Free Bad Boy's Last Race by Dallas Cole

know. Hell, I’m a psych grad and I still let it happen to me. Let him control who I was friends with, when and how I saw my family, stripped everything away all so I could try to appease his temper . . . it took me way too long to see it.”
    I swear to myself right then if I ever meet this fucker, I’ll punch him in the mouth.
    “But, hey. Here I am—free of him, right?” Sophie looks into my eyes. “I’m taking a break from it all, trying to heal up and forget it.”
    I shove my plate aside and wipe a bit of syrup from the corner of my mouth, then toss my napkin down. “I know what always helps me forget,” I tell her with a grin.
    Sophie laughs. She sounds so brassy, so gutsy, and it turns me on so goddamned much to hear her this fearless, despite everything she’s been through. “I think I’m familiar with it,” she says.
    I shake my head. “No, no.” Not that I’d mind bending her over the Firebird’s hood and watching those ripe tits press against the galaxy paint job, but . . . “Actually, I have something else in mind.”

    * * *
    T he high desert sky is painted in cool oranges and pinks shot with purples as day turns to night. There’s a lukewarm breeze rising off the desert, whipping into the Firebird as we drive with the windows rolled down. Sophie’s a little rusty with a stick shift, but she makes the best of it as she angles us toward the straightaway on Highway 12.
    Sophie drums her fingers against the steering wheel. “God. This is awesome. It’s like something from one of those sexy old TV shows, you know, with the high-tech cars . . .” She laughs. “Okay, so maybe I have a complex. But seriously—this is so cool.”
    “Driving fast is the best way I know to clear my mind. You feel the wind whipping over you and the engine purring beneath you. There’s nothing like it.”
    Sophie tightens one hand on the steering wheel. “You’re sure I’m okay to do this?” she asks. Her hand caresses the gear stick and I wince, wanting very badly for her to grab my quickly hardening cock that same way.
    “You’ll be fine. Just climb her up the RPMs, nice and steady, and then let her fly.”
    Sophie guns the accelerator, her dazzling blue eyes widening in momentary terror. The Firebird rockets forward, all those horses galloping hard. Sophie sucks in a deep breath, then lets out a whoop of delight. Seventy, seventy-five, eighty . . . I look from the odometer to her with a proud grin. The wind tears through the cabin and her golden hair curls around her pale throat, adding to her look of unbridled joy. The engine is purring and Sophie is steering us down the straightaway as fast as she can and it is our night.
    It’s the kind of moment where the possibilities feel limitless.
    But whether they have the potential for good or bad, it’s hard to say.

7
    Sophie
    I laugh and crash into Jagger’s chest. “Whoops. Sorry. Hard to see.”
    “No need to be sorry, babe.” He nibbles at my lower lip, sending a fresh shock of ecstasy through me. “Just watch where you step . . .”
    I slide my rump onto the hood of the car, the engine’s warmth still radiating through the metal, and pull Jagger’s hips between my legs. “There. No more tripping.”
    “Good idea.”
    There’s only a sliver of desert moon hanging over us, but there are so many stars it’s like a silver candlelight, gleaming against every hard, hot plane of Jagger’s body. A fire stokes in my belly at the glimpse of him, tugging me like a magnet toward him. After he let me hotrod across the desert a few times, we pulled over to an observation area, and Jagger being Jagger, I couldn’t keep my hands off him for long. He kisses his way down my jawline, my skin tightening up like he’s made of ice at each sensation.
    Jagger trails one finger beneath the hemline of my wrap dress and coaxes one breast free from my bra. Warmth radiates from his touch. “You look so fucking incredible,” he murmurs, his mouth pressed up against my