Page 43 of The Outlaw's Savage Revenge

Dignity, thy name is not Luna.

I’m about to come apart in the middle of a high-speed escape, wrapped around the world’s most dangerous savior. This is, hands down, the most screwed-up moment of my life.

“Cade . . .” Another needy moan works its way past my throat. “Cade . . .”

My body draws tight as a bowstring, trembling on the edge.

Suddenly his gloved hand lands high on my exposed thigh. A silent command that shatters what’s left of my control.

He squeezes hard. Harder . . .

“Fuck!”

My body spasms against his back, caught in the grip of something so powerful it whites out everything else—the danger, the fear, my own embarrassment. It’s loud, endless, mind-numbing, and quite possibly the most inappropriate climax in the history of climaxes. But with Cade’s hand still branding my thigh through the leather of his glove, I can’t bring myself to care.

When it's over, I collapse against Cade, my breaths coming in ragged gasps.

For one perfect moment, everything else melts away. All that exists is this raw, exhilarating rush and the solid warmth of him against me.

Myfingers are still splayed across his abs, and I swear I feel his muscles jump when I absently stroke the ridged surface.

Then Cade makes a sharp turn, and reality comes crashing back with all the subtlety of a sledgehammer. The lingering euphoria evaporates, replaced by a damning awareness of what I just did.

He knows. God, of course, he knows.His touch wasn’t a coincidence. He deliberately dragged that orgasm out of me. Owned it. Controlled it.

My cheeks burn as I remember every desperate moan.

I can’t face him. Just throw me off this bike already. Push me into oncoming traffic. Anything to avoid acknowledging that I got on a motorcycle for the first time in my life and lost my shit.

His hand is gone from my thigh, but the phantom pressure remains, branded into my skin. That touch, whatever that was that he did, is more lethal than any weapon.

Suddenly Cade makes an even sharper turn. For a moment, I think I’m going to slide right off, but muscle memory kicks in, and I grip him tighter.

But it’s not the unexpected turn that sends a fresh wave of panic through me. It’s the glimpse of two identical black sedans, the same ones that have been behind us since we left the hotel.

I hardly noticed them before; my brain cells were too drunk on lust. But now, as our pursuers weave between cars, my stomach twists, and adrenaline quickly burns through the lingering pleasure.

The sedans close the distance with menacing grace. My eyes dart to the passenger window of the lead car, and I glimpse a dark, ominous shape that makes my breath catch. A gun, aimed directly at us.

“Cade!” I shout, my voice barely carrying over the wind and engine roar. My fingers dig into his abs. “Did you see that?”

“I did,” he replies calmly—as if I’ve just pointed out a particularly interesting cloud formation. “You’ll be fine.”

Fine?Does he even understand the situation we’re in? A man is pointing a machine gun at us, and he’s telling me I’ll be fine?

I want to laugh, but I’m pretty sure it would come out as a hysterical shriek. “But he’s got an AR!” I yell again.

“I know,” he repeats, that dangerous calm still coloring his tone. “Just hold tight.”

“Easy for you to say,” I mutter, burying my head between his shoulder blades. “You’ve got a human shield at your back. One who probably deserves to be used as target practice after what she just did.”

A burst of laughter erupts from Cade—dark and rich. I freeze as the sound vibrates through his back into my chest, making me hyperaware of our connection. Of course, he heard me. We’re pressed together so tightly I can feel every breath he takes expanding against me.

Which erases any chance that he didn’t hear me earlier. Cade heard every moan, every shameless whimper. My face burns as the memory of my uncontrolled pleasure replays in my mind again.

If I survive this, I’m going to need so much therapy.

Cade’s laughter ceases abruptly as the chase intensifies. Without warning, he veers right, cutting across three lanes and narrowly missing a delivery truck. I screech, tensing around him, and once again, I feel his hand on my other thigh—this time, it’s lightly tapping on my other thigh, the one covered by the remnants of my torn skirt.

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