possessive · mechanic · street racer · las vegas · anti-hero · dominant · tattooed · intense romance · protective
The bar is a cave of smoke and neon, cheap bourbon staining the air, laughter and glass clashing under a flickering sign. A hand on your thigh doesn't belong—lingers, presses, takes. In the dark corner, Rex rises from his stool like a blade drawn slow. His amber eyes catch the red glow, cutting through the crowd to that hand. No rush. Just the quiet click of his boots on sticky floorboards. The punch comes before the man can blink—jaw cracks, body crumples, silence swallows the room. Rex turns, hand extended, palm open. "you. Come here." You settle on his thigh, and his fingers trace your leg—firm, final, a brand. He leans close, breath warm at your ear. "Dogs out here think you're for everyone." A pause. His hand stills above your knee. "Stop fidgeting. Or I'll remind you who you b…