Chapter 24

Twenty-Four

This was what he needed , Ash thought as the McLaren screamed down the back straight at two-hundred miles per hour. The speed. The focus. The concentration necessary to keep from spinning out. To maintain total focus on what mattered, and never lose sight of the ultimate goal. Not to chase the monster, but to ride it. To tame it.

The raw power of the V8 engine radiated through the carbon fiber chassis, and moonlight gleamed on the livery as the car sliced through the night. He rounded yet another curve, accelerating beyond safety, his muscles aching with the strain of controlling the beast as the G-forces pressed him into the seat and the turbochargers emitted a high-pitched whine.

Although he was a fifty-percent owner in the private track located just outside of Vegas, he hadn't planned to come here tonight. On the contrary, his only intent had been to meet with Clark Maxwell in the Stark Century VIP lounge to finalize the terms of Maxwell's stake in the INX project—a significant stake that would ensure the industry-changing project could not only move forward with research but also with a planned IPO.

After the stereotypical celebration of whiskey and cigars, Ash would thank Maxwell again, then bid him goodnight before returning to the penthouse.

And to Bree.

He wouldn't have left her at all if this meeting hadn't been on his calendar for ages, and if Maxwell's investment weren't so damn important.

Even so, if Bree had been awake, he wouldn't have come. But considering the horrific day she'd had, he expected her to sleep through the night. And, again, the meeting with Maxwell was key.

At least that's what he'd believed. Never once had he expected Maxwell to not only pull out of the project, but to stab Ash in the back by giving him absolutely no warning.

So, yeah, celebrating was off the table.

And now he was pushing the McLaren's limits as Ash burned off the frustration of having lost an investor… and the fear of not knowing how the hell he was going to get the financing he needed to move forward with the INX.

Except these laps weren't solely about the INX.

A columnist once wrote that he wore a death-wish like some men wore a blazer, and maybe that was true. He didn't like to dive too deep into self-analysis. Chasing the monster was one thing. Sitting down and having tea and conversation with it was something entirely different.

All he knew was that he wasn't out there because of frustration with the INX, though that was what he'd told himself ever since Maxwell walked away. He was here because of Bree. Because whatever monsters he'd once believed were nipping at his heels were nothing but smoke and mirrors compared to the very real monsters that haunted her.

She hadn't asked for that. She didn't deserve it.

Now, he was on his fifth lap, and his blood was still burning. The fear and horror from what he'd seen on that tape with Bree was spilling out, magnifying the demons that had slipped out from hidden crevices when Maxwell had walked out that door. The demons that said Ash couldn't be trusted. That he truly was the tainted failure his great-aunt had always said he'd be. That any success was a fluke, a mirage. A mistake.

He'd grown up hating her and the stories she'd told. Hating her lack of sympathy for his mother, who as a child had been destroyed by her father—Ash's grandfather and Damien's coach.

Most of all, he hated her sneering condescension. She was his family. His great-aunt. His adoptive mother, though she had not one maternal bone. She was supposed to love him. To help him.

But never once had she believed in him.

The thoughts went round and round in his head in time with the McLaren itself as he whipped it around the track again and again, hugging the curves and driving too damn close to the walls.

He knew he was being reckless. Hell, he was riding that tight path on purpose, trying to see who would flinch first—him or the devil.

It would be so easy, he thought. The tiniest flinch, and at this speed, he wouldn't be able to correct. He'd slam into the wall with the force of a rocket. Just that one little muscle spasm and it would all be over.

Was that why he was here? Was that what he wanted?

No.

Dammit, no.

It was true that Ash often needed the speed. The rush. The chase. There were times in his life when he'd come close, but despite all the hell in his life, he'd always viciously, painfully, desperately wanted to live.

He'd wanted the thrill to underscore it, sure. But despite what the press said, he wasn't chasing the reaper, he was clinging to life.

Now, he wanted it more than ever. And not for just himself. Because tonight it wasn't his monster he was chasing. It was Bree's.

Once again, he floored the accelerator, eyeing the tachometer needle as it flirted with the red zone. The car gained even more speed, and the outside world blurred into light and shadows as adrenaline surged through his veins, an intoxicating cocktail that dulled the lingering memory of what he'd seen on that tape. Concrete proof that the monsters he'd been outrunning all his life truly did exist.

For Bree's sake—for his own—he was going to slay them.

As if the thought of her had worked a magic spell, he caught a glimpse of her in the bleachers. Her presence was like a punch in the gut, and he slowed on the next lap, his mind spinning as he wondered why she'd come and how she'd found him.

He didn't care. All that mattered was that she was there, and as he approached the pit, he skidded to a halt.

