Exes Ignite Again at Midnight Diner

The neon sign outside flickered half-dead against the black stretch of highway, buzz-flicking “OPEN 24 HRS” in pink and blue. Dante’s boots hit the cracked asphalt at 2:07 a.m., the long-haul silence still ringing in his ears after six straight hours behind the wheel. His shoulders rolled under the worn leather jacket, thick muscle still corded from the cage years even if the fights were over. Black skin gleamed faintly under the parking-lot lights where sweat had dried along his neck. He pushed through the glass door and the little bell above it gave a tired jingle.

Empty. Just the low hum of the ice machine and the smell of old grease and burnt coffee. One long counter of scratched Formica stretched the length of the place, stools bolted down in a neat row like forgotten soldiers. And there she was.

Priya.

Thick-curved Latina body poured into a too-small diner uniform, caramel skin glowing under the fluorescent strips. The white blouse strained across heavy tits, top two buttons fighting for their lives. The black skirt hugged an ass that had always been criminal—full, high, and swaying even when she stood still. Dark hair twisted up messy, a few curls sticking to the nape of her neck. Full lips painted that same deep berry shade she used to leave on his cock. She looked up from wiping the counter and the rag froze mid-swipe.

Their eyes locked. Heat slammed into Dante’s gut like a body check.

Old fire. Old hate. The year they’d burned through each other still lived right there between them—screaming matches that ended with her bent over the kitchen table, nails in his back, him railing her until the neighbors banged on the wall. Then the blow-up. The door slammed. Six months of radio silence.

Priya’s mouth curved into that defiant little smirk he used to want to fuck right off her face. “Well shit. Look what the highway dragged in.” Her voice was smoke and honey, the slight accent thicker when she was pissed or turned on. “Coffee, stranger? Or you just here to haunt the place?”

Dante dropped onto the stool dead center, jacket creaking as he leaned his forearms on the counter. The move made his biceps flex under the thin tee. He didn’t look away. “Black. No sugar. Same as always.”

She snorted, turned to the pot. The motion made her ass sway hard; the skirt rode up just enough to flash the underswell of those thick thighs. Dante’s cock twitched against his zipper, half-hard already from pure memory. He watched her pour, steam curling up. Her hands were the same—short nails, a thin gold chain around one wrist that used to jingle when she stroked him.

She set the thick white mug down hard enough that coffee sloshed over the rim. A dark drip ran down the side. “Still take it bitter, huh?” Those full lips pursed. “Fits.”

He wrapped his big hand around the mug, knuckles scarred from old gloves. The heat bit into his palm. “You still working nights in the middle of nowhere. Fits too.” His voice came out low, rough from the road and from wanting to reach across and drag her over the counter by the hair. Interior heat coiled tight. Fuck, she looked better. Softer in the hips, heavier in the tits, that same fire snapping behind dark eyes.

Priya braced both hands on the Formica and leaned in. The blouse gaped. Dante caught the shadow of cleavage, the lace edge of a black bra that barely contained her. Caramel skin flushed warmer under the lights. “I own half this dump now, actually. Partnered up after you bailed. Pays the bills. Keeps me busy.” Her gaze dropped to his mouth, then lower, dragging slow over the solid wall of his chest. “You still fighting? Or just driving around looking like you want to break something?”

“Retired. Training kids now. Clean living.” He took a swallow of coffee. It was shit, burnt and strong, perfect. “You look like you still break things. Just with that mouth instead of your fists.”

A real laugh escaped her, short and sharp. She straightened, hips cocked, one thick thigh pressing against the counter edge. “You always did love my mouth until it told you to get the fuck out.” The smirk came back, but her nipples had gone tight under the thin blouse; he could see the points clearly. “What are you even doing out here at two in the morning, Dante? Lost?”

“Long drive. Needed caffeine and a place that didn’t smell like truck-stop piss.” He set the mug down, let his eyes roam deliberate—over the swell of her tits, the dip of her waist, the full flare of those hips that used to bounce when he fucked her from behind. “Didn’t know you’d be the one pouring it.”

Tension crackled in the empty diner like static before a storm. The clock over the pie case ticked loud. Somewhere a fridge compressor kicked on. Priya’s tongue flicked across her bottom lip, leaving it wet and shiny. She remembered too—nights they didn’t sleep, the way he’d pin her wrists and make her beg in Spanish, the way she’d ride him until her thighs shook and she left nail marks down his dark skin. The fights after. The way she’d scream he was too rough, too possessive, then come harder the next round.

