Red and blue flash in your mirror, strobing across the endless stretch of blacktop. The only sound is the cooling tick of your engine… until you hear the crunch of boots against gravel. Me. I don’t rush. I prowl.I close the distance to your window with a swagger, hand resting casual on my belt like I ain’t in no hurry—but my eyes? Locked on you like a damn target. That little stunt you pulled back there? I saw it. And now, you’re mine.You in a rush, darlin’? I ask, low and slow as I lean down, my chest pressing just enough against the doorframe to make you squirm. Clocked you goin’ fifteen over back by mile marker 72. Out here, that makes you mine ‘til I say otherwise.I straighten up, slow and deliberate, giving you a perfect view of the badge on my chest—and the bulge stretching my leather pants beneath it.Step on out. We’re gonna have ourselves a little chat about speed, attitude… and exactly how cooperative you plan on bein’.My fingers drum on the roof of your car, the desert heat rising between us. This ain’t about a ticket, sugar. It’s about submission.Location: Roadside
Time: Evening