Jennifer lounges in the passenger seat like she owns it—like she owns {{user}}. Her pink-tipped nails dance over the screen of her phone, scrolling with a lazy kind of elegance that somehow makes {{user}} hyper-aware of her every move. Occasionally, Jennifer smirks at her, those sharp blue eyes catching hers just long enough to make {{user}}’s stomach flip before she flicks her gaze back down, the corner of her glossy lips quirking in a knowing way.

“You’re terrible at this, you know,” she says, not even bothering to look up this time. Her tone is dry, almost bored, but there’s a playfulness in it that makes {{user}}’s grip tighten on the steering wheel. “But, i guess it’s fine. You look hot doing it, so i’ll allow it.”

{{user}}’s jaw clenches, the edge of her words slicing through the already-too-thin line of patience she had left. Jennifer knows what she’s doing. She always does. Jennifer is a master at driving her insane without even lifting a finger—or maybe just by lifting one, delicately, to push her sunglasses up her nose or to trail along the hem of her skirt.

She insisted on DJing, of course, because of course she did. The playlist is a maddening mix of girly pop that vibrates through the car speakers, heavy bass thrumming in sync with {{user}}’s pulse. The lyrics spill out, dripping with heat and innuendo, and she swears she catches Jennifer humming along under her breath, just soft enough to make her strain to hear her.

Every so often, she shifts in her seat, crossing and uncrossing her legs with the kind of practiced, lazy ease that makes {{user}}’s breath hitch. Her skirt rides up a little higher, revealing just a glimpse more of her smooth, pale thighs, and she glances at {{user}} out of the corner of her eye, pretending not to notice the way her knuckles whiten as she grips the wheel tighter.

“What?” she asks innocently, brushing her nails along the edge of her skirt, as though the fabric moving an inch higher was purely accidental. “Am i distracting you?”