She grabbed a clean rag and wiped the spilled coffee with unnecessary force, arm muscles flexing. “Place is dead till the truckers roll in around four. You’re stuck with me.” A pause. Her voice dropped. “Still think about it? That last night? When you had me against the wall so hard the plaster cracked?”

Dante’s jaw flexed. Blood pounded lower. His cock was fully hard now, thick ridge obvious against the denim if she looked. He didn’t hide it. “Every fucking time I jack off. You?”

Priya’s breath hitched. She tossed the rag aside and walked around the end of the counter, sneakers soft on the linoleum. Close enough now that he caught her scent—coffee, cheap vanilla lotion, and underneath it the warm spice of her skin. She stopped beside his stool, hip nearly brushing his knee. Up close the caramel tone of her throat looked lickable, pulse jumping under the skin.

“I think about telling you to leave,” she said quietly. “Then I think about the way you used to spread me open on any flat surface and ruin me.” Her hand landed on the counter near his, fingers splayed. “Resentment’s still there, big man. You walked. I stayed angry. But my pussy doesn’t give a shit about pride at two a.m.”

He turned on the stool, knees bracketing her legs without quite touching. Heat poured off him. One big hand lifted, thumb brushing the edge of her skirt where it cut into soft thigh. Not grabbing yet. Just the threat of it. “You gonna pour me another coffee with that smirk, or you gonna climb up here and let me remind you why we almost killed each other?”

Priya’s eyes went half-lidded. She didn’t step back. Instead she leaned in until her tits nearly brushed his chest, berry lips an inch from his. “Counter’s empty. Place is ours till the next sucker walks in. But you want it, you ask nicer than you used to. Or maybe you don’t. Maybe you just take it the way that always made me soak through my panties.”

The air between them felt charged, thick. Dante’s free hand curled into a fist on his thigh to keep from hauling her into his lap right then. His voice scraped raw. “I drove three hundred miles tonight. Last thing I expected was your fat ass and that dirty mouth waiting with coffee. But here we are.” His thumb stroked once, deliberate, along the warm crease where thigh met skirt. “Still hate me?”

“Yes.” Her answer came immediate, breath hot against his mouth. “Still want to fuck you stupid while I hate you?” She nipped his bottom lip—quick, sharp, then pulled back just enough to smirk again. “Also yes. Problem?”

Outside, a lone semi rumbled past on the highway, headlights sweeping the windows for a second then gone. Inside, the diner stayed dead quiet except for their breathing and the low electric buzz of the lights. Dante’s cock throbbed hard enough to ache. Priya’s thighs pressed together once, a tiny tell, and he caught the faint scent of her getting wet already.

He stood slowly, towering over her, leather jacket sliding off one shoulder. The movement brought his chest flush to those heavy tits for a heartbeat. “No problem,” he growled. “Just deciding whether I bend you over this counter first or make you wait until you’re dripping down your legs begging for it.”

Priya’s hand came up and fisted the front of his tee, nails digging in. Defiant. Hungry. “Big talk for a man who still drinks his coffee black and bitter. Pour yourself another. Sit your ass back down. And watch me work this empty place like I own it—because I do. You want a taste of what’s under this skirt? Earn the fucking smirk off my face first.”

She shoved him lightly back onto the stool, then spun and walked the length of the counter, hips rolling deliberately, skirt hitching with every step. Dante’s eyes tracked the bounce of her ass, the way the fabric clung damp already between her thighs. He picked up the mug again, drained it, and set it down with a solid clack that sounded like a promise.

The night was young. The counter stretched empty and waiting. Resentment and lust twisted tight in both of them, unfinished, ready to ignite the second one of them broke.

Priya’s sneakers squeaked once on the linoleum as she reached the far end of the counter and turned, hips cocked like a dare. Dante’s eyes never left the thick sway of her ass under that tight black skirt. She knew it. She always knew when he was staring, and she used it like a weapon. One hand braced on the Formica, she leaned forward hard, the white blouse gaping open so the deep valley of her caramel tits nearly spilled free. Black lace strained against heavy flesh; the freckles scattered across the upper curves looked lickable under the harsh fluorescents.