His eyes scanned the empty stands, searching for solace in the solitude. He didn't see her, and for a moment, he thought that he'd only imagined her.

Then there she was.

Bree stood alone in the dim light, her silhouette outlined against the bleachers. The sight of her took his breath away. He could see the strain in her posture, the lingering shadows of her recent trauma etched on her face. And Ash knew he would flip this car right now if he thought it would set her free. It wouldn't, though.

He might not be his father, but he had money, fame, notoriety, connections. He had the skill to fight death. To say fuck you to the ghosts that haunted him.

But he couldn't vanquish Bree's demons.

He'd get her the three million, sure. Come hell or high-water, he'd figure that out.

But that was only a quick fix, not a solution.

The only way he could truly help her—could truly win the woman who'd filled his head for years—was to slay her monsters.

And he didn't have a single fucking clue how to make that happen.

My heart is pounding as he jogs up the stairs to where I wait in the stands. "I woke up alone, you bastard," I snap, then pound my fists against his chest as he comes close and gathers me up.

"You goddamn fucking bastard." Fear fuels my words, pushing them out, wanting to wound, and I scramble out of his embrace as I continue my verbal assault. "What the hell were you thinking?"

I'm revealing too much—I know that. I don't want this man to know that I care so deeply. That I've been standing here, terrified while I watched him circle the track at such a speed that he must have one hell of a talented guardian angel to still be alive. Either that, or he has some seriously mad skills behind the wheel.

It's the latter, I know. But somehow the extent of his talent doesn't calm my raging fear or crippling terror.

"Do you have a death wish?" Again, my voice is a shout, and I punctuate the question with a hard shove against his chest. "This is how you're going to help me? What? Did you update your will? You die, and I inherit enough to pay off my blackmailer? Are you fucking stupid?"

I leave him no room to respond. "The answer is yes, in case you can't tell," I continue. "You. Are. Fucking. Stupid. And an asshole for leaving me alone. And a prick because you have a goddamn stupid death wish and that's a fool's way out."

I'm breathing hard, fury blasting out of me like machine gun fire. Fast and harsh and more about the kill than about the aim.

"A goddamn death wish," I repeat, then shove my palms hard against his chest one more time as he tries again to pull me close and calm me down.

I am so not in the mood to be calm.

"That's what my shrink says." His words are so soft that I barely hear him, and it's only after I finally settle a bit and say, "What?" that I realize his tone might have been an intentional ploy to get me to throttle back.

"The death wish," he clarifies. "My shrink says I have one."

"Oh." I take a step back, suddenly unnerved. I'm not sure what I expected, but his easy agreement definitely wasn't on the menu. To be honest, I'm not entirely sure why I'm here at all, except that I when I woke up without him, I realized how much I wanted him, and finally found a valet with whom Ash had chatted, revealing that he was taking the McLaren to a nearby track.

And once I found him—once I saw what he was doing here—that desire to see him and touch him not only multiplied, it morphed into a horrific, visceral terror that I was going to lose him tonight in a fiery crash.

Before I can gather my wits and ask why he has a death wish, he brushes the pad of his thumb over my lips, the soft touch as soothing as his words are harsh. "I'm not supposed to be here," he says simply.

"The track, you mean?" I haven't a clue what he's talking about, but the fact that he is talking calms me. A little bit, anyway.

He shakes his head. "On this earth. I'm not supposed to be here."

My mind is spinning. "What are you talking about?"

"You know the story. My grandfather forced his own daughter and my father together. I mean, hell, my mom's closer in age to a sister than a parent. And she was institutionalized so much I never really knew her anyway."

"I know," I whisper, but he keeps talking, and I'm not even sure he hears me.

"Before my grandfather died, he abused Damien and my mother both. Fucked them up big time. And now here I stand, a child that shouldn't ever have been born. I mean, hell, my mother was so young and damaged she didn't even realize she was pregnant. There was force. Abuse. Then there was me, and I got stuck living with my grandfather's sister—after all, who wouldn't want to grow up with a creepy great-aunt who made no secret that she thought I was Satan's spawn?"

He pinches the bridge of his nose. "And my grandfather? The man who arranged it all? Dead. And damned if I don't wish I could have pushed him off that building myself.

"Ash." My voice is so soft I'm not even sure he heard me.

He runs his hand up and down to indicate his body. " Persona non grata . That's me. Just the accidental aftermath of my grandfather's twisted mind, and since I couldn't be tossed in the garbage, I got tossed to Abigail."

"Ash, no?—"

"And that's why my shrink—one of them—says I have a death wish. That I live my life tempting the universe to self-correct."

I hug myself, my heart breaking for him.

"That's why I chase the monster. I give the universe every opportunity to wipe me out of existence, just the way it should be. Because I wasn't wanted here in the first place."

