She grabbed my face—both hands, full commitment—while I was still piloting the Lambo at triple-digit felony speeds. Kissed me like she was trying to swallow the last years of her life and spit out the bones. Hard. Messy.
Tasted like pure adrenaline, fresh asphalt, rebirth, and the exact brand of beautiful insanity that only hits when a woman stares down a literal canyon drop and decides the lunatic behind the wheel is a better long-term investment than twenty years of polite suffocation.
"More," she breathed against my mouth. "I want more."
Not a suggestion.
A fucking royal decree from a woman who'd spent a decade waiting for permission to want anything at all.
Her phone buzzed again in her lap. His name lighting up the screen like a process server who refuses to take a hint. Persistent little shit. Like a man who just realized his emotional checking account was at -$47,000 and was now trying to Venmo attention into a closed branch.
This time she picked it up.
And answered.
