ELENA
I HATED HIS CAR, HOW it was infinitely him. How I was suffocated in his space in a way I couldn’t find unpleasant.
I hated his car.
But I loved how he drove it.
How his hand fit the wheel, how he sat in the driver’s seat with an unpretentious confidence, and how he always drove the speed limit as if to maintain that gentlemanly façade.
It reminded me of the soft sound of fabric hitting the floor, the scrape of teeth on the nape of my neck, the tug of my hair.
My pulse drifted between my thighs, and I pressed my legs together.
I wasn’t usually a betting girl, but I would put all of my papà’s ill-gotten gains on the idea that this man fucked just like he drove. With complete control and confidence.
Nico remained silent as we drove uptown, streetlights flickering and fading across an unreadable expression. Earlier, he’d picked the simple vase and said, “Less is more,” and I had to agree with him.
After that, he’d hardly said a word to me. During his silence, I realized I liked his voice. I wanted to know what he would say. There were whole sentences in that head just waiting to be drawled, and I wanted every one of them. I couldn’t and wouldn’t analyze why.
The quiet, the pressure between my legs, they started to build until I had to break the tension.
“How fast does this thing go?” I asked.
His head tilted to the side, catching my gaze. He held it for a moment before turning back to the road. “Fast.”
I pulled my bottom lip between my teeth, trying to think of how to respond. What I came up with was, “How fast?”
He didn’t glance at me, but a small smile appeared.
“Show me.” It escaped my lips on a breath, quiet and suggestive.
“No.”
I raised a brow. “Why? Are you scared?”
He flicked a gaze to me. Darkness glinted behind an ounce of amusement. “Scared and reckless are two different things.”
I didn’t know why considering it didn’t help my case, but it was a relief he’d said that. I had a rash brother—I didn’t want a similar husband. However, I wasn’t ready to give up yet; his attention had sparked a thrill inside of me.
“Are you saying you’ve never shown off with a woman in the car before?”
“That’s not what I said.”
“So, you have?”
“When I was sixteen, probably.”
That was a long time ago, yet I couldn’t stop a sliver of envy from finding its way to me. What girl was important enough to him that he’d shown off to impress her? I shook it off. “I’m marrying a Russo. Don’t you think I should know what it’s like before it’s too late?”
The glance he cast my way was nothing but heat. “It’s already too late.”
My pulse fluttered, but I forced a sigh. “It’s okay. If you’re scared—”
He shook his head before the car accelerated so fast I fell against my seat. A laugh escaped my lips, yet his only response was a look in my direction, a spark passing through his eyes. I watched the odometer hit 90 . . . 100 . . . 110.
Nico drove like he would if he were going a mere sixty mph: relaxed, not conveying an ounce of emotion. Adrenaline surged and fizzled through my veins. He hit 120 before he had to slow for our exit.
High on lust and life and speed, I rolled down my window and let the warm air brush my cheeks. We pulled into the driveway fifteen minutes later, and I couldn’t exactly say it felt like home yet, but something about it did feel right.