Murderous.
That’s the word. I know, instinctively, what passed through his mind. What’s still in there, because Alex doesn’t forget, or forgive.
The threat to me, the threat to himself. I wonder which pushed him more. Both, probably.
It doesn’t really matter; it’s the result that does.
Alex is going to kill them. Or try.
I watch him for a while. His eyes are closed, but I know he’s not sleeping. He’s thinking.
What can Alex do with four hours’ uninterrupted thought? That’s a surprisingly scary question.
The flight crawls by, and his hand never moves.
With the two-hour time difference, it’s late when we finally land.
We’re off the plane first, then stand around in baggage claim with everyone else. Alex slides his hand around my waist, beneath my coat, pulling me to him. It’s almost… nice. Like we’re a normal happy couple. We even get the looks; smiles of shared joy that vanish when they see Alex’s expression. A double-take, a flick of concern to me, eyes drifting away, space around us.
The bags come eventually, and Alex walks us out.He gives the address of his Manhattan apartment, and we leave.
Taking the fucking Van Wyck expressway.
If Alex notices, he says nothing. But I know he’s noticed.
“We’re not going back to Westchester?” I ask, if only to think of something else. Anything else. The blade. Amelia's thin smile. Alex's empty eyes. Pick one; they're all equally uninvited.
“No.”
“My clothes and things are there.”
“Clothes in the suitcase.”
Easy access.
“No underwear,” I mutter, voice low to ensure the cabbie doesn’t hear it. I don’t want Alex killing him when we arrive.
“Good.”
That’s not his normal response. His normal response is, ‘buy some.’
I glance at him, and his mouth has curled on one side, smug and possessive. There’s even a hint of a dimple.
His hand’s not on my lap. I reach across, pick it up, lift the skirt of my dress, and place it on my thigh. The thin material goes over the top.
Alex doesn’t say anything or look at me. He gazes out of his window.
Then his hand slides an inch higher, his pinkie finger now tucked firmly between my thighs. He tugs, insistent, just enough to open my legs so they’re not pressed together. Another half-inch, and hisfinger’s nudging against my labia. The barest touch.
It’s his left hand, his dominant hand. Not the finger he was prepared to sacrifice to save me spending a night with Fournier. Which, if he hadn’t, is exactly where I’d be right now.
It’s a forty-five minute journey, and itcrawls. I’m aware of his finger the whole damn way, and I can’t help the occasional twitch of my hips.
I no longer care where we’re going; I just want to get there.
“Are you hungry?” Alex asks as we near his apartment building.
“No.” Yes, but that’s not important right now.
