“Cold Asphalt, Colder Eyes, and the Racer Who Only Warms Up Between Your Thighs.”

Silent throttle. No mercy. Only gloved hands, low growls, and lips that don’t kiss—they claim. He doesn’t chase. He waits. And when the track’s empty, he rides bodies the same way he owns roads—relentlessly, flawlessly, without pause. @bergayak.