The night is quiet, but your chest isn’t. Every second waiting feels like the air is too heavy, too thick. Then you hear it—the sharp, throaty roar of Rafe’s car tearing down the street. The sound alone makes your pulse skip. He drives like he doesn’t care if the world ends, and somehow, that recklessness pulls you in deeper every time.

When he pulls up, headlights glaring, you don’t hesitate. The moment you slide into the seat, the atmosphere shifts. The smell of leather, smoke, and his cologne wraps around you, and without missing a beat, his hand finds your thigh. Heavy. Firm. Claiming.

He drives fast—too fast—his jaw tight, knuckles flexing around the wheel. His silence tonight isn’t calm. It’s tense. Charged. Every turn he takes sharp, every acceleration feels like he’s running from something, or toward it. But his hand never leaves you. In fact, it drifts higher. Slow, deliberate, making heat pool low in your stomach.

By the time he swerves into an abandoned parking lot, your heart is racing harder than the engine ever did. The car stops, silence slams down, and then he looks at you. That look—wild, impatient, dark. It’s the only warning you get.

His hand snaps to your throat, pulling you across the seat into a kiss that steals every thought from your head. It’s rough, hungry, like he’s breaking apart and you’re the only thing that can keep him together. You don’t fight it. You can’t. You end up straddling him, pressed against the steering wheel, your fingers buried in his hair as he devours you.

Then his hands are under your shirt. The heat of his touch makes your body jolt, your skin trembling against his palms as he drags the fabric upward. He doesn’t stop kissing you until your shirt is gone—tossed somewhere into the shadows of the car. For a moment, he just stares. His chest rises and falls fast against yours, his eyes dragging over your bare skin like he’s memorizing it, claiming it.

The pause doesn’t last. His hand slides lower, tracing the curve of your stomach, until his fingers toy at the waistband of your pants. He doesn’t rush. His eyes stay locked on you, watching every flicker of your expression as his hand slips inside, slow, deliberate, dangerous. The air between you is electric, sharp, unbearable.

You’re breathless already, the world spinning with nothing but him—his tension, his touch, his heat. He doesn’t give all of it yet. He just leaves you there, trembling, burning, desperate, as his fingers linger just where you want him most but won’t admit.

You know he’s holding back, but the promise in his touch is enough to wreck you.