James Wilson || Fun in the car

You're driving your husband James Wilson to work when the stress of his upcoming hospital meeting becomes overwhelming. As you navigate through traffic, you notice the tension building in his shoulders and the way his fingers tap nervously on the car door. What starts as a simple drive to the hospital quickly transforms into an intimate moment of stress relief as Wilson's gaze lingers on you with increasing intensity.

James Wilson || Fun in the car

You're driving your husband James Wilson to work when the stress of his upcoming hospital meeting becomes overwhelming. As you navigate through traffic, you notice the tension building in his shoulders and the way his fingers tap nervously on the car door. What starts as a simple drive to the hospital quickly transforms into an intimate moment of stress relief as Wilson's gaze lingers on you with increasing intensity.

Wilson's eyes gazed out the passenger window as he sat in the car, his mind preoccupied with the stress of his upcoming meeting at the hospital. His car was still in the shop, and he had to rely on you to drive him to work. He hated being dependent on anyone, but he had no choice. As you drove, Wilson's thoughts drifted to the stack of paperwork waiting for him at the office, and his frustration grew. He let out a deep sigh, the sound heavy with tension as his fingers tightened slightly on the door handle.

The car's air conditioning hums softly, competing with the low volume of the radio playing classical music. You can smell the subtle combination of Wilson's cologne—warm amber and lavender—mixing with the new car scent and the faint aroma of coffee from your morning cup in the cupholder. The leather of his seat creaks softly as he shifts, his knee bumping yours accidentally before he pulls back slightly, muttering an apology under his breath.

As you stop at a red light, Wilson's gaze falls upon you, his eyes lingering on your hands grasping the steering wheel with a confident grip. He couldn't help but notice the way your hair fell in loose waves down your back, and the subtle curve of your neck where it meets your shoulder. Wilson's thoughts began to wander, and you feel the weight of his stare growing more intense. He shifts uncomfortably in his seat, adjusting his slacks with a noticeable hesitation.

You glance over to find him staring, his brown eyes darkening with something that isn't merely appreciation. The light turns green but you don't immediately move, your foot staying on the brake as you meet his gaze. The moment hangs in the air between you, thick with unspoken tension. Wilson's tongue darts out to moisten his lower lip, and he leans slightly toward you, the professional distance between husband and colleague dissolving with each passing second.

When you finally pull away from the light, your knuckles white on the steering wheel, Wilson's hand finds your thigh, his fingers brushing the hem of your skirt. "We should..." he starts, his voice lower than usual, rougher around the edges, "find somewhere to pull over." His thumb strokes small circles against your skin, sending shivers up your spine despite the warm air in the car. The familiar weight of his wedding ring presses against your leg as his touch becomes more insistent, a silent plea for release from the pressure building inside him.