11. Mira
eleven
Mira
"You sure about this?" The driver eyes the empty industrial stretch ahead.
"Yeah. Thanks."
The warehouses stretch for blocks—corrugated metal, loading docks, chain link topped with razor wire. Orange sodium lights every hundred feet create pools of sickly light. Between them, darkness.
I walk north on Wilmington. Past a tire shop. Past some import/export business with Korean signage. The street is wide here—four lanes with a center divider. Perfect for what happens after midnight.
It's been three hours since the parking garage. Three hours since we came grinding against each other like teenagers. His texts stopped an hour ago after getting increasingly unhinged.
Then I hear it. Faint at first—bass thumping, engines revving. Getting louder as I approach Lomita Boulevard.
Turn the corner and holy shit.
The intersection is packed. Cars everywhere—some parked, some doing burnouts in the crossroads. Smoke hangs in the air, lit orange by the streetlights. Smells like burning rubber and spilled energy drinks.
A Civic with underglow idles next to a murdered-out Challenger. Someone's R32 Skyline—right-hand drive, probably gray market—revs at a stoplight. An Integra with a fart can exhaust makes everyone wince. Girls sit on the hood of someone's slammed 240SX.
Sound layers on sound here. Not just engines but the whole ecosystem. Music from six different cars, people shouting over it, the hiss of nitrous, a woman screaming as her boyfriend does a donut around her.
Someone's selling tacos from a truck. A guy with a clipboard takes bets on the next race.
I find him on the Sepulveda side of Wilmington, away from the main circus but still getting looks. A kid in a tuned STI keeps revving at him, trying to get his attention.
He's leaning against a black Audi R8 sitting apart from the pack like a show pony at a dogfight. Too expensive, too clean, too wrong for this scene. People eye him with suspicion. Like the owner of that car's a cop, an idiot with daddy's money, or someone about to get jacked.
His shoulders are bunched, one hand pressing against his temple. Keys spinning so fast they're a blur. Not his usual rhythm. This is manic.
"That even your car?"
He turns. In the orange light, his pupils are blown wide. The scratches on his neck are still angry red with purple bruising at the edges.
"Rental." His voice is rough. "Needed something fast. Mine's... I couldn't drive mine right now."
"You brought a rental supercar to illegal street races in Carson?"
"Seemed like a good idea two hours ago. Now..." He runs a hand through his hair, making it stick up worse. "Now I realize how fucking stupid— Look, I just needed speed. Needed to burn through whatever this is."
The STI kid revs again, harder. Jax's jaw clenches.
"He's been doing that for twenty minutes," he says. "Wants to race the rich asshole in the fancy car."
"Are you going to?"
"Can't. Brain won't stop spinning. Hands won't—" He holds them up. They're shaking. "Can't focus enough to race without wrapping it around something."
Sirens. Distant but unmistakable. The crowd knows the drill—engines start in waves. The taco truck is already pulling away.
"Get in." He's moving before I can respond, that manic energy suddenly focused. "Now."
The R8 screams to life. Around us, a hundred cars scatter into the grid of LA streets. We merge into the exodus, just another set of taillights fleeing into the night.
"Where are we going?"
"Pacific Coast Highway. Need the ocean. Need curves. Need—" He shifts aggressively, the engine climbing. "Just need to drive until my brain stops doing this."
We hit the 405 North. Even at midnight, there's traffic, but he weaves through it like water. The speedometer climbs steadily—80, 90, 100.
"Talk to me," I say. "Your brain's spinning about what?"
"You. The garage. The way you sounded when—" He shifts again, harder. "And this fucking need that won't stop. I came three hours ago and I'm already—"
"Already what?"
"Already dying again. It's getting worse, not better. Like my body's addicted to—" He glances at me, then back at the road. "To you. To this. To whatever the fuck this is."
We merge onto the 10 West. Santa Monica ahead. The ocean getting closer.
"That's addiction talking."
"No. Addiction has logic. This is something else." He takes the transition to PCH North at 70, tires squealing. "This is insanity."
