Fight Or Flight

Kara's rustbucket coughs its last on a forsaken stretch of blacktop, miles from any speck of civilization. Kristen Scott's lithe form stands defiant under the merciless sun, engine dead as her hopes. Footsteps in the dust are her only option—until headlights slice the haze. But Mike Mancini's Rocco behind the wheel screams trouble, his scarred face and predatory stare setting off every instinct she has. Desperation trumps fear; she slides in, heart hammering. He growls promises of a quick lift to town, but Kara senses the lie in his gravelly voice, the way his eyes linger too long. The miles crawl by, his crude jabs turning her blood to ice. Then the radio crackles: escaped con on the loose, description fitting Rocco like a glove—tattoos, build, that killer glare. Panic surges; she's trapped in a rolling cage with a monster. Gotta play it smart or die trying. 'Pull over,' she purrs, voice dripping honeyed venom. He smirks, complies. In the shadowed cab, she unleashes her weapon—fingers tracing his thigh, lips brushing his ear, body arching into forbidden heat. Kristen Scott's seduction is a razor-edged dance, tits heaving against his chest, her hand slipping toward his hardening cock, stroking with urgent promise. But it's all a feint, tension coiling like a spring. Distract the beast long enough to strike—or flee into the night.