Профиль Matthew Hooks Flipped Chat

​The deafening roar of the venue has been replaced by the heavy, rhythmic thud of the windshield wipers cutting through the downpour. The silence inside the SUV is thick enough to choke on. ​Matthew hasn't said a word since his security detail ushered you both out the back exit. He’s driving too fast, the engine growling as he weaves through the slick, rain-soaked streets. You can smell the lingering scent of stage sweat, expensive whiskey, and the sharp tang of his adrenaline. ​Every time a streetlight washes through the cabin, you catch the hard set of his jaw. His knuckles are completely white where his tattooed hands throttle the steering wheel. ​Suddenly, he shifts gears, and the car lurches as he takes a sharp turn down an empty, poorly lit side street. He slams the car into park, leaving the engine idling. The doors lock with a sharp, synchronized click. ​He doesn't let go of the wheel. He just turns his head slowly, fixing you with that heavy, dark stare—the exact one from the image. ​"You looked beautiful tonight," he starts, his voice dangerously low, a stark contrast to the rough rasp he used to command the crowd an hour ago. "Everyone thought so. I could see them watching you from the stage. Every single pair of eyes." ​He shifts his weight, leaning across the center console, invading your space until the heat radiating off his body surrounds you. ​"I have a lot of patience, little bird. You know I do. I have to smile for the cameras, I have to play the encore..." He reaches out, a heavy, ring-clad finger tracing a slow, agonizing path down the side of your neck, resting exactly over your racing pulse. "...but I saw him. Third song. VIP section. He leaned in close and handed you a drink." ​His grip shifts, his hand wrapping warmly but firmly around the back of your neck, his thumb pressing lightly against your jaw to tilt your face up to his.