14
Luna
The world explodes into chaos.
Wind rushes past me, a furious howl drowning out my terrified shriek as the motorcycle leaps forward like an unchained beast.
For one weightless moment, we’re flying. No, not flying. Falling. We weave through traffic at an impossible speed, each sharp turn a dance with death.
Horns blare. Tires screech. And my heart pounds a frantic rhythm against Cade’s back, my arms locked around his waist in a death grip.
Each curve forces me to mold myself closer to him until I can feel every breath, every subtle shift of muscle beneath his leather jacket.
This is insanity. This is freedom. This is . . . Oh God. This is something else entirely.
My thighs clamp around the seat, gripping it so tightly I know my skin will bear imprints of the braided leather for days.
Between the heat of the engine and Cade’s body, I’m burning up, painfully aware that only my flimsy lace thong separates me from the vibrating beast beneath me.
Note to self: next time you’re fleeing for your life, opt for granny panties.
Though somehow I doubt even industrial-strength cotton would save me now. The engine’s vibration travels up through me, a wicked full-body massage that makes every nerve ending spark to life.
As we race down the highway, my world narrows to the points where our bodies connect. His back against my breasts. My thighs pressed to his. And his scent—leather and citrus—wraps around me like a physical touch, making my head spin.
As Cade accelerates through a clearing in traffic, the bike roars. The vibration shoots straight to my core, and I bite down hard on my lip, trapping the sound before it becomes something more embarrassing.
What the actual fuck?
Here I am, clinging to a possible psycho, fleeing for my life, and my traitorous body decides now is the perfect time to wake up? Though ‘wake up’ feels like an understatement—more like my body just mainlined pure electricity.
I don’t dare release my thigh’s death grip on the seat for fear of falling off, but every tiny adjustment only makes things worse. By the time my pussy begins clenching and I feel moisture slipping between my folds, I know I’m in serious trouble.
I grit my teeth, determined to stamp out the waves of pleasure because I’d rather die than leave evidence of my arousal on this grump’s bike. Talk about death by embarrassment.
I t ry desperately to focus on anything except the inferno building between my legs.
Deep breaths? Mistake. Every inhale fills my lungs with the pure essence of Cade, making my head swim.
Squeezing my eyes shut? Worse. Without vision, every other sensation intensifies—the rumble of the engine, the heat of his body, the way his abs tighten under my fingers with each turn.
Reciting the periodic table? I get stuck on ‘V’ because all I can think of is ‘vibration,’ and oh god, there’s so much of it.
With my thighs spread wide on the seat, my clit is exposed to the merciless thrumming beneath me.
My nipples are as hard as the piercings bisecting them, burning where they press against his back through my thin top. Every bump in the road, every shift of his body sends another jolt of pleasure through my sensitized flesh.
The wrongness of it all—the danger, the chase, this man I barely know—only feeds the fire. My fight-or-flight response has completely short-circuited, crossing wires with my libido until I can’t tell if I’m terrified or turned on. Maybe both. Probably both. Definitely both.
I should tell Cade I need a minute. Yeah, right. In the middle of a busy road with god-knows-who on our tail. ‘Sorry, could you pull over? I need to handle this inconvenient orgasm.’
But the alternative is unthinkable. I’m going to come. Right here. Right now. My thighs are already trembling against the leather seat, and I can feel my wetness seeping through my flimsy underwear. Shit. Shit. Shit.
I’m teetering on the edge of something I’ve never felt before. It’s not just the physical sensation. It’s the danger. The speed. The way Cade seems to control every aspect of this moment without even trying. It’s terrifying, but God help me, it’s also exhila rating.
“Cade,” I whisper, the word more plea than warning. “Stop—” But it’s too late. My muscles are cramping from fighting it, and I can’t hold back anymore.
I arch against him, breasts pressing into his back as my fingers dig into the hard plane of his abs.
His muscles jerk beneath my touch, his response shooting straight to my core. A lusty moan escapes before I can trap it behind my teeth.
Dignity, thy name is not Luna.
I’m about to come apart in the middle of a high-speed escape, wrapped around the world’s most dangerous savior. This is, hands down, the most screwed-up moment of my life.
“Cade . . .” Another needy moan works its way past my throat. “Cade . . .”
My body draws tight as a bowstring, trembling on the edge.
