Lightning McQueen hated Jackson Storm.

He hated the way Jackson leaned back in the private car, dark eyes gleaming with mischief, like he owned the world — or worse, like he already owned him. The press event was over, but McQueen hadn’t had the chance to cool off. Not when Storm was still sitting there in that skin-tight black and violet racing suit, thighs spread, posture relaxed, like sin wrapped in speed.

“Still mad?” Jackson drawled, voice low and amused.

“You’re a cocky bastard,” McQueen snapped, his tone sharp — but he didn’t move away. That was the problem. He should’ve. But Storm had a way of pulling him in like a magnetic force — dangerous, irresistible.

Jackson smirked, brushing a gloved hand down McQueen’s side, fingers catching the hem of his red suit. “That mouth of yours,” he said slowly, “gets me revved up every time.”

McQueen flushed, heat crawling up his neck. “You think this is a game?”

Storm’s grip tightened. “Everything’s a race to you. But what if I said I want to take my time with this one?”

Before McQueen could fire back, Storm pulled him forward — not roughly, but with enough strength to make it clear who was in control here. McQueen landed against his chest, knees straddling Storm’s thighs. Their faces inches apart. His heart thundered.

“Get your hands off me,” McQueen growled, even as his fingers curled into Storm’s suit for balance.

“Say it like you mean it,” Storm whispered, lips brushing McQueen’s jaw. “Say it without shaking.”

“I’m not—” McQueen hissed as Jackson’s mouth found the side of his neck, hot breath followed by a slow, deliberate kiss. Then a bite.

“You hate me,” Storm murmured against his skin. “But your body’s not getting the message.”

McQueen arched into him before he could stop himself, breathing ragged. “Screw you.”

Storm chuckled darkly. “That’s the plan.”