Burned: A Stepbrother Romance Read Online Free PDF Page B

pulls up onto the side of the road, clouds of dust running past the windows.
    “I do actually need my spine, you know,” I object.
    He laughs, opening the door and stepping out. He comes around and opens mine. I cross my arms over myself and pout like a toddler.
    He reaches down and unclips my belt. “If you don’t drive, we’re going to have to walk home.”
    I look up at him, at his perfect fucking face. “You’re not going to let this go until I do, are you?”
    “Hey, I can be stubborn too sometimes.”
    “Ha-de-ha-ha,” I repeat.
    I give a grunt and untangle myself from the harness, pushing Brock aside as I make my way to the driver’s side.
    I slip into the bucket seat and pull the harness on, Brock helping and not very subtly brushing past my breasts in the process.
    “You just wanted to feel me up, didn’t you?”
    He shrugs. “Perhaps. Now, clutch in, turn the ignition.”
    I press the clutch down. It feels like I’m trying to move a mountain.
    “It’s a performance clutch,” says Brock, “heavy-duty, twin-plate. It’s got a real quick take-up, so once you feel the tipping point you’re really going to have to get on the gas, got it?”
    I nod. It’s been years since I’ve driven a manual. “How much power did you say this car has?”
    “About a thousand horse.”
    “And Champers?”
    “About ten.”
    I roll my eyes. “Grreeeeaaaaaat.”
    I sit there feeling really, really weird, like I’m strapped to a Stinger missile just dying to blow us both to hell.
    I take a breath and turn the key, finding first and doing my best to take off. The car stalls dramatically after we bunny-hop half a mile down the road.
    Brock is killing himself with laughter.
    I slap him on the shoulder. “It’s not funny!”
    He calms himself, placing his hand, hot, over my own on the gearknob. “I’ll talk you through it.”
    He moves his hand, fingers easing over mine. “Clutch in. Good.”
    “First.”
    “That’s right.”
    “Pull up gently.”
    “That’s it.”
    “Now punch it!”
    He shocks me into action. The foot on the clutch comes away and I stomp down on the accelerator. The tires give a momentary cry of pain before the car launches down the road like a rocket, my back pressed so hard into the seat I think I’m going to leave a permanent indent.
    “Second!”
    I shift back into second and the car barely notices, the whistling rising from under the hood and the world blurring by the windows.
    “Third!”
    Third and this thing just won’t stop picking up speed. I go to ease off the accelerator, but he squeezes my hand. “Keep your foot down .”
    I look at the speedo. “We’re doing 90mph… 100… 120…”
    “There’s no one around. We’re fine.”
    There is no stopping this thing. I try to follow the centerline, the engine humming, air sucked in and expelled out the back. I’m tingling all over, and now I get it, the appeal, pushing closer and closer to that point of oblivion, of all release.
    Suddenly there’s the sound of a siren, blue and red lights filling up the rear-view.
    Shit.
    I ease off the gas instantly, but we’re still doing 110. We’re fucked. I’m fucked.
    I pull over, the patrol car swinging in behind us, lights blaring.
    I can’t breathe, my nerves shot and my hand twitching on the wheel.
    “Just relax,” says Brock, a picture of tranquility. He reaches over and undoes the top two buttons on my blouse right down to the bridge of my bra. My cleavage is so obvious you could spot it from the moon. Now I’m extra glad I’m not wearing that wire.
    I jump when there’s a tap against the glass, my nervousness increased when I can’t find the button for the electric windows. I finally sus it, the cop looking in. It must be close to midnight and he’s still wearing Aviators like some kind of T-1000 cliché. “Yes, officer?” I squeak.
    “Do you know how fast you were going back there, maam?”
    “Uh, no officer. I’m afraid I’m not very familiar with the