Page 9 of Shadowed Sins: Nitro

My cock pulses so hard I see stars. The kitchen lights blur and refocus. I reach down to adjust, gripping myself through the denim for just a second of relief. The wall clock ticks too loud. Ten minutes until briefing about tomorrow's races. I need to get my shit together.

Get your head in the game. Lynch Academy. The job. Not her.

A door opening and closing. Footsteps in the building. Multiple sets. Cole's measured tread, Asher's near-silent steps, Remy's casual rhythm.

Evening briefing after the Winchester job. Getting closer now.

I minimize the news feeds with shaking fingers and maximize the tactical displays. Professional mask sliding into place like armor. The energy doesn't disappear—just gets compressed. Coiled. Ready to explode.

It's not about the way she looked at you, like she wanted to consume you. Not how much you want to let her.

I spin my keys around my finger. The metal is warm from my pocket, familiar weight and motion that helps marginally. The keys clink softly with each rotation.

She's not here. She's not going to be here. Concentrate on the mission.

The coffee machine finishes brewing with a satisfied gurgle. I have four cups waiting on the marble counter before Cole reaches the kitchen, the ceramic warm against my palms as I arrange them.

Black for Asher, cream and sugar for Cole, just sugar for Remy, catastrophic levels of caffeine for me. My hands shakeslightly as I slide them into perfect position. The spoons clink against ceramic.

Stop thinking about her nipples. Professional. Be fucking professional.

Cole enters first, rolling his left shoulder—his Mexico injury acting up again. The movement is slight, but I spot it instantly despite my brain splitting between reality and fantasy.

"Need Remy to take a look at that shoulder? You've been favoring it since the Winchester job this afternoon."

"I'm managing." Cole picks up his coffee, inhaling the steam before taking a measured sip. His eyes track over me with a strategic assessment. "Though you seem particularly... energized this evening."

Energized. That's one word for twenty hours of painful arousal.

"Just ready to get back out there, you know?" My keys spin faster with a rhythmic jingle. "Art auction security was boring as fuck. Standing around while rich people argued about brushstrokes? Not exactly high-octane."

Asher enters while I'm speaking, his footsteps barely audible on the hardwood. He looks up from his tablet, and I see his eyes track my bouncing leg, the spinning keys, the way I keep shifting position. He picks up his black coffee without looking, takes a precise sip.

"Boring." His deadpan could freeze hell. "Yet you gave three separate clients detailed lectures on aerodynamic design principles."

"They asked about the cars in the paintings—"

"No one asked." Asher's words cut straight through bullshit like a scalpel through flesh. "You cornered them."

Remy laughs as he enters, loosening his tie. "You sure you're good for tomorrow? Races, betting, all your old triggers?"

If only that was my biggest problem right now.

"Solid as a rock." I gesture at the monitors, trying not to think about what else is rock-solid right now. "Already mapped out entry points, sight lines, escape routes. Gideon won't know what hit him."

Cole moves to adjust one of the displays. The light plays across his face as he leans in, fingers dancing across the interface with practiced ease. "Speaking of Gideon, when exactly did you reach out to him?"

The main screen illuminates before I can answer. The room dims automatically, bathing us in blue light. Kade's face appears from San Francisco headquarters, looking tired but focused.

Behind him, I can see the command center—multiple operations running simultaneously, screens flickering with data streams.

"Gentlemen. Let's talk about tomorrow night."

Everyone shifts—Cole straightening his back, Asher's fingers stilling on his tablet, Remy setting down his coffee with a soft clink. Mission mode. I force myself to stand still, but my keys keep spinning. Constant motion. The metal is getting slippery with sweat from my palm.

"Lynch Racing Academy," Kade begins. Surveillance photos populate the screens. "Our intel suggests it's become a hub for trafficking operations."

Gideon's face appears in several shots—older now, lines around his eyes deeper than I remember. My left shoulder throbs suddenly. Phantom pain from where the bike threw me during that final crash. I rub it unconsciously, feeling the raised scar tissue through my shirt.