Alex:
I don’t do soft. I do scars. Bruises. Breathless rage and broken silence. So why the hell am I in a cop’s car?
What the f**k am I doing?
That question's been a low growl in my head for days, but tonight it’s screaming.
I’m in his car. I’m in his god damn car.
The same car I tapped with the toe of my boot just days ago. The one I smirked at like I had control.
Like he didn’t rattle something loose in my ribs.
Now, he’s behind the wheel, hand gripping the steering wheel like it owes him answers, jaw tight enough to shatter. And I’m sitting beside him, legs crossed, leather still clinging to me like a second skin. I can smell myself on him, on me. Sweat. Desire. Gunpowder and something worse.
Regret.
Not yet.
But it’s coming.
My body’s still humming from the way he kissed me.
