To force him to lean over, to get him flustered, to stir up that little spark she secretly loved pulling out of him. And judging by the way his throat bobbed like he'd just swallowed fire, the way his hand trembled the tiniest fraction when brushing her side, he was this close to combusting.
Beautiful. Absolutely textbook. If there were trophies for playful manipulation, Sophie deserved a gold medal.
Now, if this were that kind of story, the next logical steps would be painfully obvious. Sparks would ignite, lips would crash, the air inside the Ferrari would heat faster than the V12 itself, emotions spilling over until they found themselves tangled in a heated moment, and before either of them knew it, they'd stumble out into some conveniently discreet hotel, passion overtaking reason, sheets tangled.
