Page 52 of Sinful Submission

I glared at him, my nostrils flaring. Biting back a curse, I revved my engine. Cruz arrived fifteen minutes later, his red Hellcat purring as it pulled to the valet stand. He stepped out, his eyes immediately landing on Christian with suspicion, then Santari, before turning to me.

“So, this is the money?” Cruz asked, approaching our group.

I nodded. “Cruz, meet Christian Valentine. Apparently, he rides.”

“As in your brother, Christian Valentine?”

I spoke through clenched teeth. “Chill with the family dynamics, motherfucker.”

He smirked. “Awww, how sweet of you to be getting to know your family,” he teased.

“Fuck you, bitch.”

His guffaw was loud and ridiculously boisterous.

“Cruz…” Santari chided.

He slapped my shoulder. “I’m just fuckin’ with him, damn. Wouldn’t be right if I didn’t. Besides,” he reigned in his laughter, “it’ll make for a great story later, I’m sure of it.”

Cruz extended his hand, which Christian shook firmly. “You’re from St. Louis, right? The corporate lawyer?”

“Sports and entertainment law,” Christian corrected. “You got quite a reputation yourself. Club Fetish is legendary, even in the Midwest.”

Cruz’s expression remained neutral, but I caught the slight surprise in his eyes. “I get that often.”

I pulled Cruz aside while Santari engaged Christian in conversation. “I need you to keep Santari with you during this race. Don’t take your eyes off her—not for a second.”

“Are you expecting problems?”

“No, but until we put the nail in the coffin of the motherfuckers responsible for her kidnapping, I’m taking no chances.”

Cruz nodded. “I got her. But don’t bury that nigga. Try to keep whatever this is light, aight?”

My grin was mischievous. “Bury? You speak like I’m the Grim Reaper.”

“Then we have an understanding.”

I winked and grabbed Santari, drawing her to me and growling into her mouth as I sucked her tongue.

“And just like that, my pussy’s wet,” she murmured.

I smashed her lips with mine, then released her. “Be good,” I said, putting on my helmet. “Or don’t.”

She smiled, and Cruz pulled her between his stance, wrapping his arms around her and sinking his lips into her neck.

She moaned and bit her bottom lip, winking at me.

Christian glanced from him to Santari to me but didn’t comment on his thoughts. That was a good thing because I gave no fucks about his thoughts anyway.

We established the rules: four miles down Ocean Drive to South Pointe Park, then four miles back. The first to return to Primal Luxury Resort won the million. Cruz and Santari would stay behind and watch this play out from afar.

Miami afternoon vibratedaround us as we prepared our bikes at the hotel entrance. Traffic moved in its typical stop-and-go rhythm along Ocean Drive. Tourists weaved between colorful Art Deco buildings and palm trees, completely unaware of the high-stakes race about to unfold.

“On Santari’s count,” I said, straddling the Mercedes and starting the engine. The machine hummed between my legs, its power waiting to remind me why I chose it in the first place. Santari strolled over and stood between our bikes. I winked at her, and she blew me a kiss as I revved my engine.

Christian adjusted his gloves. “There’s still time to back out if you’re nervous.”

I didn’t dignify that with a response; instead, I focused on the road ahead and analyzed the traffic patterns and potential paths through the congestion. This was my town, and there was no way he would emerge victorious.

---