees brushed my thighs like she didn’t trust them.

“Nitro,” she breathed, and I had to close my eyes for a beat because the sweet sound hit me differently than anything before—like a palm to the chest. Then I snapped them open, afraid that if I looked away, I’d miss everything.

“Yeah,” I rasped, switching sides, taking the other nipple between my lips and dragging it until she gasped and tried to twist to chase the sensation. “That’s right. You know exactly whose lips are on you.”

“You’re—” She broke off when I flicked my tongue hard enough to make her curse again. “Impossible.”

“No,” I disagreed, my voice rough with need. “I’m patient. Which is worse?”

I release her wrists, and they stayed right where I’d put them, like her body had decided it wanted my hands free to roam. They did. One slid down the slick ladder of her ribs, the line of her belly, and the shallow dip above her pelvis that had been ruining men since the beginning of time.

Her coveralls hung open, a careless drape that made her look like trouble unwrapped. I hooked my fingers into the waistband of the black boy shorts hidden under the denim and felt her shiver when my knuckles brushed smooth skin.

“You’ve been avoiding me for over a week.” My mouth traced the edge of her tank. “Using fights as excuses not to look me in the eye too long.”

“I look,” she countered. “I just don’t stare.”

“Liar.” I slid my hand under the boy shorts.

Wet heat. The kind of soaked that made control feel like a lost cause. My middle finger found the slick seam of her and slid slowly from entrance to clit. When I passed over the little bundle of nerves, she jerked like I’d touched her with real fire.

“Fuck,” she rasped.

“Accurate,” I agreed, tracing a circle that wasn’t lazy at all. “You gonna behave if I lift you?”

“Define behave,” she shot back, then choked on a sound when I pressed two fingers inside—slow first, then deeper, working her open while my thumb kept steady pressure on her clit. She was snug, fluttering around my fingers in hot, wet pulses that hit my knuckles.

I caught her thigh with my other hand, hauled it up around my hip, and stepped in so she was pinned properly between the wall and me.

The hardness in my jeans landed exactly where it wanted to be—right against the heat of her through thin cotton.

I ground once, slow and deliberate, and her hands shot down to my shoulders, nails biting into my muscles.

“Fuck, Jana,” I grated, my forehead dropping to hers because I had a moment when I forgot distance existed. “You always this wet when we argue?”

“You bring out the best in me,” she managed, shivering, trying to get more of me. To close the distance. To get something she hadn't said out loud yet.

“Answer the question.” I pressed two fingers into her tight channel again, groaning at the way she clenched around me. “Is this for me?”

She whimpered, her head thudding back against the wall.

“Say it,” I ordered, thrusting my fingers deeper, thumb circling her clit. “Who’s got you dripping like this?”

“You,” she gasped, hips jerking against my hand.

“Damn fucking right,” I growled, grinding my cock against her center through my jeans. The heat between us was molten and sharp, the kind of thing that could level cities.

My fingers stroked inside, finding the spot that made her whimper in a broken little tone that I wanted to hear again immediately. Her breath went ragged. The tendons in her neck stood out, and her nipples rasped my shirt with every shallow grind.

“Who are you avoiding, really?” I asked because I’m a bastard sometimes, and I wanted the truth as much as I wanted her to come. “Me or the past in your head tellin’ you not to touch anything wearin’ a cut?”

“Don’t.” The warning melted into a helpless noise when I curled my fingers just right, and her hips tried to chase.

“I’ll stop,” I grunted. It was not a bluff.

Her eyes snapped open, furious and pleading in the same breath. “You wouldn’t.”

I raised an eyebrow and stared boldly into her eyes, the way she’d done that very first day.

She whimpered, and the look on her face told me just how much she hated the threat.

“Tell me,” I murmured, the pad of my thumb painting lazy eights that made her tremble. “Admit you want this.”

Silence stretched. A beat. Two. The fans hummed. The dyno ticked as the drum cooled. Somewhere out in the main bay, a tool clinked into a tray.

“I want this,” she ground out. Defiant and more honest than she probably meant to be.

“Good girl.”

Her whole body tightened like the phrase had a switch wired straight to her spine. Filing that away for later, I drove my hand harder—friction, slide, and pressure lining up like a well-timed detonation.

She went silent the way a sky goes quiet right before it cracks. Her lips parted. Her eyes tried to hold mine and failed, fluttering shut as the first tremor took her.

I kept the rhythm steady and just this side of rough, grinding my hand into her with the same patience I used when I wired a charge to drop a wall without touching the house next door.

“Come for me.” My voice was wrecked. “Right here. In my hand. Let me feel your tight little pussy squeezing my fingers.”

Her answer was a strangled sound that punched the air out of my chest. She arched, clamped down around my fingers with a grip that made my eyes blur, and came hard.

