The leather creaks beneath me as I settle deeper into the driver's seat, the cold biting through my shirt. She doesn't open her door. She slides across the back seat and stops in the middle, close enough that the heat of her bleeds across the space between us. Her shoulder brushes mine when I turn the key and the engine catches.
I don't pull away.
The estate gates swing open, iron and stone sliding past the headlights. The road beyond is dark, empty, the kind of road that feels like it belongs to no one. Her gaze lands on my hands as I shift into first gear—heavy, deliberate, a weight I feel more than see. My knuckles tighten on the wheel. My jaw tightens too.
“You drive well,” she says. Not a compliment. An observation. Like she's cataloging me for later.
“It's a straight road.”
“Still.” Her voice is husky, low, the kind of warmth that fills a car too small for two people. She shifts closer and I feel the fabric of her dress slide against the leather. “Most men I know drive like they're proving something. You drive like you're already where you need to be.”
I don't answer. My throat is tight. I focus on the yellow lines eating the darkness.
Her hand lands on my thigh—light, deliberate, a claim more than a question. The warmth of her palm bleeds through the fabric of my trousers. My body responds before my mind catches up: a sharp inhale, the car drifting a degree left before I correct it. She doesn't move her hand. I let it stay there for three heartbeats, four, counting each one like a test I'm failing.
Then I reach down and take her hand. Her fingers are warm, soft, the gold of her wedding band pressing against my palm. I press her hand flat against my thigh, holding it there, not letting go. I don't look at her. I can't. If I look, I'll break something I don't know how to fix.
Her fingers curl around mine. Squeeze once. Soft. Final.
The headlights sweep across the dark road ahead. The club is still ten minutes away, and I don't know what happens when we get there. I don't know if I'll let go of her hand. I don't know if I can.
She's the only thing I feel. The road, the wheel, the cold—all of it distant, like I'm watching someone else drive. Her thumb traces the edge of my knuckle, once, slow, and I feel that single touch all the way down my spine. I don't correct the drift this time. The car eases left, just a little, and I let it. I let her pull me off course.
I pull the car to the shoulder before I can think about it. The engine idles, headlights cutting through the dark, illuminating nothing but gravel and the bare trunks of trees lining the road. I kill the ignition. The silence rushes in—no hum, no movement, just the tick of cooling metal and the sound of her breathing beside me.
I don't look at her. My hands stay on the wheel, gripping it like I'm still driving, like I still have somewhere to go. Her hand is still on my thigh. She hasn't moved it. Hasn't pulled away. The warmth of her palm is the only thing I can feel through the fabric of my trousers.
"Why are we stopping?" Her voice is low, curious, not afraid. She knows exactly why we're stopping.
I turn to face her.
The darkness inside the car is intimate—shadows pooling in the hollow of her throat, catching the gold of her necklace, the curve of her shoulder where the satin strap sits loose. Her eyes are dark, unreadable, but her lips are parted. Waiting.
"This is a test," I say. My voice comes out rougher than I meant. "Everything with him is a test. And you're—" I stop. Breathe. My jaw tightens. "You're part of it."
She doesn't flinch. Doesn't look away. Her hand moves on my thigh, just a fraction, her fingers pressing deeper into the muscle, and I feel the heat of her touch through my whole body.
"I know," she says. Soft. Honest. "But that doesn't change what I feel when I touch you."
Her words hang in the dark between us. But that doesn't change what I feel when I touch you. The truth in them is raw, unguarded, the first thing she's said tonight that doesn't sound rehearsed. My hands leave the wheel. I turn in my seat, the leather creaking beneath me, and face her fully for the first time since we left the estate.
She doesn't look away. Her eyes are dark pools in the dim light, steady, waiting. Her hand is still on my thigh, warm through the fabric, and I feel the weight of it like a brand. The air between us is thick, charged, the kind of silence that demands to be broken.
"Isabella." Her name comes out rough, almost a question. I don't know what I'm asking. Permission. Forgiveness. A reason to stop.
She doesn't give me one. Her fingers curl tighter against my thigh, pulling me closer without moving. Her lips part, just slightly, and I watch her breath catch in the hollow of her throat. The gold of her necklace catches the faint light from the dashboard, glinting once before disappearing into shadow.
I lean in. Slowly at first—giving her time to pull away, to turn her head, to end this before it starts. She doesn't. Her chin lifts, just a fraction, an invitation I can't refuse. My hand finds her jaw, my thumb tracing the line of her cheekbone, feeling the warmth of her skin, the softness I've been trying not to imagine for days.
When our lips meet, it's not gentle. It's hunger held too long, breaking loose. Her mouth opens beneath mine, and I taste her—whiskey and something sweet, the heat of her breath mixing with mine. My other hand slides into her hair, tangling in the loose waves, tilting her head back as I deepen the kiss. She makes a sound low in her throat, a gasp or a moan, and I feel it vibrate through me, settling somewhere deep in my chest.
Her hand moves from my thigh to my chest, fingers pressing into the fabric of my shirt, gripping like she's afraid I'll pull away. I won't. I can't. The world outside this car has vanished—the estate, Salvatore, the test I know I'm failing. There's only her mouth, her breath, the way she arches into me like she's been waiting for this as long as I have.
I break the kiss, just barely, my forehead resting against hers. Her breathing is ragged, matching mine. I can feel her pulse beneath my thumb, quick and uneven. Her eyes are closed, her lashes dark against her cheeks.
"Marco." Her voice is a whisper, cracked at the edges. She opens her eyes. They're wet, glistening in the dark. "I don't care if it's a test."
Something in me breaks. Or maybe it's been broken all along, and I'm only now feeling it. I kiss her again—softer this time, slower, like I'm memorizing the shape of her mouth. Her fingers curl into my collar, pulling me closer, and I let her. I let her pull me off course, off the road, off everything I thought I was.
Outside, the headlights cut through the dark, illuminating nothing but gravel and trees. The car idles beneath us, a low hum, the only sound besides our breathing. I don't know what happens when we go back. I don't know if I'll survive what I've just done. But right now, with her mouth warm against mine and her hand fisted in my shirt, I don't care.