Turn & Burn (27 page)

He grinned. “That’s my girl. One down, one to go.” With a wink, he backed into the bedroom and closed the door.

For a moment, I stood stock still, staring at the door.
That’s my girl.

When I stepped outside, Caine was in the passenger seat of the ‘Cuda. He took my laptop and held it on his knee while I got in and buckled up.

I backed out of the driveway and kept my speed sedate on the dirt lane. At the stop sign, he pointed right. I made the turn, but looked at him in surprise when he told me to turn down the curving road that led to the high school.

“Think you can hit fourth before you run through that modular classroom?”

Laughing, I roared down the road, slinging the car around the curves with the same abandon as Colt had done the first time he drove me to school.

Caine yelled over the screaming tires, “Atta girl. Drive it like you stole it!”

I plan on it.

I flew past the spot on the road where Colt had parked the Corvette and touched off this insane thing between me and them. When I roared over the small hill, I slowed, rolling to a stop about twenty feet short of the stop sign, the same start line Caroline had made me use the afternoon of my eighteenth birthday. Letting the engine idle, I gauged the distance to the portable classroom, thanks to the scattered streetlights. The high school grounds hadn’t changed one bit.

Caine cleared his throat. “Ready?”

I took a deep breath, already attuned to every shudder and thump the big engine made. I stomped the gas. The front end bucked into the air, but I jammed into second before I hit the entrance to the student parking lot. As I crossed the second row of parking spaces, I shifted into third. We flew past the spot where Caroline and I sat in my car the day we got sent home after I jumped Marie Nixon. I popped the transmission into fourth, rocketing past the light pole where Colt had parked the Mustang the first time I ever saw it running—that same afternoon of my eighteenth birthday, when they both took me on the hood, then took me to the fairgrounds and taught me to race.

I geared down into third with three rows of parking spaces left between the ‘Cuda and the curb in front of the classroom. Patting the brakes, I whipped the wheel forty-five degrees to the left. The rear end swung out and I went with the spin, whooping with delight as the car made an unaided one-eighty. I loved the way the new rubber shrieked.

“Nailed it.” Shooting Caine a triumphant look, I slowed as I reached the center of the lot, noting that the scrubby trees between here and the road had grown. I couldn’t see the highway at all. 

Stopping under the same light where Colt had parked the Mustang that fateful night I turned eighteen, I put the transmission in neutral and turned off the engine.

He shook his head. “You never touched that tranny till an hour ago and you fucking own it. Damndest thing I ever saw. You did
not
get that talent from Macy. I’ve had to replace her clutch twice this year alone.”

“Isn’t it more of a skill?” I shrugged. “I mean, I do it every day. Once you learn it, you just do it without thinking.” I assumed everyone who drove a manual transmission drove the way I did. Except for Colt and Caine, I didn’t know one soul who drove a stick shift, so I had no way to compare. “Besides, I’ve not had it past fourth gear yet.”

“Yes... and no. Yes, it’s a skill. But if just anyone could do it, everyone would be a racecar driver. You have something that can’t be taught. Reflexes are part of it, but it’s more like pure instinct.” I didn’t know how to respond, so I just basked in the glow his words brought. “Did Colt pay up when he lost?”

“No.”

His brows went up. “No? Good thing you got with Rowdy this afternoon.”

I sighed loudly. “Sheriff Brown showed up. We didn’t even get off the line.”

“That’s too bad.” I didn’t hear much sympathy in his tone. “Reckon that hood’s still warm?”

A shiver started at the base of my neck and rushed down my spine. “Bet so.”

“I guess I could be a gentleman and pick up Colt’s slack.”

I couldn’t help it. I started laughing. “Gentleman,” I finally croaked.

“That was harsh.” His injured tone kept me laughing. “Fine. I’ll just watch the video.”

He jabbed the power button. While the laptop booted up, I pulled the memory card out of the dash cam and plugged it into the machine.

“It’ll be two folders with a bunch of files, because it started before midnight and ended after. The software automatically cuts everything into fifteen-minute clips. Just download both folders to my desktop.”

“We, uh, do use these in the racecars, you know.” He tapped the mousepad, his attention on the video that flared to life on the screen. I sat silent while he found the start of the race.

