### **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.