“Nice ink,” she said, voice pure smoke. Her free hand reached across and traced the fresh black lines curling up from under the sleeve of his tee—new work, dark and sharp against darker skin, tribal bands wrapping thick bicep and disappearing toward the shoulder. “These weren’t there last time I had my nails in you. What, you get bored without me around to mark you up myself?”

Dante’s cock jerked hard against his zipper. He stayed seated, thighs spread, letting her lean closer until the heat of her cleavage washed over him and the vanilla-spice scent of her skin punched straight into his lungs. “Got ‘em after a bad night. Needed something that hurt more than thinking about your mouth.” His scarred knuckles flexed on the empty mug. “You always did leave deeper scars than any needle.”

Priya’s berry lips curved. She dragged one fingernail along the edge of a fresh tattoo, slow, pressing just enough to sting. “Still bigger than I remembered. Arms like fucking tree trunks. Bet these new ones feel good under my teeth.” She leaned further, tits brushing the counter edge, blouse riding up so he could see the shadowed undersides and the stiff points of her nipples scraping lace. “You ever fuck anyone else who left marks this deep? Tell me the truth, big man.”

He caught her wrist, not rough yet, just holding that tracing finger still against his skin. Heat rolled off both of them. “Nobody. Not one. I’d bend some random girl over and all I saw was your fat ass bouncing, your nasty little Spanish curses when I got too deep. I’d come and hate myself for wishing it was you choking on it again.” His thumb stroked the gold chain at her wrist. “You?”

“Same fucking problem.” Priya’s breath hitched; she didn’t pull away. Instead she rolled her shoulders so the blouse slipped another button, deep cleavage on full filthy display. “Tried a couple of soft boys. One white guy with a pretty dick who wanted candles and ‘I love you.’ Came in thirty seconds and left me wet and pissed off. Then a thick Black dude who talked a big game—lasted longer, fucked hard, but he never made me drip down my thighs the second he looked at me. Never made me hate him and still beg for more in the same breath.” She licked her bottom lip, slow. “You ruined me for regular dick, Dante. My pussy still clenches every time I think about how you used to hold me open and just… take. Like you owned the fucking thing.”

Dante’s free hand slid up the outside of her thigh, thick fingers slipping under the hem of the skirt until he found bare hot skin. No stockings. Just soft flesh and the damp heat already radiating from between her legs. “Say it louder. Say nobody’s fucked you better.”

“Nobody’s fucked me better.” The words came out raw, half a moan. She pushed into his touch, thighs parting a fraction so his knuckles grazed the soaked crotch of her panties. “You wrecked me on that kitchen table until I couldn’t walk straight for two days. Made me come so hard I cried and still told you to go harder. I’ve fingered myself raw in the back booth of this dump replaying it—your dark cock stretching my tight little hole, that mean grip on my hips, the way you’d spit on it and shove back in while I was still shaking. Nothing else comes close. Not even close.”

His cock throbbed visibly now, thick ridge tenting the denim. He stood in one smooth roll of muscle, jacket sliding fully off, and crowded her against the counter edge. Priya’s tits mashed to his chest; the lace rasped against his tee. She didn’t retreat. She rolled her hips once, deliberate, grinding that wet heat against the hard length of him.

“I jack off in the truck thinking about your throat,” he growled against her ear. “How you’d gag and still push deeper, tears in those pretty eyes, mascara running while I held your hair and fucked your face until my balls were empty. Then I’d flip you, spread that criminal ass, and bury myself in your cunt until you screamed you hated me and came all over my dick anyway. Never found a mouth or a pussy that took it like yours. Never wanted to. They all felt empty after.”

Priya’s hand shot down between them, cupping him hard through the jeans, squeezing the heavy outline. “Fuck. Still so thick. I can feel it pulsing.” Her accent thickened, words tumbling filthy and low. “I want it. One more night. No strings, no tomorrow bullshit, no ‘we should talk.’ Just you destroying me on this counter like you used to. I lock the door, we stay closed till we’re both dripping and limping, then you drive away and I wipe the come off the Formica and pretend it never happened. Deal?”

Dante’s answer was a snarl of pure hunger. He fisted a handful of her messy dark hair and yanked her head back just enough to claim her mouth. The kiss exploded wet and urgent—tongues fighting, teeth scraping, berry lipstick smearing across both of them. She tasted like coffee and want. Priya moaned into it, open and filthy, sucking his tongue while her free hand scrambled for his belt. He boosted her half onto the counter without breaking the kiss, skirt riding up to her waist, thick thighs spreading around his hips so the soaked black panties pressed right against his zipper.

