NATE'S POV
The drive home was a fucking blur of headlights and shadows, the city streets melting into streaks of neon as my hands gripped the steering wheel like it was the only thing keeping me tenuously tethered to reality. My pulse still thundered with a desperate, frantic rhythm, my chest tight with adrenaline, humiliation, and something far more dangerous: raw, burning need. Adrian Blackwood's hands, his commanding lips, the precise, brutal way he had pressed me into that cold wall, it all lingered, burned into me with a kind of violent, scorching memory that refused to fade or soften.