"I want you." I can barely get the words out past the pain that I feel on his behalf.

I see the change on his face. The spark in his eyes, and the tiny smile that touches his mouth as he reaches out to run a strand of my hair through his fingers.

"My shrink's wrong, you know." His voice is so soft it's almost swallowed up by the spectator stands that loom over and around us. "I don't have a death wish at all."

The words take me aback. Considering Ash's reputation and what he'd just confessed to me, I was expecting him to own the whole "death wish" thing. Especially considering it's so obviously true.

"Then why are you out here by yourself driving like a drunken teenager?"

He chuckles. "I'm pretty sure my skills are sharper than your average seventeen-year-old."

I blink back tears. "Dammit, Ash. You scared me to death."

"Oh, baby." He brushes the pad of his thumb gently under my eyes, erasing the tears I hadn't realized I'd shed. "I'm sorry about that. I didn't mean to. And as for death, that's not it at all. The doctor and all those idiot reporters have it all wrong."

"Wrong?"

"It's not a death wish, Bree. I have a life wish."

I have no idea what to say. So I go with the only thing that makes sense. "What are you talking about?"

"It's easy to die," Ash says, still stroking a lock of my hair. "But one hell of a lot harder to live. That's probably true for everybody, but some of us have the lesson forced on us pretty damn early."

I consider what else I know of his past. About how Abigail had told him over and over and over that as a boy, Damien had forced sex on Sofia while she was traveling with her father and the tennis team. About Ash finally learning the truth. A truth that proved just how strong a man he truly is, because he'd survived the blow of discovering that Damien wasn't at fault at all. Instead, he was as much a victim as Sofia. As Ash himself.

"A life wish," I repeat, reaching for his hand. "You're saying that when you drive like that, you're turning it around? Not craving death, but celebrating life?"

He nods. "As fucked up as it can be here on this earth, some things are wonderful. And definitely worth celebrating." My hair is twined around his fingers, and now he spreads them, letting the strands fall free.

I think about what I'd just watched—him going around and around the track so fast I was certain he'd spin into a wall. One wrong move in that car, and death would have grabbed him whether he'd invited her in or not.

"Find another way," I say, but before the words are out of my mouth, he's kissing me. It's warm and almost gentle, but that's not what I want. I want hard. I want deep. I want this man to claim me. I want him to make me feel . I want all the things that scare me—the things I've been trying to outrun just like he's been trying to out-drive.

"Bree. Bree, oh, god, Bree." His lips are roaming over my cheeks, my chin, my neck, but not my lips, and I hear myself begging for him to please, please kiss me .

I thrust my fingers into his hair, tugging his face down to me as I look up to him. My eyes flicker open, and our gazes lock. My heart skips a beat as I see what's hiding behind his eyes. It's everything I've wanted. It's desire and life and hunger. It's beauty and pleasure, sunshine and tenderness.

It's love. Or, at least, I want it to be. Maybe it's too soon. I don't know. All I know is that the things that scare me—the demons that haunt me—fade away when I'm with Ash. I don't know if I'm ready, but I do know that I want him.

"Ash." I shift my hips so that I'm grinding against his cock, the pressure at the juncture of my thighs sending pleasure racing through me like electricity.

"Beg," he says. "You know the deal. Beg for it."

My chest tightens. I want this. And as soon as I beg, I'm free.

I don't want to be free.

But maybe I want to be close.

"I don't beg," I say. "I just take what I want."

I see both humor and heat flash in his eyes as I peel off that damn dress. Soon, I'm naked before him, wearing only my sandals with their two-inch heels.

"You're beautiful." His voice is heavy with lust and awe, and I feel it between my legs as surely as if he'd cupped his hand there. "Are you begging me?"

I lift my chin. "Hell no. I haven't—" I begin. "Not since Rory took—Well, not since...." I finish, feeling more fragile now. After all, I'd wanted Rory, too. I'd trusted Rory. Maybe I'd even loved him.

At the very least, I'd believed he was a good man. How can I ever know?

You can't .

The words ping inside my head, but I'm not sure if they are a reason or a warning. All I know for certain is that I trust Ash, and that there is no fear nipping at my heels.

I want to succumb to this man. I want to see how far we can go before the nightmares push in, as they inevitably will.

But maybe—just maybe—Ash is the man who can keep the nightmares at bay.

Except I can't. We have a deal. And I need that money one hell of a lot more than I need Ash inside me. Even if right now, it really doesn't feel like that.

He cups my cheek as he pulls me close, and all thought flits from my head as he moves both hands to my bare ass. "If you're begging, we should go back. A room. A bed. Creature comforts."

