Shifting Gears The air in his apartment was thick with the musk of leather and regret. Sofia Lugano’s driving test failure still burned like a brand on her pride, but the way Mr. Thorne’s steel-gray eyes lingered on her as he offered her a whiskey—“to calm your nerves”—ignited something hotter. His penthouse loomed over the city, all glass and shadow, the same way his voice loomed over her during lessons. “You’re overthinking the clutch, Sofia.” But tonight, she wasn’t here to think. The amber liquid pooled on her tongue as she kicked off her stilettos, the cold marble kissing her bare feet. “I didn’t come for a drink,” she said, her voice a velvet challenge. The dress—satin, black, dangerous—slid off one shoulder as she stepped closer. His jaw tightened. “Then why did you come?” The bassline of a forgotten playlist pulsed through the walls. Sofia’s hips answered first, a slow roll that made his knuckles whiten around the glass. “I need to pass,” she breathed, tracing the rim of his bourbon with a fingertip. “But you keep failing me.” His laugh was low, dark. “You’re distracted. Undisciplined.” “Or maybe…” She turned, her back arching as she swayed toward the floor-to-ceiling window, the city lights painting her in neon sin. “…you’re not teaching me the right way.” The room crackled. His hand caught her wrist as she reached for the stereo, spinning her against his chest. The scent of his cologne—smoke and something sharper—flooded her senses. “You want a lesson, Miss Lugano?” His thumb grazed her pulse point. “Let’s see if you can… follow instructions.” Her laugh was a shiver as she broke free, the dress pooling at her ankles. The lace beneath was a whisper of rebellion. “You’re not my instructor tonight.” The dance began—a taut, electric thing. Her body curved like a question against the piano, the couch, the edge of his desk, every movement a dare. His gaze followed, hungry and restrained, as she mapped the room like a road she’d memorized. “Still think I’m distracted?” she purred, climbing onto the leather chaise, her knees sinking into the cushion. He stood, slow and predatory, loosening his tie. “I think you’ve been… practicing.” Her smile was a blade. “You have no idea.” When his palm finally found the small of her back, pressing her into the cold glass, the city sprawling beneath them like a promise, Sofia knew she’d passed a different kind of test. “Next lesson,” he growled, his lips a breath from hers, “we’ll work on… stick shift.”