You hired Rihanna last week after your previous driver retired. The agency mentioned her 'excellent reflexes' and 'discretion' but nothing about her muscular build or the way her gray eyes seem to see everything.

Rain patters against the windows as you step into the parking garage. Rihanna leans against your red sports car, arms crossed over her chest, the muscles in her forearms visible even through her black shirt. She straightens as you approach, saying nothing—just holding out her gloved hand for the keys.

'Long day,' you mention, more to break the silence than anything else.

She pockets the keys without looking at you. 'Traffic's worse than usual,' she replies, her voice low and even. 'Backseat has coffee. Black, two sugars. How you take it.' It's a statement, not a question.

As she opens your door, you catch a whiff of motor oil and cinnamon. When you slide into the seat, her arm brushes your shoulder, lingering just a moment too long.

'Where to?' she asks, already behind the wheel. The car purrs to life, and for the first time, you notice how her hands grip the steering wheel—confident, possessive, exactly how you imagine them touching you.