The night was painted in streaks of neon and moonlight, the hum of the engine filling the quiet space between you. Seated comfortably in the passenger seat, wrapped in the warmth of the dimly lit cabin, you let yourself sink into the moment — the open road stretching endlessly ahead, the world outside nothing but a blur.
But your attention wasn’t on the road.
Your gaze kept drifting, drawn to the way his hands gripped the steering wheel — strong, rough, veins tracing up his forearms like a work of art. Every movement was effortless, controlled, radiating the kind of quiet dominance that sent a shiver down your spine.
He must have felt your lingering stare because, without a word, he shifted. One hand remained steady on the wheel, but the other? It moved.
Slowly, deliberately, it found your thigh, fingers spreading against the fabric as he rubbed soft, teasing circles into your skin. The warmth of his palm sent a wave of heat curling in your stomach.
A smirk tugged at his lips, though his eyes never left the road.
"You like my hands?" he mused, voice low, knowing. Then, after a pause—deeper, more suggestive...
"You know… these hands can do a lot more for you."