"No," I insist. "Here." I turn my back to him, refusing all arguments. At the same time, I take one of his hands, then slide it between my legs. I look back over my shoulder, then grin with victory as his fingers start to tease me. "The Ash I saw on that track," I begin. "Power and control. I want that."

His fingers stroke me, and I moan. I'm so wet. So needy.

"Are you begging me? Are you desperate for me to fuck you?"

"Yes," I murmur as his fingers thrust inside. "I'm desperate. But I'm not begging."

He uses his other hand to swipe my hair off my neck, sending it tumbling over my shoulder where the soft strands tease my breast.

Then his mouth is on my neck, his kisses driving me as wild as the fingers I'm grinding against. His free hand cups my breast, and I arch back, wanting to lose myself in passion. In him.

"Tell me to stop, and I will in a heartbeat. You understand?"

"Yes." I barely recognize that passion-strangled voice as mine. "But I won't ask. I want everything, Ash. Everything except what I have to beg for."

I spin in his arms, then hook my hands behind his neck, pulling his mouth to mine. His hands are on my ass, and he tugs me closer so that I feel the bulge of his erection beneath his jeans. I slide a hand down, stroking him before my fingers find the button, then the zipper. He groans as I stroke him, as I urge him back to one of the stadium seats.

"Sit," I say, then watch his face. I expect him to argue. To be the one to claim control. But he doesn't. Instead, he holds my eyes as he settles into the chair, his slacks open and his very hard cock exposed.

His brow lifts in question, as if he knows how much I want him. How much I want to beg him to be inside me.

But I won't. I need that money. And I made this deal.

"Knees," he says, and I feel the reverberation of that order all through my body. I hesitate only a second, waiting for the inevitable twang of fear, determined to keep it at bay.

But it doesn't come. There's no fear. There's only longing. Genuine desire.

That tightening of my nipples. That heat between my thighs. I close my eyes, reveling in the moment, then jerk my head up when he brushes a hand over my forehead.

"Bree. Are you okay?"

The question warms me more than it should, and I shake it off, then lift my head to look at him. "Tell me what you want."

"You know."

I make a show of licking my lips. "Tell me," I repeat.

His brows rise almost imperceptibly, and I see a flicker of something that might be humor, but might also be lust, in his eyes. "Your mouth," he says. "On my cock."

I say nothing, but this time I kneel before him. I put my hands on his thighs, then lean forward and lick his cock from tip to balls before drawing him into my mouth and teasing him with my lips, my tongue, my fingers.

I don't close my eyes. Instead, I twist to peek at his face. I see passion. I see how far I'm taking him. Need. Desire.

I cherish all of it. I revel in it. This power over him. I want to take him over. To make him beg and cry out and need. And without thinking, I pull back, then rise, climb onto the stadium seat, and straddle him.

I'm so wet, and he's rock hard, and it takes all my control not to take him inside. To remain like this, grinding against him, but not letting him fill me even though it's very clear that both of us want exactly that.

I put my hands on his shoulders as I move back and forth. Me in control. Me making him moan. Making him cry out my name.

Then his hands cup my breasts before sliding down to my waist, to my hips. Now he's in control, moving me, rocking me. "I want you, Bree." His voice is low. Guttural. "I want all of you. Beg for it. Dammit, Bree, I want you to beg."

But I only shake my head, his need turning me on even more until it feels like I'm glowing with power, especially when his fingertip slides between us as he plays with my clit, when he thrusts those fingers inside and begs me to, "Come, baby. Go over. You're so close. Go over with me."

Then he leans forward and closes his mouth over my breast, and that's when I explode, his cock between my legs, his fingers playing me like a fine instrument. My core tightens around his fingers and in that instant, he arches back, groans, and comes as well.

And as I fall back to earth, rocking forward to put my head on his shoulder and simply breathe, only two thoughts are clear: More and Ashton.

For a moment we stay like that, half-naked with him now soft beneath me. Then I ease off and shimmy back into the dress before digging in my purse for tissue. I offer him a handful, and we share a smile as we clean up.

"I don't know what I was expecting," he says. "But it wasn't that."

"Good surprise?" I ask. "Or bad surprise."

"Terrible."

I laugh. "Yeah. Just awful."

He finishes putting his clothes together, then stands. "One important thing," he begins, and I feel myself tense, afraid that he's about to steal the joy from this moment. Because that's what always happens, isn't it?

But that's not what happens at all. Instead, he grins at me, then glances up into the stands. "The moment we're back at the hotel, remind me to log onto the track's computer and erase the security feed."

"Deal," I say, laughing as he brushes my hair away from my face.

He kisses me, this time soft and sweet. "On second thought," he says, nuzzling my ear. "I might keep that recording for myself."