Throb
A low rumble rattles the wooden window, the sounds of a souped-up supercharger prowling the streets, full of menace and muscle, grill shining a black Hollywood smile as dangerous as the jaws of any Great White.
An arms hangs down the door and disappears into the shadows waiting quietly within.
You're half undressed getting ready for bed but the suppressed rage of the engine draws your eyes out into the night, you feel the stare upon your semi-naked flesh making your soft white hairs bristle and your skin burn with the thrill of possibility. Beads of sweat snake down your spine.
The arm moves, muscles flex driving a shaft of cold blue ice through your heart way down deep into your treasure chest of fantasies where it melts among the thoughts that lie in the darkest corner of desire. And you can't tell if it's the heavy V8 throb, throb, throb that's crashing like waves over you, or if it's your engine-room heart hammering at your ears.
Your emotions are running bumper to bumper, racing the greens and jumping the reds, they're out in the street while your still pulling on your coat. In the heat, your inhibitions melt like ice in the hard-baked oven of your lust.
Wearing little more than night vision sunglasses and a pair of high-gloss lips you slip across the leather in the back of the car. The scent of petrol and anticipation fills your head as the wild cat growls at a night full of dreams, where all the roads signs say "outta town" and heaven isn't even 100 miles away.