Page 47 of Shadowed Sins: Nitro

A tiny sound escapes me. Almost inaudible over the engine.

His hands tighten on the wheel. "What was that?"

"Nothing. Road. Watch the road."

130 now. We're approaching Malibu proper. Another curve ahead. The road following the coastline.

The g-force slams me sideways again. Death is three inches of guardrail away, and I trust him completely. The contradiction sends heat spiraling through me. But also between my legs. The seam of my jeans pulls taut exactly where—

"Mmm—" I bite my lip but it's too late.

"That sound..." His voice changes, gets rougher. "You made that exact sound in the garage. Right before you—"

"I didn't—"

135 mph. He downshifts hard. The engine brakes us into the next curve harder than necessary. The force presses me forward, then sideways. The tight denim seam drags across my clit and I'm getting wetter with each near-miss.

"Oh—fuck—"

"What's happening?" He glances over, confused but his pupils are completely blown. "Are you—Mira, are you—"

"Just drive! Eyes on the fucking road!"

But my voice comes out breathy, wrong, and he knows something's happening even if he doesn't understand what.

Because the terror is intoxicating. Because I've never trusted anyone enough to let them drive me toward death at 140 mph.

He takes it without lifting off the throttle. The tires scream. This is how I die—trusting a man I barely know, and the thought makes me clench hard.

We're sideways, drifting. I'm pressed hard against the door, then forward as he corrects. The seam of my jeans grinds directly against my swollen clit.

"Ah—fuck—"

He almost loses it. The car wobbles, rear end stepping out too far. He corrects with precise movements, saves it, but barely. "Jesus, Mira, what—"

"Again." The word tumbles out before I can stop it. "Do it again."

"What?" He looks at me for a fraction of a second. Sees my flushed face, the way I'm gripping the door handle with white knuckles, how my hips are shifting involuntarily.

Understanding dawns in his face. His nostrils flare.

"Holy shit, the danger is making you—"

We're past Malibu now, heading toward Zuma Beach. Series of S-curves ahead.

He takes them at 145 mph. Deliberate now. Testing how much I can take.

Each curve brings us closer to the edge. Each correction shows his skill. I'm completely at his mercy, helpless, trusting him with everything. The vulnerability is more intoxicating than any physical touch.

Each movement is friction and pressure exactly where I need it. My hips move involuntarily, chasing it. These jeans are so tight it's almost painful but that makes it more—

"Jax—I can't—this is insane—"

"I've got you." His voice is steady even as he threads us through death. "Just let go. Let it happen."

Point Dume ahead. The road curves sharply right around the massive rock formation, then immediately left. He takes both at 150.

Right—slammed left. Left—thrown right. The combination is perfect. We should be dead. The fear crashes over me in waves, and the seam of my jeans grinding against my clit with each violent shift.