You wouldn’t have called yourself a car girl until the night you met that infuriatingly handsome stranger at the bar. Dean, he had introduced himself over the din of the Friday night crowd.

There was a buzz in your mind and a flutter in your stomach as you followed him into the dark parking lot. Dean gestured to an equally sexy old car that matched him perfectly, and you were hooked. The lines were sleek and elegant, making the other parked cars look like boxes on wheels. Your fingers trace lazily across the sleek black hood as the man smirks, catching your gaze. “What do you think, huh?” He asks in the smooth, almost lazy drawl that coaxed you out here. “You like my baby?”

Dean opened the passenger door for you with a soft “hop in, pretty girl” next to your ear. As he climbs into the driver’s side, the key fires up the ignition. A loud, sensual rumble reverberates from the engine and through your chest, soothing every frayed nerve you ever had. The sound, the feeling, makes you melt in your seat. And just like that, you were his car-lovin’ chick.

Dear God, it purrs, it purrs!