Suddenly his gloved hand lands high on my exposed thigh. A silent command that shatters what’s left of my control.
He squeezes hard. Harder . . .
“Fuck!”
My body spasms against his back, caught in the grip of something so powerful it whites out everything else—the danger, the fear, my own embarrassment. It’s loud, endless, mind-numbing, and quite possibly the most inappropriate climax in the history of climaxes. But with Cade’s hand still branding my thigh through the leather of his glove, I can’t bring myself to care.
When it's over, I collapse against Cade, my breaths coming in ragged gasps.
For one perfect moment, everything else melts away. All that exists is this raw, exhilarating rush and the solid warmth of him against me.
My fingers are still splayed across his abs, and I swear I feel his muscles jump when I absently stroke the ridged surface.
Then Cade makes a sharp turn, and reality comes crashing back with all the subtlety of a sledgehammer. The lingering euphoria evaporates, replaced by a damning awareness of what I just did.
He knows. God, of course, he knows. His touch wasn’t a coincidence. He deliberately dragged that orgasm out of me. Owned it. Controlled it.
My cheeks burn as I remember every desperate moan.
I can’t face him. Just throw me off this bike already. Push me into oncoming traffic. Anything to avoid acknowledging that I got on a motorcycle for the first time in my life and lost my shit.
His hand is gone from my thigh, but the phantom pressure remains, branded into my skin. That touch, whatever that was that he did, is more lethal than any weapon.
Suddenly Cade makes an even sharper turn. For a moment, I think I’m going to slide right off, but muscle memory kicks in, and I grip him tighter.
But it’s not the unexpected turn that sends a fresh wave of panic through me. It’s the glimpse of two identical black sedans, the same ones that have been behind us since we left the hotel.
I hardly noticed them before; my brain cells were too drunk on lust. But now, as our pursuers weave between cars, my stomach twists, and adrenaline quickly burns through the lingering pleasure.
The sedans close the distance with menacing grace. My eyes dart to the passenger window of the lead car, and I glimpse a dark, ominous shape that makes my breath catch. A gun, aimed directly at us.
“Cade!” I shout, my voice barely carrying over the wind and engine roar. My fingers dig into his abs. “Did you see that?”
“ I did,” he replies calmly—as if I’ve just pointed out a particularly interesting cloud formation. “You’ll be fine.”
Fine? Does he even understand the situation we’re in? A man is pointing a machine gun at us, and he’s telling me I’ll be fine?
I want to laugh, but I’m pretty sure it would come out as a hysterical shriek. “But he’s got an AR!” I yell again.
“I know,” he repeats, that dangerous calm still coloring his tone. “Just hold tight.”
“Easy for you to say,” I mutter, burying my head between his shoulder blades. “You’ve got a human shield at your back. One who probably deserves to be used as target practice after what she just did.”
A burst of laughter erupts from Cade—dark and rich. I freeze as the sound vibrates through his back into my chest, making me hyperaware of our connection. Of course, he heard me. We’re pressed together so tightly I can feel every breath he takes expanding against me.
Which erases any chance that he didn’t hear me earlier. Cade heard every moan, every shameless whimper. My face burns as the memory of my uncontrolled pleasure replays in my mind again.
If I survive this, I’m going to need so much therapy.
Cade’s laughter ceases abruptly as the chase intensifies. Without warning, he veers right, cutting across three lanes and narrowly missing a delivery truck. I screech, tensing around him, and once again, I feel his hand on my other thigh—this time, it’s lightly tapping on my other thigh, the one covered by the remnants of my torn skirt.
A few light taps, almost like some kind of morse code.
Trust me, that touch says as clearly as words.
My body wants to trust him, but my mind catalogs all the warning signs—his unnatural calm, the practiced way he weaves through traffic, and his ability to anticipate our pursuers’ every move.
This isn’t his first chase.
We exit onto a maze of residential streets and small businesses, heading north of the city, though it’s hard to keep track at this speed.
Just when I think I can’t take any more high-speed twists and turns, Cade makes one final exit toward an industrial area on the city outskirts.
Ahead looms an unfinished warehouse, a stark skeleton of steel and concrete standing alone amidst overgrown lots. Cade pulls up next to the building.
“Why are we stopping?” I cry.
For a moment, I’m sure this is it—we’re done for. But as I look around, I realize we’re no longer being followed, thank God.
