Page 53 of Sinful Submission

Santari raised her arm. “Three... two... one... GO!”

I twisted the throttle, feeling the front wheel lift slightly as the Mercedes shot forward. Christian’s Ducati launched with equal ferocity, both bikes weaving immediately to avoid a taxi pulling away from the curb.

Beeeeeeeep!

The driver raised his middle finger and cursed us to hell, and I laughed, the thrill already brewing inside me like a raging storm.

The Miami heat pressed against me as we accelerated, slicing between cars like they were standing still. Christian took an aggressive line, squeezing between a tour bus and a parked Bentley with inches to spare. I countered by hugging the center line, overtaking three cars before a red light forced a decision—brake or risk it.

Christian chose risk, blasting through the intersection as cross traffic began to move. I followed, ignoring the blaring horns and expletives from startled drivers. The Ducati’s taillight remained ahead, taunting me as we approached seventy miles per hour in a thirty five zone.

Ocean Drive unfolded before us—a gauntlet of obstacles. Convertibles with tops down cruised in the left lane. Tourists darted across crosswalks. Valet attendants dashed between parked luxury vehicles. Each required split-second decisions and instant calculations of speed and trajectory.

Christian handled his bike with unmistakable skill, threading the Ducati through impossibly tight gaps in traffic. I matched him move for move, the Mercedes responding to my slightest touch as if it was an extension of me.

We approached a delivery truck blocking half the road. Christian swerved right, nearly clipping a row of parked cars. I went left, accelerating into oncoming traffic for three heart-stopping seconds before cutting back into my lane ahead of him.

Our bikes shot past outdoor cafés, the patrons’ heads turning in unison at the silver and black blurs. A police cruiser parked outside one of the hotels flashed its lights, but we were gone before the officer could react.

South Pointe Park appeared ahead. It was the halfway mark. Christian braked hard, executing a tight turn that sent his backtire sliding. I matched his maneuver, using my weight to control my slide as we came around for the return journey.

For a brief moment, our eyes met through our visors. I saw something familiar there—not just the physical resemblance, but the same intensity, the same instinctive understanding of risk and control that I felt in myself.

The return leg became a chess match at ninety miles per hour. The traffic had thickened, forcing even more creative navigation. Christian found a rhythm, leaning his Ducati at impossible angles to slip through gaps I thought was too narrow for any vehicle.

But I pushed the Mercedes to its mechanical limits, feeling the engine’s vibration intensify as we approached triple digits on a clear stretch. A bus pulled out unexpectedly, forcing us onto the sidewalk for thirty terrifying yards, sending pedestrians diving out of our path.

Christian handled the detour flawlessly, his back tire kicking up sand as he rejoined the street. I followed, grudgingly impressed by his control.

As Primal Luxury Resort came back into view, we were dead even. I hunched lower over the handlebars, squeezing every possible ounce of acceleration from the German machine. Christian matched me, both of us threading through the final stretch of traffic like needles through fabric.

We crossed the invisible finish line simultaneously, tires smoking as we braked hard in front of the hotel. I could see the shock on Cruz and Santari’s faces as I removed my helmet, my heart pounding against my ribcage. Christian did the same with sweat glistening on his forehead as he grinned.

“Tie,” Cruz announced, stepping out in front of us.

“Bullshit,” I countered. “I had the edge.”

“In what universe?” Christian laughed, but there was no malice in it. “I was ahead by half a wheel.”

Santari’s eyes were wide. “That was insane! You two were flying!”

Before I could respond, a silver Audi swerved aggressively toward the curb, the horn blaring from an obvious angry driver. The car screeched to a stop, and a red-faced man in an expensive but ill-fitting suit launched from the driver’s side.

“What the fuck is wrong with you assholes?” he shouted, stomping toward us. “You nearly killed my girlfriend back there! Racing like fucking maniacs!”

Christian stepped forward, his posture shifting subtly into a defensive stance. “Back up, man. Nobody got hurt.”

“Don’t tell me to back up!” The man jabbed a finger into Christian’s chest. “You know what? I’m calling the cops right now. Let’s see how those fancy bikes look getting towed away.”

Christian shoved him back with enough force to create distance but not enough to be considered assault. “Touch me again and you’ll regret it.”

The man stumbled, then redirected his rage toward me. “Fuck you!” He flipped us off. “You think Ocean Drive is your personal racetrack?”

He charged forward, his arm cocked back for a punch. I let him come—let him think he had a chance—before stepping slightly to the side. My fist connected with his jaw in a clean, swift swing that transferred maximum force with minimum effort. He dropped immediately, unconscious, before hitting the pavement.

“Fred!” A woman’s voice cut through the aftermath.

I turned to see blonde hair rushing from the Audi’s passenger side. Her face was contorted with rage, and her eyes were fixed on me.

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