Page 12 of Nash

“This is a dad-car with duffel bags and golf clubs rolling in the back,” I snap. “I bet your minivan wets lots of MILF panties, but I’m not impressed by speed. Slow down!”

“I’m not into fast MILFs.” He stares ahead, making those thick glasses too sexy. “I’m in a new Honda Odyssey with a one hundred and twenty-nine horsepower, V6, three-point six-liter engine and?—”

Fuck this.The speedometer reads eighty-one, physics works, and I’m scared. And when I’m scared, my mouth starts firing.

“I don’t care if you’re Lewis Hamilton rocking sexy braids, a nose piercing, and a Formula-One winning Mercedes. Yeah, he’s hot. And I’m sure he fucks as fast and furious as he drives, but I can assure you, no man, sex, andcertainlyno burgundy minivan are worth dying for! Slow down!”

I grip my seat belt, glancing in my side-view mirror. Ironically, a dark Mercedes is following us, and …damn, they’re close.

“Sounds like you’re having bad sex.” He smirks. “Furious fucks are hot. Fast ones are not.”

“We’re racing over a three-mile bridge!” I shriek. “We can plunge to our death at any moment, and you have the nerve to lecturemeabout sex?”

“You brought it up.”

“As an example.”

“Oh, so you’renothaving fast and furious sex?”

“I have sex all the time!”

“Quantity,” he swerves around a motorcycle not traveling at the speed of light like we are, “is not quality.”

How is this happening? How did I go from a good buzz on a quiet night celebrating my best friend’s engagement to racing down the road with her hot dad, lecturing me about my lousy sex life?

I’d be mortified, but death is imminent. It’s impossible to care.

Besides, he can’t know. No one knows how right he is.

His glance flicks to the rearview mirror. Three times. Again. Then, he slams the pedal down more.

“What are you doing?” I screech.

“Getting you home safely.”

“Safely?” We reach the end of the bridge before he burns rubber on a left turn. “I’ll arrive home in a pine box if you don’t slow down!”

“Come on now.” He pats my thigh. “I’d pay for a nicer coffin than that.”

His sudden, warm touch thrills me, and if I live, I’m having a serious talk with my pussy. “Don’t joke!”

“I’m dead serious.”

“Don’t saydead!” I grab the oh-shit handle, watching in horror. “Red light! Red light!”

“It’s just a suggestion.” He ignores it, blasting under it at Mach 5.

“No, this is just a one-way ticket to my grave.” I howl, “Slow. The. Fuck. Down.”

He’s driving so fast, deftly weaving the van around cars, blasting through intersections, while the Mercedes behind us does the same. Other cars honk, angry at the deadly risk we impose, and I agree.

I can’t look. I squeeze my eyes shut.

Who is this reckless man?

This isn’t the uptight man I grew up with—the one who insisted on teaching me how to change a tire when I started to drive or taught Alena and me how to get out of chokeholds. He was obsessed with our safety, so when I went to college, I asked Mr. Allen to track my phone because, yeah, he was tough on me, but I always felt safe with him.

But now? He’s scaring me, and not in the way I’ve felt for so many years. I’m used to the terror of wanting Nash Allen.

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