𝐁𝐮𝐫𝐧, the final book in the Fuel Series by Ginger Scott, is LIVE! This second-chance romance completes this angsty, steamy, new adult trilogy.
Purchase 𝐒𝐡𝐢𝐟𝐭 (1) here: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B097TTSBN8
Purchase 𝐖𝐫𝐞𝐜𝐤 (2): https://www.amazon.com/dp/B097SBSX3J
Purchase Burn (3): https://www.amazon.com/dp/B097SCCH12
The Fuel Series link: https://amzn.to/3j5mQ7S
“The whole Fuel Series is one I rate alongside the best I have ever read. It’s one I will read over and over.” – The Saucy Bookshelf
Dustin Bridge’s world is about speed. About the edge. His life has been carved by cutting corners and making moves, following impulsive decisions while weighing the facts at hand.
On the track, that has never steered him wrong.
In life, though? That’s another story.
On the cusp of greatness, the world’s up-and-coming racing star seems to be living the perfect story. A hero to his hometown. A partner to his best friend. A man poised to take the throne, to become the greatest, and to reap the rewards and attention that come along with it.
He’s been branded the track’s most eligible bachelor. And rarely does he cross a finish line without a dozen screaming, adoring women brandishing his name on glitter-covered T-shirts across their chests, just hoping he’ll break his own rules and take one of them to bed.
But he won’t. As loose as Dustin may be on the road, he’s become disciplined in life. He let love in completely—once. For one person. Hannah Judge. And she wrecked him.
And now, she’s back.
“I wasn’t scared,” I croak out.
Dustin laughs out quietly before looking up at me from under his golden lashes. The faint smile tugs on one side of his mouth more than the other, that same sloppy grin he wore when we were kids and Mom gave us ice cream. I think I’ve loved him my entire life, but it took seeing that face—the mix of innocence and sheer elation that colors his features when he’s happy—to make me realize how long my heart has been tied to his.
“I mean it. I wasn’t scared,” I insist, ungluing my feet from the hole they’ve dug in my carpet. I step toward him, noting the way his hands move to his knees and his shoulders roll as he straightens his spine.
“No?” he whispers, lifting his chin as I come closer.
“Uh uh,” I say, shaking my head.
My heart is racing, the beats so fierce I’m sure my skin is pulsing. I can’t breathe, yet the air is coming in and out so fast. Hours ago, I flew through the desert at a hundred and sixty miles per hour yet the five feet I just slowly crossed were far more terrifying.
I reach toward Dustin’s right hand just as he lifts it from his knee and our fingers twine, our touch soft and timid. So many times he’s held my hand through things—through haunted houses and rushing across highways. This touch, though, it’s different.
Palm to palm, our fingers fold together as we stare at the way we fit. His bronzed skin marred by grease, my pale pink fingers ringed with twists of gold. Lady and the Tramp. I step in closer, raising my left hand to his cheek and skimming along the roughness of his whiskers. He leans into my touch as my fingertips dive into his hair. The curls wrap around me, soft and cool.
As Dustin’s eyes close, his free hand moves from his other knee to the belt loop on my shorts. Hooking two of his fingers through the denim, he tugs me close. I straddle his legs instinctually, and when I feel the slight pull at my waist followed by the gentle tickle of his fingernails along my bare midriff, I take his lead and lower myself until I’m sitting on his lap, my knees bent on my bed.
Our hands untether and as mine roam along his neck, his drift up my body to my shoulders, then eventually push into my hair, twining the strands around his knuckles with a forceful grip that echoes the feeling in my chest—the feeling of wanting something so badly yet holding it out of reach because you know you shouldn’t. We shouldn’t.
His eyes bore into the divot at the base of my throat. I let my head fall forward until it rests against his, my view of his lashes, the sharp angles of his cheeks, and the line formed by his jawline—a line that wasn’t there a year ago. Everything about Dustin is grown up and ready for the world. I’m convinced he’s going to leave a massive mark on this life—on anything he touches. On me.
“Hannah.” He breathes out my name.
I close my eyes at the feel of his chin lifting, our heads rolling against each other. His nose drags against my cheek as his mouth lifts to meet mine, and I let a tiny gasp slip through my lips as I pant and wait.
“We shouldn’t,” he says. His breath dances against my cheek, crawling around my neck and filling the slight space between us with his own intoxicating drug.
“I know,” I agree, both of us doing little to stop.
My palms are sweating and it makes things feel off. My bare legs glisten with perspiration too because it’s hotter than an engine block outside. I can’t run the air because I need every ounce of power to compensate for my shifting. I’m rusty. It happens every time I’m gone for a semester. One or two races, though, and my groove is back.
It wouldn’t be a big deal if I didn’t have a mountain of pride to defend tonight. I’m not worried about winning. Dustin’s car could probably take this kid on its own, driven with nothing more than a garden shovel jammed in place to hold the gas pedal down. It’s more than showing off what I can do in his car. This is about showing him what I can do without him. It’s about proving I’m still whole, that he didn’t break me.
Only, he did.
Dustin Bridges broke me into a thousand and one pieces. And rather than putting them back together, I merely swept them to the side and invented a whole different me. His presence ruins that. Seeing him is a reminder of who I was before he left. It stirs feelings, scratches at memories, and hollows out my insides. I can’t afford that.
That’s what it’s been about for the last four years. Learning how to put one foot after the other, how to get through one task and on to the next. I’ve found a balance between excelling at school and living on the edge. If Dustin knew the kinds of things I’ve done while he’s been away, he’d see that I’m not the same girl at all.
This Hannah Judge isn’t afraid of swimming naked in front of frat boys. She thrives off of their attention, especially knowing that she’ll never give in and say yes to any of them. She walks through fire, literally. Twice—because someone dared her to. And she’s getting ready to leap from an airplane for the third time next fall, only one jump away from getting to do it solo. Roaring down the Straights in the middle of the night isn’t about venturing to a wild side for me, not anymore. It’s about keeping up my skills, scratching an itch, and reminding myself where center is. Racing is the only thread I’ve let remain that connects me to Dustin. And now that he’s shown up and ruined it, I think it might be time to cut ties there too.
As much as touching her, tasting her, being inside her is literal heaven on earth, the temptation of those things was always just as delicious. There is something deeply erotic about the almost. And right now, I want to fucking almost all night long.
“Drive fast for me, Dustin. Like you used to,” she says, rolling her head to the side and waiting for me to agree. This is a request I can grant, and I meet her gaze with a devilish grin as I come to a complete stop in the center of the desert road that leads from her parents’ street.
She merely shifts her gaze to the road ahead as her lip tugs up on the side, her hands folded in her lap like a courtesan ready for a ride through the country. My girl—she’s never been nervous breaking top speeds with me on these roads. If anything, she tests me to go faster. And since that means I’ll be staring at her in the middle of my apartment sooner, I give her exactly what she wants.
We’re flying well over one-twenty within seconds, the road empty for miles ahead, the Supra hugging the lines of the road as I slip from the right lane to straddle the middle. If she really wants a rush, I could turn off the lights. I’ve done that a few times when I want to wake up my soul—when I want to remind myself that the edge is sharp and dangerous. I won’t go that far with her, though. I promised to keep her safe. And I will. But I do love to hear her squeal, so I push us faster, nearing two-hundred as her mouth stretches into a wide open grin. And seconds before I have to slow us down near the junction, she does it—she howls like a wild animal spotting their first kill.
My hungry lioness. Always chasing the need to go faster. Always . . . with me.
Add them to your TBR!
Find more books by Ginger Scott here: www.littlemisswrite.com