She tore away long enough to shove him back a step, eyes wild. “Door. Now.”

Priya slid off, legs shaky, and stalked to the glass entrance. The little bell jangled as she twisted the lock hard, flipped the pink-and-blue neon sign from OPEN to CLOSED with a decisive snap. Darkness from the highway pressed against the windows. She turned, chest heaving, blouse half-open, tits nearly free, and walked straight back into him.

They collided over the center of the empty counter. Dante lifted her clean off her feet and set her ass on the scratched Formica. Stools scraped. His big hands shoved the blouse the rest of the way open; one lace cup yanked down so a heavy caramel tit spilled free, dark nipple tight and begging. He sucked it into his mouth hard, teeth grazing, while she yanked his tee up and raked nails over the new tattoos and the old fight scars beneath. Her legs locked around his waist. The counter creaked under their weight.

“One night,” she panted against his temple, grinding her soaked crotch against the iron bar of his cock. “No strings. Just this. Fuck me like you still hate me and can’t stop.”

He bit the side of her breast hard enough to leave a mark, then dragged his mouth up her throat to her ear. “I do still hate you. And I’m still gonna wreck this pussy until you forget every soft dick that came after me.” His fingers hooked the crotch of her panties and yanked them aside; two thick digits slid through slick folds and pushed deep without warning. Priya’s head dropped back, a broken Spanish curse ripping free as she clenched around him.

The diner stayed dead silent except for the wet sounds of his fingers working her open and their ragged breathing. Outside a truck’s distant rumble faded into nothing. Inside, the unfinished heat between them coiled tighter, ready to snap the second one of them fully broke. Priya’s nails dug crescent moons into the fresh ink on his shoulders as she rolled her hips onto his hand, chasing more, already dripping down his wrist onto the empty counter that had waited years for exactly this.

His fingers curled inside her, thick knuckles dragging over that spongy spot that made her thighs jump. Priya rolled harder onto his hand, wetness coating his wrist, dripping in fat beads onto the Formica. Dante twisted a third finger in, stretching her open while his thumb ground her clit in tight circles. She cursed in Spanish against his neck, hips snapping, the black panties still yanked aside and useless.

“Fuck—right there, don’t you dare stop,” she snarled, nails raking fresh welts across the new ink on his shoulders. He bit the side of her throat in answer, sucking a dark mark into caramel skin while he worked her faster, wet squelches loud in the empty diner. Her cunt clenched, pulsing, and she came hard on his hand with a broken shout, juices flooding down his palm. Dante kept thrusting through it until her legs shook and she shoved at his chest, gasping.

He pulled free, fingers glistening, and smeared her own slick across her parted berry lips. Priya sucked them clean without hesitation, tongue swirling, eyes locked on his. “Booth. Now. I want to ride that Black cock like I own it.”

Dante scooped her off the counter. Her heavy tits bounced free of the ruined blouse as he carried her three steps to the nearest booth. He sat hard on the vinyl seat, back against the wall, jeans shoved down just enough to free his thick cock. It sprang up heavy and dark, veins ridged along the shaft, the fat head already leaking. Priya kicked her sneakers off, yanked the soaked panties down her thick thighs, and climbed on facing away—reverse cowgirl, knees planted wide on the sticky seat.

She reached back, gripped him at the base, and sank down in one long slide. Her tight pussy stretched obscenely around the girth, lips parting pink against dark skin as she took every inch until her ass cheeks met his thighs. Both of them groaned. Dante’s big hands clamped her hips, fingers digging into soft flesh.

“Jesus, still so fucking tight,” he growled. Priya lifted and dropped, starting slow, then harder, her thick ass bouncing with wet slaps against his lap. Caramel cheeks jiggled with every descent; she reached back to spread them wider so he could watch his cock disappear into her dripping hole. Dante smacked one cheek sharp, the crack echoing, then the other, leaving red prints that glowed against her skin. She moaned louder and rode faster, reverse cowgirl grinding deep, the booth table rattling as her weight slammed down.