“Jesus Christ. He’ll pout for a goddamn week. You beat his ass by more than a full car length and you were still accelerating at the finish line.” He shook his finger at the screen. “Boom. That’s how it’s fucking done!” He played the clip a second time, then unlatched the harness and shifted so he faced me. “Do you ever look at the tachometer?”

I winced. “Don’t yell, but... no. The pitch tells me when I need to shift. I guess that’s why I never play the stereo. I’ve already got music to listen to.”

Caine’s lips turned up in a rare smile.

Oh, he’d grin. Whenever he’d laugh, his lips stretched wide. He’d pout and smirk. He’d do all sorts of things with that pretty mouth, but it never just turned up at the corners the way it did now. Maybe the soft expression was an effect of the bulb in the streetlight beside the front fender. Was it some off color cheapie, or going out? Maybe what I saw was nothing more than the glow off the laptop screen, but the longer we locked gazes, the more the dark depths of his eyes seemed to soften. A crazy tingle crept across my skin.

The sensation was nothing I’d ever felt before, but it felt like something pushed an invisible force through me. A moment before, my heartbeat had mirrored the deep throb of the engine, but while Caine’s eyes bored into mine, it skipped, and took on a new beat. Bizarre warmth sank into my chest. The skin on my cheeks and lips tingled, but the heater wasn’t running. The longer we locked gazes, the more I felt... altered. Light. Different. Like I could dissolve in water or float away on a breeze.

My pulse began to race. The heat... the sudden warmth making me sweat had to come from somewhere, but the glass wasn’t fogging over. An exhaust leak? Was that why my head felt so light?

I had to look somewhere else, so I stared out over the hood, feeling like I needed to soak up the expanse of purple, because one way, or another, my time with the ‘Cuda was running out.

It would never do to admit how addictive I found my stepbrothers. Every time I was near them, it was as if I got a whiff of gasoline when I came through the door and the fumes went straight to my head. And my foot. And my sex.

Perhaps thirty hours of my seventy-two hour visit had passed and where was I? Sitting in a spot where we had history, wondering if I should just forgive and forget. If history was anything to go by, those fumes wouldn’t let me see straight until I put some distance between us.

Maybe I was looking at the upcoming race—and Harry’s idea—the wrong way. Throwing the race would put a stop to all these fake words and weird undercurrents. I’d be the stupid bitch who lost their beloved car. That might be the only thing that would keep me safe from these two, since I couldn’t seem to trust my own judgment if either was nearby.

Caine closed the laptop and twisted to slide it into the rear floorboard. “Winner gets head. That’s an ironclad rule.” He opened his door.

Half of my brain yelled for me to stay in my seat. A quarter of it screamed for me to drive off and let his Peeping Tom ass walk home. An eighth of it shrieked,
run!

I heeded the loudest message of all, the pounding force in my blood. If I threw the race, I’d be bulletproof. No matter what my stubborn heart did, they’d hate me. Right now, I needed this, by God, and I knew Caine would deliver. I slung my door open with a smile.

We met at the pointed nose of the ‘Cuda. Caine gripped my waist with those big hands, lifting me onto the hood. The warmth of the metal was more intense than I remembered—hotter, sharper—infused with forbidden memories that made my nipples pound and my channel flood on contact. The heat sank through my skin, kindling a need that shook me to the bone.

He took that cocky stance between my legs, studying me, stealing a drop of my will with each tilt of his head and flicker of his lashes. The light cast his lashes into long shadows that swept across razor-sharp cheekbones. Staring at his lips, I imagined some careful angel sculpting them, then standing back to admire his work. I already knew they felt like velvet. 

The devil was beautiful, too.

My breath caught in a painful knot when he yanked my shirt over my head, discarding it beside me. I followed his fingertip to one hard point, watching him trace the line between my pale breast and rosy areola. The pink skin puckered like corduroy; the white skin prickled with goose bumps.

That crazy weight in my breasts returned. He moved his palms in tiny circles, barely brushing the rigid tips, but the rough skin on his palms rasped the tender points. I needed so much more.

He leaned close, stopping shy of my lips, forcing me to close the gap.

