Page 61 of Blood & Throttle
He glances over, dark amusement flickering in his eyes. “Didn’t say I didn’t want to. I said it’s not happening tonight.”
“Why the hell not?”
His gaze drops to my chest—bare, flushed, still rising and falling fast—before flicking back up to meet mine.
“Because if I fuck you right now, Sin,” he says, voice low, and rough as gravel, “I won’t stop until you forget every man who’s ever laid a hand on you. And you’re not ready for that.”
My mouth opens. Closes. My brain short-circuits.
He settles back in the chair, arms crossed, smirk firmly in place. “Now shut up and sleep.”
Taz lets out a sigh from beside me, like even she knows better than to argue with him.
I drag the blanket over myself, fuming, half turned on and entirely wrecked.
Insufferablefuckingbastard.
Twelve
Riot
Fuck U Love U - Alison Wonderland
The sky’sstill that dirty gray-blue when I step outside, the kind that tells you the sun’s coming but hasn’t decided if it’s worth showing up.
Air’s cold. Sharp. Full of exhaust, smoke, and the kind of thickness that only happens before a storm.
I didn’t sleep.
Couldn’t. Not with her scent still on my skin and the memory of her grinding in my lap like she belonged there. That look in her eyes when I kissed her? That sound she made? Fuck. I can still hear it.
She was drunk. Not falling-down shitfaced but lit enough that it would've felt like I was taking something. And I don’t take, not like that. Doesn’t mean I didn’t want to. Doesn’t mean I wasn’t hard as fuck when I carried her off my lap and walked away like a goddamn saint.
Putting her down was the hardest fucking thing I’ve done in years. Worth it, though.
That glare she gave me? Priceless.
The yard’s already buzzing. Handlers pacing with rifles slung over their backs. Guards patrolling like rabid dogs, making sure no one tries to sneak off before the convoy rolls out. The Syndicate doesn’t play games—not outside the arena, anyway. You disappear now, they find you later. In pieces.
I stalk toward the garage, lighting a cigarette, eyes dragging across the chaos. Our ride’s waiting—an old school bus armored to hell and back, black steel plates welded over the windows, jagged panels bolted along the sides. The engine growls like a beast barely chained, and the inside’s stripped except for a few rows of cracked seats and a rigged storage hold where Taz’s crate sits latched down.
She's curled up inside, but she lifts her head the second she hears me.
Good girl.
Bishop’s checking straps, running through fuel calculations. Luca’s flirting with a handler and Ghost is loading coordinates into the nav system like we’re rolling into war. Which we are. Just happens to come with betting odds and a bloodthirsty audience.
“Carter.”
The voice comes from my left—clipped, all business.
I glance over my shoulder, already grinding my teeth. It’s one of the handlers. Tall, smug, and geared up like he’s about to storm a battlefield instead of babysit racers. He’s holding a clipboard like that’s gonna do anything when I cave his face in.
He eyes Sin as she steps out of the garage, stretching, yawning like she didn’t just light the whole fucking yard on fire with that look she’s wearing. She steps out wearing skin-tight black jeans—frayed at the knees, hugging every curve like they were stitched onto her skin. A cropped black top clings to herribs, just enough fabric to piss off every man who can’t stop staring. Over it, she’s thrown on a worn black leather jacket that looks like it’s seen as many fights as I have. Her hair’s down, loose and wild, whipping in the wind like it’s got its own goddamn attitude.
Mouth twisted in something halfway between a smirk and a snarl.
Trouble. Always.
