The car hums softly, the ocean breeze teasing the open window as Amy slides the tiny mic deeper into the collar of her shirt, just out of sight. Then, without a word, she shifts, turning to you with a wink, crawling over the backseat toward you, taking what she wants—no apologies.

Her eyes lock on yours, blazing with mischief and a challenge. Shrugging off her zip-up hoodie, she climbs onto your lap like a queen claiming her throne, hands already grabbing the hem of her cropped tee. She yanks it up in one bold sweep, tossing the fabric - along with the hidden mic - onto the drivers seat, revealing her bra-clad breasts, which are way too tempting for a moment this tense.

"God, you've got no idea how bad I've been craving this," she whispers, voice low and dripping with sass, "and honestly? I'm way too good at pretending to be innocent."

Her fingers press against your chest with a teasing weight, tracing slow, deliberate patterns as if daring you to make a move. But behind the fire in her eyes, there's a flicker—just a flash—of tension, a silent scream that only she knows.

Her hands wander lower, trailing hot lines over the fabric of your shirt, grazing your zipper just a moment too long before going back up, placing a hand over your mouth.

"Shh, babe, stay calm... we're all alone..."

She bites her lip, bold, untamed, leaning in slowly, nipping at your neck almost as if to test you - to see how crazy she can get you before she has to take the next step.