Full-body trembles with a series of sharp, helpless pulses that kept my thumb moving like muscle memory.

She tugged her bottom lip between her teeth, then bit my shoulder through my shirt when the second wave took her.

My brain launched directly into the kind of heat that makes bad decisions feel like the only ones.

It would have taken nothing to free myself, shove those boy shorts aside, and bury myself inside her until the only thing left in the room was the sound of Jana saying my name.

Her legs went loose. I caught her thighs and hooked them high around my waist again, pressing her tighter against the wall. My hand kept working her relentlessly until she was sobbing my name.

“Nitro—” She gasped the word into my neck.

My road name.

The word gutted me.

I went still. Slowly, every muscle in me locked back into place like I was coiling a cable that had been deployed too fast. I eased my fingers out of her even though every muscle screamed at me to keep going.

She made a tiny, shocked noise—a complaint at the loss—and I wanted to put my hand back immediately just to hear the sound she’d make when I did.

Instead, I braced my forearm on the wall near her head, put enough space between us that the denim at my fly wasn’t printing a blueprint against her heat, and forced my voice through a throat that didn’t want to let it out.

“Call me Torin.”

Her lashes fluttered. She blinked like she was trying to reset. “What?”

“My name,” I growled, rougher than I meant to be. “You call me Torin.”

Her mouth parted, still trembling from the orgasm I’d dragged out of her. Shock and something dangerous lit up behind her eyes. “But isn’t that reserved for?—”

“Yes.”

“Torin—” She stalled, awareness dawning. And with it, a kind of panic she wanted to pretend wasn’t there. “I don’t think?—”

“Stop thinking, Jana,” I cut in, my teeth gritted. Then I leaned in until my mouth brushed hers, just shy of another kiss. “I’m only gonna let you tell yourself this isn’t gonna happen for so long, baby. Nearing the end of my patience.”

She stared at me, chest heaving fast, nipples tight, tank shoved up, coveralls loose at her hips like an invitation, and her hair a mess of red flame and stubbornness. She wanted to argue, but the heat between us was too raw to deny.

Her fingers curled into my shirt like she didn’t know what to do with her hands if they weren’t on me. I kissed her again, deep and filthy, pouring every ounce of pent-up hunger into it. When I broke away, she was panting, eyes glassy, lips swollen.

“Why are you holding back?” It was an honest question, not a taunt.

I let the smile come—the crooked, dangerous one that felt like a fuse being shown a match. The kind that meant trouble.

“Baby,” I murmured, low enough to be private even in a closed room, “trust me. You’re not ready for what happens when I stop holding back.”

When she recovered—barely—the look she gave me could have set a man on fire.

Good. I was already burning.

I stepped back, pushed the tank back down, and tugged it straight.

Then I zipped her coveralls up with a gentleness that made her eyes flare again—like the soft could mess her up worse than the rough.

My hands shook once. I masked the tremble by smoothing the fabric under her ribs.

Her skin still jumped where my knuckles grazed.

I took a breath that didn’t feel like it belonged to me, turned, and walked out. Not fast. Not slow. Controlled. The way you leave a building you wired yourself and didn’t plan on blowing just yet.

Outside the room, The Pit’s noise surged back up—ratchet click, compressor cough, the clatter of a dropped socket bouncing once, twice, three times. The floor felt off by a degree, like I was riding on a tire five PSI low—enough to notice but wouldn’t kill you unless you ignored it.

I scrubbed my hand over my mouth, checked my palm for blood because some part of me was convinced I’d bitten myself and missed it. Then I laughed once under my breath without humor when I saw it was clean.

Out in bay three, Piston looked up from a brake job and squinted at me. “You look like a man who just remembered why he quit smoking.”

“I don’t smoke,” I muttered, grabbing the shop clipboard because it was something to hold that wasn’t the woman I wanted to push up against a wall again.

“Exactly,” he drawled, going back to the caliper with a whistle.

I signed off on a parts receipt without reading it and returned the clipboard to the counter.

My hands were steady again, but my head wasn’t.

I could still feel her pulsing against my fingers.

Hear the hitch in her throat when I’d said good girl and she’d responded like I’d wired a trigger into her bones.

Behind the glass, she hadn’t moved. When she finally did, it was a slow slide down the wall to a crouch, elbows on her knees, hands fisted in the legs of her coveralls.

Her head dropped forward, and she stayed there, breathing for a count that got way too close to double digits.

When she looked up, her gaze cut to the doorway as if she felt me still looking in her direction.

The glare she sent me was pure murder…and pure wreckage.

It took every bit of my control to stalk out of the garage, leaving her breathless, glaring daggers, and looking like the best kind of chaos I’d ever fucking seen.