Page 63 of Redline
He drives two fingers inside me with a blunt, demanding force.
I cry out, the sound of his name ripping from my throat as my hips jerk upward, seeking the contact even as it overwhelms me. He doesn't pull back. Instead, he braces his other hand on the bench behind me, caging me in completely, and begins to move.
He doesn’t rush it. He works me with a rhythmic, punishing precision, his fingers curling deep inside me while his thumb maintains a steady, heavy pressure against my center. Every stroke is a deliberate claim, a slow-motion wrecking ball to the last of my composure. He keeps his gaze locked on mine, his eyes dark and dilated, watching every flicker of pleasure and ruin that crosses my face.
"That’s it, baby," he rasps, his voice a low, gravelly vibration that I feel deep in my chest. "Give it up. Stop trying to analyze it and just take it."
I’m falling. My hands fly up to grip his shoulders, my nails digging into his skin as I try to find an anchor in the storm. The steam in the sauna is thick enough to drown in, but the only air I want is the hot, ragged breath he’s exhaling against my lips.
He picks up the pace, his thumb working in tight, ruthless circles that send waves of blistering electricity crashing through my hips. I’m vibrating, my thighs trembling against his arm as the tension reaches a screaming, unbearable peak. I can feel the exact moment I lose the ability to think—the moment Carter the analyst dies and only this version of me, the one belonging to him in the fever, remains.
"Dominic," I sob, my head thrashing back against the wall. "Please."
"I’ve got you," he murmurs, his voice possessive and thick with a dark sort of pride. He shifts his weight, his free hand moving to cup the side of my face, his thumb stroking my cheekbone with asudden, unexpected tenderness even as his knuckles press hard against the soft curve of my hip.
"Mine," he claims, leaning in until our foreheads touch. "All that noise in your head... shut it down, baby. Just feel me, Carter."
The snap is violent.
It’s a blinding fracture that starts in my core and shatters outward, leaving me breathless and raw. I gasp, the sound swallowed by the crook of his neck as my body seizes in a climax so intense it feels like it’s rewriting my DNA. I cling to him, my fingers digging into the hard muscle of his shoulders as the tremors rack my frame, dragging every last bit of defiance out of me until I’m completely spent.
Dominic doesn’t move. He just holds me through the aftershocks, his arms wrapping around me with a crushing, possessive force. He tucks his chin over my head, his heartbeat a steady, heavy thud against my ear—the only sound in the room other than our synchronized, ragged breathing.
He’s still a disaster. He’s still the most arrogant, frustrating person I’ve ever met, and I’m still the one who has to find a way to make sense of his brand of wreckage. I spent years promising myself I’d stay clear of the orbit of men like him—men who live for the asphalt and the adrenaline—yet here I am, coming apart yet again beneath the Formula One driver I was never supposed to let in.
The reality of it hasn't changed. He’s still a risk, and I’m still a fool.
But as the steam curls around us, the restless, frantic energy that’s been clawing at my chest for three thousand miles finally goes quiet. I’m not pacing anymore. I’m not analyzing the data or looking for the exit. I’m just here.
And for now, selfishly, that’s enough.
Chapter eighteen
Carter
I’ve lost the morning before it’s even begun.
The sunlight hitting the duvet is too aggressive, the ticking of the clock on the bedside table sounds like a countdown, and my body feels heavy—anchored to the mattress by the afterthought of cedar and steam.
I’m halfway into my jeans, hopping on one foot and cursing under my breath, when I realize my shirt is on inside out.
"Great," I mutter, yanking it over my head. My hair static-shocks my cheek, and I nearly take my own eye out with a stray button.
From the kitchen, a low, amused huff carries through the cracked door. It’s not a laugh—my father doesn't do anything that loud this early—but it’s the sound of a someone who realizes exactly how much of a disaster I am right now.
"With all that banging around, you’re going to wipe out," dad calls mildly from the distance. "And I’m not filling out the insurance paperwork for a concussion."
"I’m fine," I snap, shoving my laptop into my bag with enough force to make the charger groan. "I just... misjudged the time."
"Mhm." I hear the slow, rhythmic scrape of a spoon against a ceramic mug. He’s spooning sugar into his coffee with a level of patience that feels like a personal insult.
I bolt into the kitchen, reaching for my keys on the counter. I stop for a heartbeat, my gaze snagging on an open notebook in front of him. The pages are dense—neat diagrams of suspension geometry and columns of raw data. A mechanical component is sketched in the margins in sharp, precise graphite. My eyes automatically track a specific curve he’s drawn, and a familiar, unwelcome itch starts at the back of my brain.
"What’s that?" I ask, my hand hovering an inch above my keys.
My dad leans back against the counter, his thumb tracing the rim of his mug. He looks tired, but his eyes stay locked on the page. "Just a headache. We’re losing stability in the high-speed corners, but the data says the downforce is peaking. The sim is giving me one answer, but the wear on the rear left tire is telling another story."
He doesn't look at me. He just leaves the puzzle open, bleeding across the counter.
