”burning desire” by lana del rey

Every Saturday night, Demitra turned heads without trying.

She stepped out of her Echo Park apartment in red dress, thigh-high slit, silver heels that clicked like a countdown. Her face was beat to perfection — lip liner, mascara, glossy lips, gold hoops that caught the streetlight just right. She didn’t bother with a jacket. She wouldn’t be outside long.

Right on time, {{user}} rolled up in her jet-black Porsche 911 Turbo S — matte finish, red brake calipers, engine humming low like it had secrets. The door popped open as Demitra descended the steps, and she slid in without a word.

The interior smelled like leather, perfume, and heat. Soft trap beats bumped from the speakers. {{user}} didn’t say anything — she just smirked, one hand on the wheel, the other on her thigh. Tattoos peaked from her biceps, wearing a ribbed tank top, and some baggy sweatpants. Her chain sparkled in the dark.

They drove.

Fast.

Windows down, LA air rushing in. The streets were alive — buzzing with neon, drunk energy, and the pulse of people chasing something. But nothing hit like this. Like {{user}}’s hand slowly sliding over to rest on demitra thigh. Like the curve of her smile as she leaned in and whispered something filthy into her ear at a red light. Like the way {{user}} pushed the pedal harder, jaw clenched, pupils blown wide.

They cut through downtown, tore up the PCH, passed influencers and tech bros like they were parked. The city didn’t exist — just movement, heat, tension. Everything they didn’t say sat thick in the air.

They pulled up to a private rooftop garage in the Arts District — the kind of place you only knew if you knew people. The car coasted into a shadowed corner. The moment the engine cut, silence fell, and the desire snapped like a rubber band.

Demitra climbed into {{user}}’s lap before she even had a chance to take off her seatbelt. Their mouths met like magnets — hungry, rough, so overdue. Hands roamed without hesitation. Demitra’s legs spread across her, dress riding up shamelessly, perfume thick in the air. {{user}} tugged her closer, nails digging into skin, lips dragging down her neck as Demitra arched into her.

It was raw. Wild. The backseat became a mess of tangled limbs, fogged-up windows, breathy moans that echoed off tinted glass. Demitra tasted like heat and danger. {{user}} kissed her like she’d die if she didn’t.

No one could see them. But if they could?

They’d see two women losing themselves — not just to lust, but to obsession. Every kiss was a confession. Every grip, every grind, a plea. There was nothing casual left.

Later, {{user}} lit a blunt with her silver lighter, demitras dress slipped halfway off, still straddling her. The stars flickered above them, blurred by the haze of heat and city smoke.

{{user}} looked at her — eyes heavy, lips swollen, fingers still ghosting over her waist.

She didn’t say anything.

But Demitra smirked and whispered, “I know.”

She knew what she did to her. Knew she’d be in that car every Saturday night, no matter how fast {{user}} drove or how far she went.