“Lucy, I need to go,” I say, but make no move to push her off or stop her in any way. What motherfucker would turn pussy down? Not me.
“Just let me suck it really quick.” She crawls off me and steadies her high heels on the ground.
I peel my sweaty back off the hot hood of my Dodge Demon and look her over as she stands before me, panting. Her bleach-blonde hair is a mess, the roots having grown out far past stylish neglect. The Daisy Dukes she’s wearing barely cover her pussy, and she has them unbuttoned and rolled down once.
Her white T-shirt has a black skull with a matching black crown, tilting to the right. Blood runs down it, coating the skull.She has the shirt tied in a knot underneath her large tits—no bra, of course. Her navel has a yellow and red sun tattooed around it with a string of diamonds hanging from a piercing.
She’s my number one cheerleader. My go-to fuck. The bitch can suck-start a fucking Harley.
Before I can speak, she goes to my jeans, and I raise my hands while her fingers fumble with my black studded belt. Once she gets it undone, she rips the buttons open and shoves my pants to my ankles, along with my boxers. My hard dick springs to action, staring up at her.
“Bow to your king, my lady,” I say with a British accent.
Chicks fucking dig that shit. Well, never met one who hasn’t.
She laughs and bends at the waist, leaning over to take my dick into her mouth without wasting another second. I should force her to her knees, but we’re standing in an abandoned gravel parking lot. And I’m not a total asshole.
I place my hands behind my head and link my fingers together. Throwing my head back, I stare up at the dark sky and groan as she swallows my dick like I’m throwing hundreds at her.
My tongue darts out and runs over my lip ring. “Yeah, baby…”
“Racers, take the stage for the last qualifying round of the night.” Colt Tinsley’s voice rings out through his megaphone from behind us.
Fuck!I shove Lucy’s head away, and she loses her balance, falling to her hands and knees in the gravel.
“Grave,” she growls, using my nickname. Her brown eyes glare up at me.
“Sorry, babe.” I hop on both feet, struggling to pull my boxers and jeans up as I round the car. My shoes slip on the loose gravel, and I nearly trip, falling into my Challenger’s driver’sseat. I don’t even bother with buttoning my pants before I start it up.
Lucy jumps to her feet, dusting her hands and knees off before stepping back when I rev the engine. I shift it into gear and take off, throwing gravel and dust up in my wake.
I speed over the gravel and onto the asphalt, passing cars that just exited the once private airport strip.
Making my way up to the front line, I bring my car to a stop and look to my left to see a guy I’ve known for years. Jimmy Trust sits next to me in his new yellow fucking Ferrari. I smirk.
“Two nights in a row?” he asks. Cross and I were here last night before we hit Glass. “Don’t you ever give her a rest?”
“Whores were made to be ridden.” I rub the black dash. “Aren’t you, baby?”
I’ve had the Dodge Challenger SRT Demon for two years now. She’s the fastest production car on the streets. Only thirty-three hundred were made—three thousand of those sold in the US, with the other three hundred going to Canada. A friend at a Dodge dealership guaranteed me one when I paid cash months in advance. She only comes out when I race her. Other than that, I keep her in the garage.
Jimmy snorts. “Just going to warn ya, Grave. You’re not ready.”
A woman with fake tits, fake tan, and fake eyelashes struts onto the tarmac and stops in front of our cars, a green flag gripped in her right hand. Black heels anchor her stance as she parts her legs. Leather straps run up her calves to her thighs, and her tiny black leather skirt and matching lace bra leave little to the imagination.
Our headlights illuminate her and the runway before us. People have lined up on both sides as far as I can see. Some have pulled their cars right up to the line, sitting on their hoods ortheir trunks after placing their bets. Drinks in one hand, joints in the other.
“I’m always ready, sweetheart.” I blow him a kiss. “I hear you like having your ass spanked. But what about accessories? Would you prefer rope or handcuffs? Some zip ties? Oh, or a chain? Maybe a little whip action? I have it all.”
His hand tightens on the black steering wheel, and he shifts in his seat.
“Aww, don’t be ashamed, Jimmy. We all have our kinks,” I taunt.
He shakes his head and mutters, “You sadistic son of a bitch.”
“Racers, are you ready?”
Putting all jokes aside, I turn to look at the half-naked woman standing before us. She pushes her right hip out, lifting the flag and then bringing it down. I let off the clutch and shift into first. Then second. Then third. I pull away from Jimmy right off the bat. I’m the quickest off the start and the fastest all around. No one can beat me. I’m not sure why they even fucking try.