“That’s it—use that fat ass,” he ordered, gripping harder, guiding her bounces so the head punched her cervix each time. Sweat beaded between her shoulder blades. Priya looked back over her shoulder, dark hair wild, lips swollen. “Missed how you fill me up. Nobody else stretches me like this.” She slammed down harder, clit grinding the base of him on every drop. His balls tightened; he smacked her ass again and again until both cheeks burned hot and she was dripping all over his thighs.

He couldn’t take the teasing bounce anymore. Dante lifted her off with a wet pop, spun her, and shoved her forward so her tits flattened on the booth table. Then he dragged her the short distance to the long counter, bent her over the edge, and kicked her feet wider. Priya braced on her elbows, back arched, thick ass presented high. He slammed back into her pussy in one brutal thrust, burying to the hilt.

“Fuck yes—pound it,” she demanded. Dante gripped her hips and did exactly that, jackhammering deep and fast, the thick Black cock pistoning in and out of her stretched pink cunt with filthy wet sounds. Each thrust made her heavy tits swing under her; the counter creaked. He reached around, pinched a nipple hard while he railed her, the slap of skin on skin filling the diner. Priya pushed back to meet every stroke, cursing and praising in the same breath, walls fluttering around him.

He pulled out suddenly. She dropped to her knees on the linoleum without being told, turned, and swallowed him to the root. Her full lips stretched wide around the thick shaft, saliva immediately coating him, running down to his balls as she sucked sloppy and deep. Gagging noises mixed with her moans; she bobbed fast, tongue swirling the underside, one hand pumping what she couldn’t fit while the other cupped his heavy sac. Dante fisted her messy hair and fucked her face for a dozen strokes, watching berry lipstick smear and tears prick her eyes. Spit strings connected her mouth to his cock when she pulled off gasping.

“Back up,” he snarled. She scrambled to her feet, bent over the counter again, ass out. Dante thrust home, burying deep, then reached around to rub her swollen clit in fast, rough circles while he fucked her hard. The dual assault wrecked her. Priya’s legs trembled; she screamed as the orgasm ripped through her, cunt clamping and milking him in rhythmic pulses, juices squirting around his cock and running down her thighs. He kept pounding and rubbing through it until she was sobbing “come, come, paint me—”

He yanked free at the last second. Thick ropes of cum erupted across her upturned ass and lower back, hot white stripes painting caramel skin in heavy ropes that dripped down the cleft and onto the floor. Dante stroked out every pulse, groaning her name, marking her the way they both needed.

Priya stayed bent over the counter, chest heaving, his cum cooling on her skin while her pussy still fluttered empty. Dante’s hand rested heavy on the small of her back, thumb smearing a streak of his own release. Neither spoke. Outside the locked glass the highway stayed black and empty, but the clock ticked closer to four. The next truckers would come soon. Resentment still burned under the afterglow—old wounds, unfinished words—and the night was nowhere near done with them.

Priya stayed bent over the scratched Formica, Dante’s cum cooling in thick white stripes across the high curve of her caramel ass and the small of her back. His heavy hand rested there, thumb dragging slowly through one rope, smearing it lower into the cleft. Their breathing rasped loud in the empty diner. The clock over the pie case ticked past three-thirty. Outside the locked glass the highway stayed black.

He didn’t pull away. Instead he leaned over her, chest to her spine, and licked a stripe up the side of her throat where he’d already marked her. “Not done,” he growled against her ear. “You said one night. Night’s not over.”

She pushed back against him, ass still sticky, and laughed low and raw. “Then shut up and take it again.”

Dante straightened, hooked both hands under her hips, and flipped her onto her back right there on the counter. Stools scraped. The Formica was cold against her bare shoulders. He shoved the ruined blouse fully open, yanked the black bra down so both heavy tits spilled free, dark nipples tight. Her skirt was already bunched at her waist. He kicked her sneakers farther aside, spread her thick thighs wide, and stared down at the pink mess of her cunt—swollen, dripping his earlier load mixed with her own slick, still fluttering.

“Look at that,” he muttered, voice scraped. He rubbed the fat head of his cock through the folds, coating himself, then notched and shoved in to the root in one hard thrust. Priya’s back arched off the counter. A broken Spanish curse tore out of her. He filled her completely, thick Black shaft stretching the lips obscenely around dark skin, veins dragging every sensitive inch.

