Eleni
On Thursday, I lean back in the passenger’s seat and try to see the late-morning sun through the blacked-out windows. Dante’s hand rests possessively on my leg, and it feels like an anchor as we drive back into the chaos of the city. After days of his constant touch, I think I might lose my mind if he let me go.
And it doesn’t hurt that his hand creeps a little higher at every red light, now that we’re off the highway. Desire coils in my gut like he didn’t make us late wringing one last orgasm out of me before we left. I don’t mind. It was his timetable anyway.
I glance at him. On the ride up, he couldn’t stop talking, but never to me. This time, he’s been mostly quiet, but he looks at me every time the road doesn’t need him. Either way, I haven’t learned much.
My stomach grumble
