“Nothing,” she says sweetly.
That’s never true.
I’m halfway to the first stoplight when she unfastens her seatbelt.
My head jerks. “What are you doing?”
She shrugs like she’s adjusting a purse strap. “I’m uncomfortable.”
“In a moving vehicle.”
“Yes.”
“Sloane.”
She ignores me and scoots across the seat—casual as anything—until she’s in the middle, pressed closer. Her thigh brushes mine. Then her hand lands on my leg.
High. Warm. Heavy.
Right on my fucking thigh like she’s claiming real estate.
I inhale so sharply it’s embarrassing.
Her gaze flicks to my face, and the corner of her mouth turns up. “Hi.”
I grip the wheel tighter. “Hi.”
She’s looking at me like she’s proud of herself.
Like she knows exactly what she’s doing.
I swallow. “Seatbelt.”
She taps my thigh with her fingers like she’s soothing a nervous animal. “In a minute.”
I glance at her hand, then back at the road, then back at her hand like it might start a fire.
Sloane leans in a little, voice low and smug. “You’re tense.”
“That’s because you’re unbuckled.”
“That’s because you’re thinking too hard.”
I let out a breath through my nose, trying to regain any shred of control. “You can’t just—do this.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’m driving.”
Her smile widens, slow and wicked. “So drive.”
I make a sound that isn’t a laugh. Isn’t a groan. Isn’t anything useful.
And because my brain hates me, it supplies the exact memory of her hands on me the night before—her mouth, her voice, the way she looked when she decided she wanted something and didn’t apologize for it.
My grip shifts on the steering wheel, knuckles whitening.
Sloane’s thumb rubs the tiniest circle into my thigh. Like she’s petting a storm.