He didn’t give her time to adjust. He hooked her knees over his forearms, braced, and started pounding—deep, brutal strokes that made her heavy tits bounce hard and the counter creak under them. Wet slap-slap-slap filled the diner. Every thrust punched a grunt from her chest. Dante watched his cock disappear into her, pulled out shiny, slammed home again. Sweat ran down the ridges of his abs, caught the fluorescent light on the fresh ink curling over his shoulders.

“Still hate me?” he demanded, hips snapping faster.

“Yes—fuck—yes,” she panted, nails raking down his chest, leaving red welts over old fight scars. “Hate how good you wreck me. Don’t stop. Harder.”

He gave it to her harder. One big hand pinned her wrists above her head against the Formica. The other reached down and thumbed her clit in rough circles while he jackhammered her cunt. Priya’s thick thighs shook. Her walls clenched and fluttered around him. The dual assault wrecked her fast—she came with a raw shout, juices squirting around his pistoning cock, soaking his balls and running down onto the counter in a puddle. He fucked her straight through it, relentless, until she was sobbing and pushing at his chest and still rolling her hips up for more.

Dante pulled out, flipped her again like she weighed nothing, and bent her face-down over the edge. Her tits mashed to the sticky surface. He spread her ass cheeks with both hands, spat once on her dripping hole, and buried himself balls-deep. The angle made her scream. He gripped her hips hard enough to bruise and railed her—short, vicious strokes that made her whole body jolt forward, berry lipstick smearing across the Formica, dark hair wild around her face.

“This pussy’s still mine when I want it,” he snarled, one hand cracking sharp across her ass, leaving another glowing print. “Say it.”

“Yours—fuck—take it,” she moaned, pushing back to meet every thrust, ass rippling. “Come inside me this time. Fill me up.”

He reached around, pinched and rolled one nipple hard while he pounded. Her cunt started fluttering again, second orgasm building fast. Dante felt his balls draw tight. He fucked her through the tightening pulses, gritted his teeth, and slammed home one last time as she came screaming his name. His cock jerked deep inside her. Hot thick spurts flooded her cunt—pulse after pulse painting her walls white, overflowing around his shaft and dripping down her thighs onto the linoleum in messy strands. He kept grinding through it, milking every drop, until both of them were shaking and spent.

They stayed locked like that for a long minute, chests heaving, sweat cooling on skin. Dante’s cock twitched one last time inside her before he eased out. A thick river of combined cum followed, sliding down her inner thighs. Priya stayed bent over, forehead on her arms, breathing hard, pussy still twitching empty.

She pushed herself upright on shaky legs. Dante’s release coated her from the inside out, mixing with the earlier stripes across her ass. Without a word she walked barefoot toward the kitchen pass-through, hips rolling, cum trailing behind her on the floor. She came back with a warm damp towel she’d run under the tap. Still breathing hard, she wiped herself down—slow between her thighs first, cleaning the mess from her swollen folds, then across her ass and lower back where he’d painted her. The towel came away sticky. She wiped his cock too, gentle but thorough, cleaning the shine of her juices and his own spend until he was half-hard again just from the touch.

Priya dropped the towel, stepped in close, and gave him one last deep kiss. It tasted of both of them—coffee, sweat, her berry lipstick, the salt of her cunt and his cum. Tongues slow now, lingering. She nipped his bottom lip once, then pulled back.

She walked to the glass door, twisted the lock open, and flipped the neon sign back to OPEN. Pink and blue light flickered against the black highway. She turned, blouse still open, tits bare, skirt around her waist like a belt, and looked at him with that same defiant smirk.

“Come back whenever you need a midnight refill,” she said, voice smoke and honey. “Door’s always locked after two, but you know how to get in now.”

Dante pulled his jeans up, stuffed his cock away, shrugged the leather jacket on. He thumbed her number into his phone while she watched—saved under just “Priya—Diner.” Her scent was all over his skin, vanilla and spice and sex. He knew, and she knew, this wouldn’t be the last time their bodies collided. Old hate, old fire, unfinished.

He stepped toward the door. The little bell was already jingling under his hand when headlights swept the windows hard and sudden—high beams from a massive rig pulling into the lot way too early. Air brakes hissed. Doors slammed. Multiple boots hit asphalt. A man’s voice barked something about coffee and the place being open. The first trucker reached for the handle just as Dante’s fingers left it.

Priya’s eyes went wide. She yanked her blouse closed with one hand, shoved the skirt down with the other.