But shouldn’t we be zooming away, not waiting for them to catch up?
Cade gets off the bike, wraps an arm around my waist and lifts me off with embarrassingly little effort.
“Hey! Put me down. I’m sure I can find my own way off—” Shit. My protest dies the moment my feet hit the ground and my knees buckle.
I fall against his chest, and his arm tightens around me. Between all that vibration and that orgasm, I can’t feel my lower half. Though the way he’s holding me against him is sending plenty of feeling rushing back.
“Easy, princess,” he murmurs. “Here, lock your knees.”
Feeling self-conscious, I brush him off and snap, “I’m fine. Why are we stopping?”
Ins tead of replying, he points to the warehouse, “Listen carefully. I want you to climb to the second floor and stay down. No matter what you hear . . .” He leans in, his eyes boring into mine with an intensity that makes me shiver. “You stay down. Understand?”
Snarky comebacks die on my tongue. He looks . . . dangerous. My heart knocks against my rib cage as I take an involuntary step back, only to find his hand gripping the back of my neck, stopping my retreat.
“Understand?” he repeats.
I nod, unable to form words.
His gaze softens for a fraction of a second, and then, like the shutting of a trap door, his eyes go hard and cold. “No peeking, naughty girl. Now go.”
And then he’s speeding back the way we came—right back to our pursuers.
Terror grips me as I scramble up the cracked steps and into the musty building.
The building is rough and unfinished, but there are enough sturdy beams and half-built floors to make the ascent possible. Dust hangs thick in the hot, whistling wind, stirred through empty window frames as my footsteps echo across crumbling stairs.
By the time I reach the second floor, I’m breathless, my palms raw and stinging.
Crouched behind one of the frameless windows, I scan the deserted road below, its edges swallowed by overgrown weeds. Heat ripples off the asphalt, bending the horizon like a mirage.
Then I hear the sound of revving engines.
Cade appears first, a blur of motion on his bike, weaving across the road in sharp, erratic angles. The black sedans follow close behind him. A shooter leans out of the car, rifle raised, but can't seem to find his aim with Cade's rapid switches.
Then, without warning, Cade spins and charges straight for the lead sedan.
My heart slams against my ribs as gunfire erupts, the cracks ricocheting off the surrounding buildings.
“Cade!” I yell before I can stop myself. Was I supposed to stay silent? Or not look? I can’t remember. It doesn’t matter—he’s going to die.
Without slowing, Cade pulls a gun.
What the hell is he doing? There’s no way he can shoot straight while moving around like that.
A moment later, I have my answer. He fires once, and the front tire of the lead sedan explodes. The car veers wildly, then flips in a shower of sparks and screeching metal.
My heart is pounding so hard that I can barely breathe. This scene feels like it was ripped straight from a movie.
Is this really happening? In broad daylight?
The second sedan slows, hesitating for a crucial moment. Cade rips something from his pants and lobs it at the car with deadly precision.
An explosive.
I duck behind a concrete pillar and cover my ears, my survival instincts finally kicking in. The blast, when it comes, is deafening. Even from my elevated position, the shockwave slams into me, making my teeth rattle.
When I dare to look again, the second car is a twisted wreck, smoke pouring from its shattered frame.
In the stunned silence that follows, Cade calmly takes off his helmet and swings off the bike, every step measured and purposeful as he approaches the overturned first sedan. He raises his gun and fires once, point-blank, into the stunned driver.
The crack of the shot makes my whole body jerk, but Cade doesn’t even flinch. He shrugs off his jacket and moves to the passenger side. Bracing a boot beside the door, he yanks it open with a strength that makes my mouth go dry.
Cade drags a still-conscious man out of the car and away from the wreckage, then tosses him to the ground like a rag doll. A shocked gasp works its way up my throat when I see who it is.
Hector. His so-called business partner.
Hector tries to crawl away, but Cade pulls him to his knees, cradling his head against his muscular thigh. His fingers rake almost soothingly into Hector's hair, a gesture so wrong in this moment it makes my stomach turn.
Slowly, Cade reaches under his shirt and pulls out his rosary.
The sight of it sends a chill through my entire body, even as a sick heat rises in my chest. I can’t crouch anymore. I rise, drawn to the horror I know is about to unfold, even as the inescapable truth dawns on me.
This wasn’t a chase.
It was a trap.