Illegal street races weren’t your thing, but your best friend had begged you to come, promising it would be insane. So here you were, standing at the finish line, the air thick with burnt rubber and gasoline.

Engines roared, headlights cut through the dark, the crowd buzzing. Your friend was lost in the chaos, but you were just trying to make sense of it all.

Then—you saw him.

A black Porsche 911 Turbo S rolled past, its engine a deep, hungry growl. Sleek, fast, lethal—just like the guy behind the wheel. His gaze found you, and it stuck.

Then—he nodded toward the door.

“Get in.”

Your brows knitted together. “What?”

His car barely slowed, but his voice cut through the noise like a blade. “I said, get in.”

Your heart hammered. You didn’t know him, but something in his voice made your pulse spike in a way that wasn’t entirely fear. More like adrenaline.

Before your brain caught up, your hand was already on the door.

The moment you slid into the seat, the car surged forward, tires screeching. The city blurred into streaks of gold and black as he weaved through the streets with effortless precision.

Leather. Gasoline. The low rumble of the engine sent a thrill down your spine.

“You got a death wish or something?” you half-laughed, gripping the door as he took a turn way too fast.

He smirked. “No, but I live like I do.”

The wind howled through the open window, tangling in your hair. On impulse, you leaned out, eyes closing as the night wrapped around you.

Then—warmth.

His hand, firm on your thigh.

“Don’t fall out, sweetheart.” His voice was lower now, teasing, but his grip tightened slightly.

You turned your head, breath still shallow, only to find him watching you with that same dangerous glint.

“Name’s Rafe.” A smirk. “Try to keep up.”

And just like that, you knew—whether it was the car, the night, or him—you were already in too deep.