15
Emma
Afterward, Jameson drives my Range Rover back to my house. He doesn’t stop touching me the whole way, his right hand traveling from my bare knee to my outer thigh and back down. I lean into the contact, my arm entwined with his. I stroke his muscular biceps through his shirt, biding my time until I can get him naked again.
He looks at me more than he should while he drives, his gaze possessive. And he keeps stroking my knee and my thigh, his fingertips scrawling lazily across my skin. It’s as if he’s been so starved for touch that he can’t help himself; I know that’s the way I feel, at least.
No words pass between us as he drives. There are no questions about what we’re doing, no angry denials of feelings. None of that.
I assume that he feels the same way that I do. I don’t kn