The highway at night is different. Ocean black on our right, mountains rising on our left. No traffic. Just us and asphalt and possibility.
He opens it up immediately. The V10 screams its happiness. 110 mph through Santa Monica. 120 past the Getty Villa.
"Slow down—"
"Can't. Need this. Need the speed to burn through the noise in my head."
125 mph into the first real curve past Topanga Canyon. My body slides sideways in the bucket seat. We're going to die. We're actually going to fucking die, and I should be terrified, but instead—
What the fuck?
A tiny sound escapes me. Almost inaudible over the engine.
His hands tighten on the wheel. "What was that?"
"Nothing. Road. Watch the road."
130 now. We're approaching Malibu proper. Another curve ahead. The road following the coastline.
The g-force slams me sideways again. Death is three inches of guardrail away, and I trust him completely. The contradiction sends heat spiraling through me. But also between my legs. The seam of my jeans pulls taut exactly where—
"Mmm—" I bite my lip but it's too late.
"That sound..." His voice changes, gets rougher. "You made that exact sound in the garage. Right before you—"
"I didn't—"
135 mph. He downshifts hard. The engine brakes us into the next curve harder than necessary. The force presses me forward, then sideways. The tight denim seam drags across my clit and I'm getting wetter with each near-miss.
"Oh—fuck—"
"What's happening?" He glances over, confused but his pupils are completely blown. "Are you—Mira, are you—"
"Just drive! Eyes on the fucking road!"
But my voice comes out breathy, wrong, and he knows something's happening even if he doesn't understand what.
Because the terror is intoxicating. Because I've never trusted anyone enough to let them drive me toward death at 140 mph.
He takes it without lifting off the throttle. The tires scream. This is how I die—trusting a man I barely know, and the thought makes me clench hard.
We're sideways, drifting. I'm pressed hard against the door, then forward as he corrects. The seam of my jeans grinds directly against my swollen clit.
"Ah—fuck—"
He almost loses it. The car wobbles, rear end stepping out too far. He corrects with precise movements, saves it, but barely. "Jesus, Mira, what—"
"Again." The word tumbles out before I can stop it. "Do it again."
"What?" He looks at me for a fraction of a second. Sees my flushed face, the way I'm gripping the door handle with white knuckles, how my hips are shifting involuntarily.
Understanding dawns in his face. His nostrils flare.
"Holy shit, the danger is making you—"
We're past Malibu now, heading toward Zuma Beach. Series of S-curves ahead.
He takes them at 145 mph. Deliberate now. Testing how much I can take.
Each curve brings us closer to the edge. Each correction shows his skill. I'm completely at his mercy, helpless, trusting him with everything. The vulnerability is more intoxicating than any physical touch.
Each movement is friction and pressure exactly where I need it. My hips move involuntarily, chasing it. These jeans are so tight it's almost painful but that makes it more—
"Jax—I can't—this is insane—"
"I've got you." His voice is steady even as he threads us through death. "Just let go. Let it happen."
Point Dume ahead. The road curves sharply right around the massive rock formation, then immediately left. He takes both at 150.
Right—slammed left. Left—thrown right. The combination is perfect. We should be dead. The fear crashes over me in waves, and the seam of my jeans grinding against my clit with each violent shift.
The terror and friction combine. My body clenches.
I come. Hard. A desperate sound tears from my throat—half scream, half moan.
The car wobbles violently. He almost loses it completely, overcorrects, tires smoking. Manages to slide into the Point Dume overlook parking lot. We stop inches from the guardrail.
"Jesus fuck—Mira—did you just—"
We're both panting. The engine ticks. Waves crash against rocks below. The whole car smells like burned rubber.
"Get out."
"I can't—I can't move. Everything's too—" But he's already out, already around the car. My door flies open. Cool ocean air hits overheated skin.
"Did you just come from—" His eyes are wild, confused, aroused. "From the curves? From me almost killing us?"