The slow swirl of his tongue across mine reminded me of rolling my favorite round sable brush through wet paint—that delicious, heady moment, when the canvas was unstained and perfection still seemed attainable.

He leaned forward with each thrust of his tongue, forcing me backward until my spine touched metal. His hunger, evident from the way he ground his erection against me, made my heart stutter, then soar with certainty that this would be the encounter I craved.

His hands were already inside the waistband of my tights. I parked my heels on the bumper and lifted to let him pull them past my butt. When he had the waistband to a spot just above my knees, he gripped the fabric between my thighs in one powerful hand. Stretching the elastic knit, he tucked the waistband behind my head. The tension pinned my knees to my chest.

“Fucking pretty pussy. I don’t know why you wear pants. If that was my ass, I’d show it off all the goddamn time.”

Such a dirty boy.
Eyes glinting with satisfaction, he pulled back to study my exposed slit. The metal at my back couldn’t hold a candle to the heat in his gaze.

My heart stopped when he bent. His hot breath wafted across my inflamed folds. When his mouth came down on me, I cried out, more from anticipation than anything else. His tongue was hot and demanding, seeking my core, then tracing a line to my clit. Flattening the muscle, he moved against the swollen nub, stroking and swirling. He shoved his hands under my ass, squeezing my buttocks hard enough to bruise. My tummy bottomed out and I had to fight for breath.

His aggression had always claimed a part of me that I didn’t want to give, but this was Caine, rough to the core, uncaring of any feminine delicacy. He’d never given me time to feel embarrassed, nor given a damn about any reticence I might exhibit. I was his engine now, and he pushed me to see how high I could rev. Driving a finger into me, he stroked my inner walls. I bucked, but his tongue never faltered. Slowing down wasn’t in his vocabulary. Pedal to the metal had always been his credo, machine or woman.

I writhed on top of the searing hood, moaning whenever I could get a breath. Tucking a hand under my butt, he forced my spine to curl so he could drag his tongue down my slit and drive it into my ass.

All I could do was clench my knees and sob as he relentlessly tongued my pucker, then jammed a finger inside my core.

“Tell me what you need, Shelby.” His fingers dug into my skin, pulling me open, but his command opened that dark door he’d carved into my soul.

“I want your fingers in my ass. Fingers in my pussy, too. Fuck me while you get me off with your tongue.”

“That’s my girl.” Pulling free, he used my own moisture to ease his entrance into my ass. A second finger penetrated my pussy, then somehow, two thick digits invaded each spot, and he fastened his lips around my clit. Tears slid from the corners of my eyes.

Sucking, licking, thrusting, he drove me higher. This wasn’t an outing with an everyday driver like my lovers from school. This man wasn’t content to beat the posted speed limit by five miles and call it a good time. This was a race to the finish with the master mechanic who knew every part by touch in the dark. The determined racer who guided me along a track that had no speed limits. In his hands, I was an engine, one he delighted in showing off how well he could tune. He was more than a lover. He was the pit crew chief who tweaked each part for optimum performance, then sought to wring just a bit more, because winning—ecstasy—wasn’t for the timid.  

When he judged my core temperature was hot enough and the lubrication was flowing freely, he stepped back, donning a condom like he’d put on driving gloves.

His gaze moved from my slit to my face. “Tell me what you need.”

“I need to be fucked. Ride it like you stole it.” I raked my nails down his arms in return for making me beg. The tilt of his lips said he intended to do that very thing.

Gripping my hips, he dragged me forward, squinting while he lined up his cock with my entrance. With a jerk, he drove me onto his shaft. Sliding a hand under my back, he lifted me, using the other to wrench the tights from behind my neck. Holding me close, he dragged the elastic over his head. The tights slid down my calves to catch on my ankles, dragging my feet to his shoulders. 

With one huge paw under my ass and the other planted between my shoulder blades, he met my dazed eyes and gave me a cocky grin.

I gripped his arms as he lifted me again and again, driving me onto him, and not the other way around. The difference mattered. He wasn’t racing me to the finish. We’d both cross that line, I had no doubt, melded like car and driver. This was about Rowdy and the night he’d fucked me in the winner’s circle. The display of jealousy and male domination sent a hot jolt of lust through me, along with a subtle shot of something else—something I needed to fight.