Two things happen simultaneously: Chris keens, and the car lurches unbidden off to the side of the road before he can make a grab for the abandoned steering wheel, feet slipping clumsily from their perch at the edge of his seat in his haste.

His heart is pounding wildly in his chest as the speedometer mercilessly climbs, foot braced against the floor where a brake pedal would be if he were only in the driver's seat. It's impossible to tell whether it's the engine or his own blood rushing in his ears, but he clutches the wheel in sweaty palms and tries to speak over the deafening rush of sound with a shuddering breath; "Stop--"

Stop the car, he chokes on the rest of the words as Blonsky drags his teeth from root to tip, deceptively mindful of the fine line between pain and pleasure, and Chris forces himself through sheer force of will to hold steady on the road.