Page 14 of Shadowed Sins: Nitro

But it's the gambling that makes my hands shake harder.

Need. Need. Need.

Three men in suits huddle around a glass table, briefcases open to reveal neat stacks of hundreds. They're not even counting anymore, just moving bundles like poker chips. Awoman in designer everything calls out bets into her phone, each number making my stomach clench with want.

"Twenty on the Porsche to blow its engine!"

I practically shout it at the nearest bookie, a man with a tablet and an earpiece who looks like he does corporate mergers during the day. He taps the screen, nods, and I hand over another stack of bills.

Four bets. Can't stop now.

Gideon laughs, clapping me on the back hard enough to rattle my teeth. "Still can't resist the action, huh? Some things never change."

Before I can respond, before I can make another bet, movement near the VIP entrance catches my eye.

The crowd parts like the Red Sea, and my world tilts off its axis.

Holy fuck.

Dark brown hair twisted into something elegant that makes my fingers itch to destroy it. That face that's been haunting my dreams since the bar, those sculpted cheekbones that belong on a statue, those lips that I've imagined doing unspeakable things.

It's her. She's here. She's actually here.

But it's the dress that nearly drops me to my knees.

Burgundy silk that clings to every curve like it was poured on. The neckline plunges low enough to make looking anywhere else physically impossible. The slit up her thigh goes high enough that one wrong move would cause a riot. She walks in heels that should be classified as weapons, each step deliberate, each movement calculated to destroy.

I'm going to die. Right here. Right now.

And she's on someone's arm.

The man beside her is everything I'm not—refined and aristocratic with the kind of bearing that screams generations of money. His light brown hair is styled to perfection, not a strandout of place. Suit that probably costs more than my first racing bike, watch that definitely costs more than my car. He guides her with a hand on her lower back, possessive but polite, and I want to remove that hand from his body. With violence.

Mine. Should be mine. Will be mine.

They move through the crowd toward us, and I realize I'm not breathing. My lungs just stopped working. My brain's stuck in a loop ofher her her, and my cock goes from zero to painful in half a heartbeat.

I shift my weight, trying to adjust without being obvious, but there's no hiding this. My jeans are too tight, and she's too fucking perfect, and I'm about to embarrass myself in front of Gideon and God and everyone.

Don't look down. Don't look at my crotch. Please.

"Perfect timing." Gideon's voice booms over the noise. He waves them over with the confidence of someone who owns the room. "Jax, I want you to meet Sterling Black and his lovely companion. Sterling, this is Jax Ryder, one of my former students. Best natural driver I ever trained."

Sterling extends his hand, and I have to force myself to take it. His grip is firm, confident, with manicured nails that have never seen real work. His green eyes assess me with the kind of calculation that makes my skin crawl.

Something's off about him.

"Ace, the legendary wheelman," he says, voice smooth as aged whiskey. "I've heard impressive things about your reputation."

"Yeah? Like what exactly?" The words tumble out too fast, my volume control still broken. "Because honestly, half the stories floating around are complete bullshit, and the other half—well, those are the ones that'll get me arrested, so let's stick with the bullshit ones, right?"

But I'm not looking at him. I can't. Because she's right there, close enough to touch, close enough to smell, close enough to see the pulse jumping in her throat.

Look at me. Please look at me.

"And this is Mira Knight," Sterling adds, his hand sliding possessively to her lower back.

Mira.