inspired by sports car (CD version) by Tate Mcrea

The engine of Jenson's personal car had been turned off, but the heat from the block still radiated into the small, dark alleyway tucked behind the hotel. The silence after the roar of the engine was deafening, broken only by the sharp, fast breaths the two of you were taking. The midnight run had been reckless, fast, and intensely freeing the kind of spontaneous danger that only people who live life on the edge truly appreciate.

You were both still sitting in the car, side-by side, the interior of the sleek machine feeling suddenly too small, too intimate.

Jenson wasn't looking at you. He was staring out the window, a residual, tight smile pulling at his lips, running his thumb over the leather of the steering wheel. He looked more alive than he had all week.

"That felt better than pole position," he murmured, his voice husky. He finally turned his head, and in the dark, the lights reflecting off his eyes were mesmerizing.

“Look at that,” he said, nodding towards the sliver of street visible at the end of the alley. “Pretty blue streetlights,” he breathed, his focus shifting back to you. They cast a sharp, cool glow, catching the color in your eyes perfectly. “Right in your hazel eyes.”

The way he said it not as a compliment, but as a statement of fact made your heart pound. It wasn't just the adrenaline from the speed that was doing this to you.

You shifted in the seat, the smooth leather squeaking softly beneath you. "That wasn't strategy, Jenson," you challenged lightly, your own voice slightly shaky. "That was just pure insanity. We could have been caught."

He leaned in, a dangerous glint in his eyes. "And yet, here we are. Undetected. Untouched." He reached out, his hand finding yours in the dark space between the seats, his fingers interlocking tightly with yours. His skin was still warm from the drive. "And if it feels right..." he squeezed your hand once, the question hanging in the air.

You didn't have to answer verbally. The charged, electric energy between you was everything. You squeezed back.

"...We could go again, like three, four times," he finished, a low laugh rumbling in his chest. He pulled your joined hands closer, resting them on his thigh.

"It's so tight," you whispered, leaning your forehead against the headrest, closing your eyes and feeling the rapid fluttering deep inside your stomach. "It's so tight. Got butterflies." You let out a breathy sigh, the excitement a dizzying kind of pain. "So good it hurts."

Jenson slid his hand from yours, immediately moving to trace the curve of your jaw, his touch feather light, almost tentative.

"I know," he murmured, his voice close, his breath warm against your skin. "I'm thinkin' 'bout what we did before this verse... and honestly, the speed was just a distraction."

He withdrew his hand, his eyes demanding yours in the gloom. He was intensely aware of the small space, the dark corners, the windows.

"We need to move," he instructed, his tone suddenly firm, a mix of the focused driver and the demanding partner. He gestured to the surrounding space, the confines suddenly feeling like an amplifier for the tension.

"The truth is," he paused, his gaze dropping to your lips, then back up to your eyes, "I'm obsessed with this. In the alley, in the back. In the center of this room. Even with the windows rolled down... I just want you. Boy, don't make me choose."

He was giving you control, and simultaneously taking it away. He was waiting for you to tell him where to take this next the hidden alley, the safety of the hotel room, or maybe another impossible midnight blast.