Page 50 of Sinful Submission

“This is incredible,” I whispered.

“The fire lives and dies on our palms while we remain,” Titan remarked.

Our eyes locked as the fires slowly extinguished, leaving only the scent of alcohol and burning.

“Again,” he said, his voice husky with desire.

I squeezed more sanitizer onto our palms. He lit the match and flames erupted.

But this time, he leaned forward as we burned, capturing my mouth with his. The kiss was deep, consuming—fire meeting fire.

When he pulled back, the flames on our hands and the one inside me continued to burn.

“I think I prefer this kind of meditation,” Titan murmured against my lips.

I laughed softly. “We’ll make a spiritual man of you yet.”

“Spiritual, no,” he corrected, extinguishing the flames with a twist of his wrists. “But centered in my power? Yes.”

He pulled me into his lap with my hands still warm from the flames. “I believe we have more lessons to exchange.”

He flipped me on my back and sank his mouth between my legs.

I adjustedSantari’s leather jacket, making sure every inch of her skin was covered. Protection was paramount for what we were about to do.

“The wind will slice through any exposed skin at high speeds,” I said, tugging the collar higher on her neck. “You’re gonna need everything buttoned up tight.”

Santari turned, her daring eyes filled with anticipation. “I’ve been on motorcycles before.”

“When?”

“My dad let me ride when I was five, and my mom killed him when we got home.”

I chuckled as her lips spread wide.

“I’m afraid this will not be like your daddy’s ride, sweetheart.”

“No?”

“Not a chance.”

We movedthrough Primal Luxury Resort’s expansive lobby, and my eyes scanned the area out of habit. Hotel staff nodded as we strolled, stepping aside as we passed. The manager approached us in quick strides, straightening his tie.

“Mr. Valentine, we’ve parked your motorcycle at the front entrance, away from the other vehicles.”

I nodded. “The keys?”

He handed over a small black box. “Inside, sir.”

I nodded my dismissal and guided Santari toward the revolving doors. The thick Miami humidity swamped us immediately, but my attention was captured by the gleaming silver and black Mercedes AMG Solar Beam parked at the curb. Its sleek frame looked ready to devour the road, and my muscles flexed as I remembered the way it navigated under my direction.

“Damn,” Santari whispered as we approached. Her fingers trailed along the machine’s contours. “She’s beautiful.”

“Seven hundred horsepower in a bike that weighs less than me,” I said, opening the box to retrieve the keys. “German engineering at its finest.”

The rumble of another motorcycle engine cut through the ambient noise of Ocean Drive. My head snapped up, eyes narrowing as a matte black Ducati Panigale roared up the hotel’s curved driveway. The rider brought the Italian machine to a stop beside my new purchase and removed his helmet.

Christian Valentine’s face emerged, his eyes fixed on me rather than the bike.

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