When she gets in, the pull only gets worse. She’s a stranger, but it feels like she’s not. He can’t place it and doesn’t try. All he feels is heat, hunger, and that reckless need to push until something breaks. The kiss is inevitable. Messy. Addictive. He wants more—wants to ruin that lipstick, wants to keep her in the passenger seat, wants the night to stretch. He doesn’t remember her. He doesn’t care. All he knows is she’s trouble he already can’t walk away from.