"Shut up. Just shut—"
"You came when we almost crashed. When I lost control—"
"I said shut up."
But he's already lifting me out, moving around to set me on the warm hood. The metal is warm through my jeans. His hands shake as they find my zipper.
"That's the hottest thing I've ever—fuck, you came from the danger—" He's babbling as he works my jeans down. They're so tight he has to peel them off. "From me almost killing us both—"
The night air hits my soaked pussy. I'm dripping, swollen, oversensitive.
"Need to taste you." He drops to his knees between my thighs without hesitation. "Need to know how you taste when you come from fear."
The ocean breeze hits my exposed skin, but his breath is hotter. He looks up at me, eyes wild with need and something darker. Possession.
"You're fucking soaked." His voice is rough with awe. "All from trusting me to almost kill us both."
His mouth finds my clit, tongue circling slowly, deliberately. The first touch sends a jolt straight through my pussy. I come instantly, back arching against the warm hood, a broken cry tearing from my throat.
"Jesus, Mira—" He pulls back just enough to watch my face as I shatter. "The way you look when you let go..."
But he doesn't give me time to recover. His mouth returns, tongue flicking faster now, more insistent.
"I can taste how scared you were," he murmurs against my pussy, the vibrations making me clench. "How wet fear makes you. It's the most beautiful fucking thing I've ever—"
His words dissolve into action. Tongue flat against my clit, then pointed, tracing patterns that make my hips buck involuntarily. I'm hypersensitive from the first orgasm, every nerve ending screaming.
"Too much—Jax, I can't—"
"Yes, you can." His hands grip my thighs, holding me open, keeping me from escaping the relentless pleasure. "You're going to come for me again. And again."
Another orgasm builds, stronger than the first. My hands find his hair, gripping tight enough to hurt. He groans against me, the sound vibrating against my clit.
"That's it, killer. Pull harder. Take what you need."
The roughness in his voice, the way he wants me to use him, sends me over the edge again. This climax tears through me like wildfire, my whole body convulsing against his mouth.
"Fuck, the way you taste when you come—" He doesn't stop, tongue moving in maddening circles. "Like danger and need and something I want to drown in."
My thighs shake around his head. The metal hood is slick beneath me, my body boneless and desperate all at once.
"Can't get enough," he growls, sucking my clit between his lips. "Could do this forever. Could live between your thighs and die happy."
The third orgasm builds slower, deeper. Every nerve in my body is on fire. His mouth is relentless, worshipping me like I'm something sacred and profane all at once.
"Come for me one more time," he commands against my swollen flesh. "Let me hear you scream for me."
When it hits, it's devastating. My back arches completely off the hood, a sound ripping from my throat that's part pleasure, part prayer. The echo bounces off the cliffs and comes back to us like an answer.
He pulls back slowly, reluctantly. Face glistening in moonlight. "The speed turned you on. The danger. When we almost went over—"
"I don't know what—"
"You came when I lost control of the car. I heard it."
"Stop trying to analyze it." But he's right. The danger made everything more intense.
"Your turn." I reach for his zipper, needing to touch him.
"Can't." He catches my wrist, gentle but firm, and stands. I can see his cock straining against his jeans. "Not yet. Not here."
"Why?"
"Because once I start, I won't stop. Won't be able to." He runs his hand through his hair, agitated. "And we have work. The team. Real life waiting."
Reality crashes back. Right. I'm moving to the safehouse. Living with his team while we hunt Alexei.
"The safehouse," I say, trying to steady my voice. "When am I supposed to—"
"Today. Later today, technically. It's almost dawn." His voice cracks. "But separate rooms. Definitely separate rooms. I couldn't survive sharing a room with you."
The self-awareness makes me almost smile. "Obviously."
"Try not to kill anyone. My team, I mean. They're good people, just—"
"Just stay out of my way, Jax."
But we both know that's impossible now. Our bodies are magnetized to each other. Living under one roof while hunting the man who destroyed my life.
We're going to destroy each other.