Page 41 of Brutal Revenge

“You don’t need doors.”

“It doesn’t have a roof.”

“You don’t need a roof either.”

“It doesn’t have?—”

“Azra,” I cut in, “you’re getting on my fucking bike whether you like it or not.”

While struggling to choose between stabbing me and then running or just running, she narrows her eyes at me.

I don’t give her the chance to choose either option.

After fetching a helmet off a shelf in the garage, I lower it over her sultry dark locks, hopeful the visor will stop her from seeing how hard her fury makes me.

I’ve never been more aroused.

Usually, I bark orders, and people jump to my command.

It’s nice to finally mix things up.

“Are you hard of hearing? You’re seriously…” A gag chops up her words. “Why does your helmet smell like stinky gym socks?”

Grinning, I fasten the strap under her chin.

She swats at my hands. “I can do it myself!”

“You weren’t doing it.”

“Because I wasn’t planning to wear it!”

I swing a leg over my bike and straddle the seat. “Too fucking bad.You don’t have a choice.”

“Wanna bet?”

Helmet slightly crooked, she pivots on a dime, her heels kicking up dust. Again, I snatch up her wrist before she can get two steps away and then pull her back until her ass heats the leather in front of me and her panicked breaths batter my lips.

Azra gasps when our crotches align. It’s probably in fright, but my fucked-up head doesn’t hear it that way. My cock’s head knocks at my zipper as pre-cum oils the zipper.

With one push of a button, both the engine of my custom motorcycle and Azra roar to life.

“Matteo!”

“Hold on.”

“I’m not?—”

She goes as still as a board when I put the bike in gear and nudge it forward. When we exit the garage, a sound that’s definitely not a word squeaks from her lips.

Gravel crunching under chunky tires almost gobbles up my warning. “Last chance,micina. If you don’t secure your grip now, I may lose you somewhere between here and Carlisle.”

While cursing me with a bunch of what I assume are Turkish swear words, she buries her helmeted head into the crook of my neck. I harden further when her legs lock around my waist as tightly as her arms do my torso, fusing us together.

Needing the cool breeze wafting from the Tyrrhenian Sea to cool my skyrocketing body temperature, I veer my bike through the manned gates of my family’s home before pulling back on the throttle.

I’ve never ridden a motorcycle like this.

Actually, I’ve never had a passenger.