Page 128 of Vicious Temptation

“The guys who think their cars are sacred and that nobody else is allowed to touch them.”

“Hey.” I point at her. “I saw your little collection back there. You know exactly what I’m talking about when it comes to vehicles.”

She smiles. “Then you also know you’re wasting your breath.”

I say nothing and toss her the key fob. She catches it and heads around the hood. By the time I settle into the passenger seat, she’s already adjusting the mirrors and the seat.

“It’s all stock,” I say as she brings the engine to life and pulls onto the street.

“Oh, trust me. I know.”

“You say that like it’s an insult.”

“It’s not an insult.” Her hand glides over the wheel. “It’s an observation, Braga.”

“You looked offended.”

“I am offended.”

I bark out a laugh. “By my truck?”

“By the wasted potential.” She presses the accelerator a little harder. “And by the fact that you’re driving on factory tires.”

She looks at me, clearly waiting for me to defend myself. But nothing comes out. Because fuck me, she’s adorable. And sexy as hell. Watching her behind the wheel has me thinking about having her again, tasting her again, and all the things I’d rather be doing than sitting in this passenger seat.

I shake my head and rest an elbow against the open window before my thoughts get me into trouble. We roll to a red light, and the rumble of another engine pulls Remi’s attention toward the lane beside us.

Looking past her, I spot a middle-aged man behind the wheel of a vintage baby-blue convertible. The car is definitely not stock. It’s immaculate, the kind of machine someone has poured years of money and obsession into, but the guy behind the wheel isn’t interested in my truck. His attention is fixed entirely on Remi.

He leans back in his seat, one hand draped over the wheel, trying a little too hard to look cool as he tips his chin in greeting. Remi scoffs and faces forward again, but that only seems to encourage him.

When he revs the engine twice, I watch Remi reposition her hands on the steering wheel.

I know exactly what that means.

“Remi. No.”

“What?”

“You know exactly what.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

The sweetness in her voice might be convincing if I didn’t know her better. The convertible revs again as we wait for the light to change, and I can practically feel her restraint slipping beside me.

“Remi.”

“Braga.”

“Don’t.”

She turns to me with wide eyes and an expression so innocent it’s complete bullshit. “Are you accusing me of something?”

“Are you really trying to street race? In my truck? With me sitting right here?”

“Why? Are you going to arrest me?” She bites her lip. “Cuff me again?”

The woman plays dirty, and my mind immediately goes back to her bent over the arm of the sofa.