Driven

### **Driven -- Chapter 1: The Spark**

The Panamera Turbo eased into the driveway like it belonged to her--even though it didn't. Not technically. The low, spooling whine of the turbos caught on the wind and settled into the stone like a secret. It wasn't just the sound of a car cooling down. It was the sound of restraint--of something hot held barely in place. She understood that feeling intimately.

Marcus stepped out from the side garage door, wiping his hands on a stained cloth. Tall. Quiet. Work-worn forearms marked by grease and sun. His movements were unhurried, but not lazy. There was a precision to the way he shifted his weight as he moved toward the cooling car. A man calibrated by repetition.

She watched from the top step of the veranda, body half-shadowed behind one of the white pillars. Silk dress. Bare shoulders. One hand at her hip, the other trailing a keyring idly against her thigh. Her husband hadn't even noticed she'd gone outside. The tapping of his laptop keys filtered through the open French doors behind her.

Marcus didn't look up immediately. But when he did--just once, just long enough--she felt it.

That pause. That moment when his breath stilled, just slightly. Eyes meeting hers before dropping again. Not in submission. In recognition.

She descended the steps slowly, letting her heels kiss the stone. Not fast enough to be eager. Not slow enough to be aimless.

"Afternoon," Marcus offered without inflection.

She stopped at the car door, glanced over the curve of the Panamera's rear quarter panel.

"She's been running hot lately," she said. "Turbo response is delayed. Almost like it's... hesitating."

Marcus glanced toward the front intake, his jaw shifting slightly as he nodded.

"I'll take a look at her."

She met his gaze. "You do that."

And then she slid into the back seat without waiting for her husband.

---

### **Driven -- Chapter 2: The Second Drive**

The second drive wasn't planned. Not really.

She'd mentioned the intake lag to her husband over dinner, knowing full well he wouldn't follow up. He'd waved it off with a half-muttered *"Text Marcus if it's that bad,"* before returning to whatever newsfeed he used as a buffer between them now.

She didn't text Marcus. She waited.

Two mornings later, the Panamera was gone from the garage.

By late afternoon, it returned--polished, idling differently. When she stepped out, he was already in the driver's seat, the door open for her, the engine murmuring like a kept animal.

"Thought I'd take you out," Marcus said simply, not looking at her.

She didn't ask where. She just slid in, the hem of her dress brushing his knuckles as she settled into the passenger seat.

The car smelled like sun-warmed leather and him. Clean skin. Faint oil. No cologne. It was grounding in a way she hadn't expected.

He shifted into first. The gate clinked faintly.

No words.

They drove past the bluff, along the ocean. Wind teased loose strands of her hair across her cheek. He didn't ask if she wanted the windows down. He just... knew.

"You recalibrated the boost?" she asked after a while.

He nodded. "She was underfed. You'll feel the difference."

The word choice wasn't lost on her.

They drove in silence until the road narrowed and curled into a stretch of trees--shaded, quiet, sun flickering through the canopy in long, golden stabs. He downshifted cleanly, letting the RPMs stretch just long enough to make the turbos flutter again--soft, rising, hungry.

Her thighs pressed together. Just slightly.

"You always this quiet?" she asked, eyes still forward.

"I speak when there's something worth hearing."

She turned her head toward him. His profile was steady, unreadable. His hands wrapped the wheel with quiet authority.

"You like control," she murmured.

His knuckles shifted. Not a flinch--just a beat of tension.

"So do you," he said.

A long pause.

She uncrossed her legs deliberately, adjusting the fall of her dress. Leather creaked faintly beneath her.

"I like precision," she replied.

He downshifted again, slower this time.

The car responded instantly.

And so did something else inside her.

---

### **Driven -- Chapter 3: Shared Load**

The garage was darker than usual when she arrived.

Marcus had left the overhead lights off, letting the fading daylight spill in through the high, grimy windows in streaks that touched the concrete floor like silk ribbon. The air was warm. Still. Dense with the scent of motor oil, old leather, and something else--something masculine and unspoken.

She was barefoot when she stepped inside. No announcement. No small talk.

Just silence.

Her dress was a whisper against her thighs. Slipped on with deliberate care. Soft, charcoal gray, sleeveless, hung low on the back. Nothing underneath.

He looked up from the bench, wiping grease from his palm.

