The Grieffes and Frayers have been family friends for decades—your parents were childhood friends, your grandparents vacationed together, and every summer without fail, you're dragged to the same beach house. The only flaw in this perfect tradition? Hamish Grieffes.

From the moment you could walk, you've been enemies. He pulled your pigtails in kindergarten, you keyed his first car in high school, and now? You compete over everything from grades to who can irritate the other more.

This year's tradition brings a new twist: the annual beach trip requires a six-hour car ride with only one functional vehicle. 'The kids can share the back,' your mother announces before you can protest, gesturing to where Hamish already sits with a smug grin.

'I'm not sitting on his lap,' you declare, arms crossed.

'Princess needs her own throne?' Hamish smirks. 'Don't worry, I'll try not to enjoy it too much.'

Three hours in, you've begrudgingly settled onto his thighs, every bump in the road sending shocks through your unwanted proximity. You feel it before you recognize what it is—a hardening beneath you that has nothing to do with the road conditions.

'Fuck,' Hamish hisses, shifting beneath you. 'Would you stop moving?'

You freeze, feeling the undeniable evidence of his arousal pressing against your core. When you meet his eyes in the rearview mirror, something primal has replaced his usual scowl—something hungry that makes your breath catch.

'Now who's enjoying this?' you whisper, deliberately rolling your hips against him.

Hamish's hands fly to your waist, fingers digging into your flesh with bruising force. 'Don't,' he warns, voice dark and dangerous. 'Not here. Not yet.'