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Chapter One

Christian

Nothing beats this feeling.

Spinning through the air, fifty feet off the ground, with two hundred and fifty pounds of solid machinery vibrating between my legs while the crowd goes fucking insane.

Pura perfección.

Leaning back, I maneuver my dirt bike into a flip, closing my eyes briefly when my ass leaves the seat. Above the roaring engine, my best friend Taylor's whoop of joy reaches my ears when he follows suit, our bikes intersecting midair. I reacquaint myself with the sky, the landing ramp coming into focus. My bike barely reaches an upright position when my wheels slam onto solid surface.

Adrenaline surges through my blood as the people watching our stunt-bike show scream for us, my cock thumping in my jock-strap.

Fuck, this shit gets me hard.

Like I said—nothing else beats the feeling of ninety miles per hour. Not even sex. Though it comes real fucking close.

Riding out onto the tarmac, I circle Taylor with my two-stroke, gearing up for our last trick of the evening—a two-person flip. We took our Tour of Terror on the road a month ago, but this stunt only made its debut when we were in Kentucky last week. It went viral, getting massive amounts of social media attention, for obvious reasons. Chicks fucking dig it.

Taylor swings off his bike, strutting across the stadium as he hams it up for the crowd. Fucker thinks he's the shit.

This place is huge, built to accommodate everything from rodeos and monster truck rallies to high-energy stunt shows—like ours. The scents of dust and engine oil linger in the air, mixing with the faint sweetness of funnel cakes drifting in from the fairgrounds. Massive floodlights line the perimeter, bathing the arena in a harsh glow.

This is my happy place.

As Taylor draws closer, I scoot back and pat the seat in front of me, blowing a kiss to my best friend. “Come on, cariño, sit on Papi’s lap.”

“Fuck off, I'm switching with Dev tonight.”

My brows furrow as I watch him wave to his fans. “What gives, fool? We never switch places.”

“Yeah, so?” He slaps the side of my helmet. “Salem suggested it. She says everyone is foaming at the mouth for him.”

As if on cue, the man himself waltzes out from beneath the stands, dressed in similar moto gear as us, his helmet tucked beneath one arm. His long legs propel him across the tarmac, but he doesn't even acknowledge the crowd currently chanting his name.

To be completely honest, Dev is an asshole. We added him to some of our stunts last week, and he's quickly become a fan favorite. It's the whole bad boy vibe he gives off, all the tattoos and piercings. Ladies love that shit.

So do dudes, apparently.

His head tilts when he nears the bike, brown strands falling over his forehead. Without hesitating, he mounts the bike behind me, wrapping muscled arms around my waist. “What a nice surprise,” he breathes in my ear, his pierced lip tickling my lobe. “A Dev and Christian sandwich. My dreams have come true.”

“You good to steer this time?” Taylor asks, voice filtering through the Bluetooth in my helmet.

I toss him a look over my shoulder. “The fuck kind of question is that?”

“A valid one. We've never done it this way before.”

Devon slides on his helmet with a low, rumbling chuckle that does weird shit to my stomach. “I'm vers. Always down to switch positions.”

That makes Taylor snicker when he steps back, but I roll my eyes, facing forward to start the motor. “Just lean when you're supposed to and we won't have a problem.”

Engaging the clutch, I propel us forward, the crowd shouting when I circle the ramp a few times. To be fair, I've always been the one on the back, and the difference in weight does take a minute to adjust for. It feels like I'm treading water.

Eyeing the distance between us and the ramp, I try to calculate how much speed we'll need for our added weight. Just when I'm about to throttle ahead, Devon's thighs tighten around my hips, his crotch pressing into my lower back, and…

The motherfucker is hard.

What the fuck?