He didn't speak.

She liked that about him.

He set the cloth down.

She took three slow steps forward. Let her eyes adjust. Let the silence settle.

"I left something in the glovebox," she said, running a hand along the fender of the Panamera.

Marcus raised an eyebrow. But he didn't move.

"Did you now?"

She nodded. "A request."

He walked around the car, slow, unhurried. Opened the door. Reached inside. She watched him find the note. Watched him read it.

*Bring someone who can keep up.*

He folded the slip in half. Looked at her for a long time.

And then he said, "I did."

She heard the other man before she saw him. Leo. Taller. Younger. Sharper jaw. Something unruly in the way he carried himself--like he wanted to break rules just to hear what they sounded like when they cracked.

She turned to Marcus. "You trust him?"

Marcus didn't hesitate. "With everything."

She nodded once. Turned to Leo.

"Then let's begin."

She walked to the center of the garage, beneath the hanging bulb that flickered just enough to make her glow.

She untied her dress. Let it slip.

Leo didn't speak.

She turned and faced them both, back straight, bare feet on concrete, hair falling loosely over one shoulder.

"You first," she said, eyes on Marcus.

He came to her slowly, reverently. Touched the side of her face like she was breakable. Then kissed her shoulder, lower, lower still, until she tipped her chin up and sighed.

She didn't close her eyes. She watched Leo watching her.

And when she spoke again, it was to him.

"Now you."

Leo dropped to his knees in front of her. No hesitation. Hands on her thighs, firm, but not rough. His mouth was warm. Curious. She gasped--not from surprise, but from the **rightness** of it.

Marcus came behind her. Kissed her nape. Let his hands settle on her ribs. She was suspended between them--knees trembling, mouth parted, breath quickening.

She didn't just want this.

She wanted them to understand **why**.

It wasn't about release. Or pleasure. Not really.

It was about precision. About being opened *exactly* as she required.

Her climax came slow. Then sharp. A wave that began in her throat and rolled down her spine like heat.

They caught her.

Held her steady.

And when she looked up--sweat-slick, radiant, untouchable--she smiled.

"Next time," she whispered, "I want you both inside me."

She turned, let her hand brush between Marcus's legs. Saw the pulse in his jaw.

Then turned to Leo.

"And I want you to fight for it."

---

### **Driven -- Chapter 4: The Ride Home**

The car was quiet when they pulled away.

Not just because Marcus drove without music, or because the Panamera glided like breath down the winding road--but because something had changed.

Inside her.

The heat between her thighs had long since cooled, replaced by something deeper. Heavier. A weight that settled low in her belly, equal parts power and clarity.

She reclined slightly in the passenger seat, one leg crossed over the other, bare foot brushing the dash. Her hair still smelled faintly of oil and sweat and salt. Her skin hummed where their mouths had touched it.

Marcus drove without glancing at her. He didn't need to.

The silence between them wasn't awkward--it was earned. A stillness built not from absence, but from fulfillment.

She let her fingers trace the edge of the seatbelt where it crossed her collarbone. Let her eyes drift to the dark curve of his wrist on the wheel, to the way he shifted gears with casual dominance.

The turbos spooled gently as he accelerated, a soft whine rising behind the engine's breath.

She smiled, just a little.

That sound--she finally understood it.

It wasn't just horsepower or mechanical finesse. It was tension, barely restrained. Hunger wound tight beneath refinement.

It was the sound of **her**.

Her fingers curled under her thigh. The interior lights cast low amber across her legs, highlighting the sheen of her bare skin against the leather.

She didn't speak. Didn't need to.

He dropped her off without a word. The engine idled as she stepped out slowly, her silhouette framed by the open door.

She didn't look back.

She didn't have to.

The road would remember her.

---

### **Driven -- Chapter 5: Suspicions**

There was something different in the way she moved.

Not obvious. Not enough to name. But something.

A new kind of stillness in her limbs. A poise that wasn't effort, but **ownership**--like her body remembered something her husband hadn't touched in years. Something awakened, stretched, and never fell back asleep.

He noticed it when she poured her wine. The way her fingers curled around the stem. The way she let the silence stretch between them like silk. She wasn't cold. She wasn't cruel. But she wasn't waiting anymore. Not for him. Not for anything.

