“Oh. My. God.” He fills me so completely, so deliciously, I don’t want to move.

“That’s a start.”

Drawing me up, he laves my nipple and yanks me back down again. My tongue hits the back of my throat and I choke out an elegant, “Gah.”

“Tell me what you want and I’ll give you a present.”

“I thought you just gave me the present.” I wiggle on top of him, delighted when he groans.

Max tucks his hand into his pocket and pulls out a shiny, silver box. “This is almost as good.”

I stop wiggling. “Open it.”

His lips curve into a sinister smile and he taps his ear. “Naughty things.”

I lick my lips and then rattle off a few of the French phrases Giselle taught me on my way out of the spa. The look of shock on Max’s face is almost worth the hefty tip I gave her.

“Well, if that’s what you want, baby.”

My eyes widen. “What? What do I want?”

“These.” He flicks the lid off the box and pulls out two tweezer-like silver objects with silver chains and beads attached.

I frown. “What are they?”

“Nipple clamps.”

“I don’t like the sound of that. Some things are not meant to be squeezed too hard.”

Max bends down to draw my nipple in his mouth, licking and sucking it into a hard peak. He slides the tweezers over my nipple and tightens them with a little ring.

Mind numbing, burning, searing pain shoots through me. I cry out and Max covers my mouth in a soft kiss.

“Take it off. Take it off.” I pull away and reach for the dangly chain. Max grasps my wrists and restrains them behind me with one hand.

“Give it a chance, baby. It won’t hurt for long.” He sucks and teases my other nipple and releases my wrists to slide the other clip over the hardened peak. Another zing. Another burn.

“No, Max.” I shake my br**sts, trying to dislodge his torture devices, and the little chains tug gently. The pain blurs into searing, fiery pleasure. My sex clenches around Max’s erection, and he groans.

A bell rings. The seatbelt sign flashes on. Ms. Slutzsky addresses us by name over the PA system and requests that we return to our seats and fasten our seat belts because of minor turbulence.

Max pulls out his seat belt and fastens it around both of us. He lifts my hips and slides deeper inside me. Although slightly constrained by my Tweety Bird thong foot restraints, and the seat belt around my back, I manage to gain some leverage and move up and down. Max hisses in a breath. The plane shakes and veers slightly to the left. So do my br**sts. The nipple clamps tug as I sway, sending jolts of erotic pleasure straight to my core. My heart pounds. My hands fist Max’s thick, soft hair. So dangerous. So exciting. So arousing.

“You are one goddamned hot little minx,” Max rasps. He tugs the little chains and fire zings through my veins—a confusing mix of pleasure and almost pain. He slides my moisture up and around my sweet spot over and over until I am hovering over the edge of a cliff so high I can’t see the ground. My ni**les throb, my sex aches, and my body is coiled tight.

“What are you doing to me?” I moan.

“Go, baby. Fly for me,” he whispers. He swipes his finger over my swollen nub. I fly apart. My orgasm crashes over me like a tidal wave. Max stiffens and groans, and I take him with me in a blaze of slutty glory.

Chapter 22

I wasn’t afraid

A limo drops us off at the Speedaway Exotic Car Racetrack, located at an abandoned airfield about an hour outside Fontana. We are greeted by the owners, Crash and Dirty Dan, both allegedly bikers. However, with their short, cropped brown hair, matching blue-and-white coveralls, mirrored aviator sunglasses, and perfect smiles, they look more like male models. Maybe I should tell Amanda to join a motorcycle club.

They walk us over to a tall, chain-link fence and show us the track. The runways have been resurfaced and joined to form a giant oval. At various points, straight stretches of pavement run for miles into the horizon, marked only by hay bales and orange netting. Skid marks indicate where drivers have gone off the track and spun out into the grass. At least there are no trees or buildings for anyone to hit.

We tour through massive warehouses filled with a mouthwatering array of exotic cars, from Lamborghinis to Porsches, and Ferraris to Audis. I walk around the Aston Martin, James Bond’s vehicle of choice, and imagine myself behind the wheel.

“What are you driving today?” Dirty Dan asks, coming up behind me.

“If I had a choice, it would be this.” I stroke the hood of the Aston Martin. “But I don’t think Max will agree.

Dirty Dan gives me a wink. “I’ve always wanted to see a pretty girl behind the wheel. How about I get you prepped and ready to go? Max’s clients aren’t due for another half hour, which gives us plenty of time to run through the short course we inflict on all our drivers for insurance purposes. With that face and your training and safety certificates in your hand, he won’t be able to say no.”

He holds out a hand, and his cheeky grin is all the encouragement I need to follow him to the main clubhouse.

By the time we’re done, an hour later, Max’s clients have arrived and are in the process of setting up their equipment. Max explains they have developed a system to remotely control the vehicles so racetracks and driving schools can operate without an instructor in the vehicle. I join everyone on a shady viewing platform overlooking the track while Crash suits up and climbs into an Audi R8.