The Quiet Passenger
Marcus Bell had been driving for twelve hours when she slid into his back seat and made the whole night worse, in the best way.
She was in a black dress that hugged every curve, with long dark hair and red lipstick, and she smelled like smoke and jasmine. "Pier 40," she said, her voice low and unhurried. Her eyes met his in the rearview mirror and held a beat too long.
"You got it."
She didn't look at her phone. She looked at him. Slowly she crossed her legs, the dress riding up her thigh, and he gripped the wheel harder than he needed to.
"Long night?" she asked.
"Longer now."
She laughed, soft and throaty. When he stopped at a red light, she leaned forward until her breath brushed his ear. "You have nice hands, Marcus. I've been watching them."
His pulse hammered. "I'm not supposed to flirt with passengers."
"I'm not supposed to be here at all." Her fingertips trailed along his shoulder, down his arm, and settled over his hand on the gearshift, warm and certain. "Drive."
The light turned green. He drove, and every nerve in his body was aware of her hand, the heat of her skin, and the faint sound of her breathing. At the next light she kissed the side of his neck, slow and deliberate, and he nearly missed the turn.
"Pier 40 is twenty minutes," he managed.
"Then we have twenty minutes." She smiled against his skin.