"Long day?" he asked, voice too casual.

She didn't look up. Just sipped.

"Productive," she said.

He reached for his water, adjusted his cuff. "Marcus drove you again?"

Her gaze flicked up then--briefly, like a beam of light through a slit curtain.

"Marcus and Leo," she said. "They work well together."

It wasn't the words that hit him. It was the ease with which she said them. As if those names belonged in her mouth. As if they already had.

At the gala the following weekend, she wore a backless dress the color of tarnished gold. No bra. Her skin was lit from within. Marcus was there--valet staff, presumably. Leo too. Somehow. Leaning against a pillar, talking to no one, watching everything.

Her husband watched them both watch her. And her?

She *let* them.

She let Marcus place a hand at the small of her back as he opened a door. She let Leo say something low into her ear that made her lips curl in amusement.

It was subtle.

But it wasn't hidden.

Later, in the car, he tried.

"You seemed close with them tonight."

"Did I?"

"You did."

She turned toward the window, eyes on her own reflection.

"They touch me," she said, voice soft, "like I matter."

That was the first cut.

The second came in bed.

He tried to reach for her--hand on her hip, tentative, like a man petting something that might bite.

She didn't flinch.

She didn't move toward him either.

"You're different," he whispered.

She was silent.

And then: "Would it upset you to know they make me feel things you never tried to?"

His hand fell away.

She rolled onto her back. Let the moonlight touch her before he could.

"If you want to see what that looks like," she said calmly, "come home early tomorrow."

She didn't say what time.

She didn't need to.

---

### **Driven -- Chapter 6: Receipts**

The kitchen was quiet when he found her. Too quiet.

She stood at the island, barefoot, a loose linen robe tied at the waist. Sunlight leaked through the windows and settled across her collarbones like melted gold. A single mug of coffee steamed between her hands.

He held the envelope in one fist like proof of something.

"They billed us for almost seven hours," he said.

She didn't turn around. Didn't even lift the mug.

"Did they?"

He stepped closer, the paper softening in his grip. "Marcus. Leo. The garage. Saturday night."

She finally looked at him then. Slowly. Like turning a page she already knew the ending to.

"Was it seven?" she asked, voice smooth. "Felt longer."

He blinked.

She walked past him to the sink, her robe shifting just enough to reveal a line of bare thigh. She poured the rest of the coffee down the drain and turned back, leaning her hip against the counter.

"You seemed tired that night," she said. "I didn't want to wake you."

His jaw twitched. "They're mechanics."

She tilted her head. "And I'm a machine."

Silence.

He placed the bill on the counter. "I deserve to know what happened."

She stepped forward, eyes on him, chin lifted just slightly.

"No," she said. "You deserve to feel what it's like to **not** know."

And she left him there.

In the kitchen. In the morning light. In the space between knowing and never being allowed to ask again.

---

### **Driven -- Chapter 7: Idle Heat**

The house was warm that evening--quiet in a way that made every sound feel intentional.

She lit only one lamp in the living room. Golden light pooled in the center of the space like a spotlight no one had asked for. She moved through it slowly, barefoot again, wrapped in silk the color of bone.

He came in from the garage, loosened his tie. Paused in the doorway when he saw her.

"You look..." he started, voice catching on the edge of something.

She didn't look at him. She was adjusting a book on the coffee table. Perfecting a corner. Straightening her world.

"Tired?" she offered without looking up.

"No. Just... different."

That made her smile. A small one. Not for him.

She walked to the kitchen, the hem of her robe whispering against her thighs. Poured herself a glass of wine. Said nothing.

He followed. Not too close. But closer than before.

"You've been distant," he said carefully.

She turned. Rested her hip against the counter. Held the wine at her lips but didn't drink.

"No," she said. "You've just started paying attention."

The silence that followed felt louder than the words.

He stepped closer. Reached for her waist.

She didn't move away.

She just stared at him until his hand stalled midair.

"What do you want?" he asked.

She tilted her head, as if considering.

And then, softly: "Everything."

He hesitated. Dropped his hand.

"I want to understand you again," he said.

She smiled faintly. "Then kneel."

He laughed nervously. "What?"

She took a sip. Her eyes never left his.

"I didn't stutter."

He didn't kneel.

But he didn't leave the room either.

And that, she thought, was enough--for now.

---