Betraying Beauty (Sons of Lucifer MC): Vegas Titans Series by Celia Loren

between our legs and searing us together.
    The curve eases up and Dominic shifts the bike upright, giving
us another burst of speed until another curve takes us. My arms tighten around
his waist, tighter. Then another curve, and another; the road is like a
sidewinder, each twist pulling our centers closer together and teaching me the
way Dominic’s body moves. The motorcycle is like an extension of him: fast,
furious, and fucking elegant.
    The heat building between my legs isn’t just from the engine
combustion.
    We loop to the top of the hill and back, flashes of forest
and rocky cliff zipping past our headlights like a movie montage. Before I know
it, we’ve wound back down the mountain and back to the lodge.
    Dominic brings the bike to a squealing stop in the driveway,
spinning in a 180 and shooting gravel like bullets from the tires. By the time
we grind to a halt, I can see that we’re the first ones back.
    He’s won!
            Dirty, the quiet guy who had been guarding me all night, lumbers up
and claps Dominic on the bag. “Nice riding Prez,” he rumbles with what is
probably his version of a smile. “Now I can switch back to beer. Thank god.”
    Dirty holds up a mug for Dominic, clanking it on his helmet.
Dominic laughs and rips off his helmet, shaking his hair out and grabbing
Dirty’s mug. He takes a long swig as the other racers spill in, their faces
fresh and happy.
    Stout is standing on the porch and fires another shot into
the sky, silencing the crowd for a hot second. “Let’s hear it for President Dominic
Thorne and the Sons of Lucifer, Night Ride champions! The rest of you assholes,
keep drinking!”
    “He did have an unfair advantage,” yells someone, who I
recognize as Lance Bogart. “He had the prettiest pillion in the game. And the
only one with boobs.”
    “What about me,” jokes the guy who was riding behind him,
clutching at his chest trying to make cleavage. “Aren’t I pretty?”
    I rip off my helmet too, letting it drop to the ground as I
try to will my legs to stop buzzing with excitement. It’s a futile attempt.
Even though the engine has stopped, I can feel the rush of the crazy midnight
bike race through all my bones.
    “Let’s see a kiss, champ!” Bogie shouts.
    There are cheers and jeers. Dominic chuckles, steps off his
bike, and in one fluid motion yanks me off by my waist. His hands are huge and
rough and I can feel his calluses rub my skin through my blouse.
    I stare up at him, suddenly frozen. “Dominic…”
    The sensory overload pushes to overdrive when without
warning he obeys the crowd’s demand and his lips cover mine, not waiting for
permission. He’s an animal, ravaging me with his lips, capturing me with his
arms. So warm, so soft—I’m suddenly standing in that lake, ten years ago. The
crushing weight of time and heartbreak lifts, and our bodies quake to life
together. His lips are velvet soft, the stubble on his chin prickly with
danger. There’s suddenly no distance between us.
    But it doesn’t last. Dominic’s body stiffens and his lips
retreat too soon, leaving me breathless, dazed, and confused. I stare at him in
consternation and fear, a single tear spilling down my cheek. He raises a hand
to my face and brushes it aside.
    “See what I mean?” he murmurs. “Team-building exercise.”
    “What?” I stutter. “Oh, the, yeah, the motorcycle thing.”
He smirks, his lips twisting like my insides. “Yeah. The motorcycle thing.”
    What is happening? Can I just freeze this moment in amber,
please, and never have to think again?
    Before my brain can process Dominic’s quip or his shocking
kiss, there’s another roar of an engine and the crowd parts to let a new rider
in to the driveway.
    Someone shouts, “Straggler!”
    Another, “Loser!” And there are a few sniggers, but Dominic’s
face has gone wooden and he walks quickly away from me, toward the newcomer.
    “Grindhouse,” Dominic shouts. “What the hell are you