The memory of that old fart injects an extra bit of venom into my retort. “Lungs are useful, in case you haven’t noticed.”
“Free will is useful too, you know? Beauty of the modern age.”
“Very Socratic of you; I’m almost impressed. Does that mean you smoke?”
“I can if I want; that’s my point.” He shrugs so effortlessly it barely disturbs his impeccable posture.God, his side profile is infuriating, and it doesn’t help how the icy wind has his hair curling around his face. He nods towards the carton. “Light me one. Let’s see if you can break one rule today. Or, half a rule, I guess.”
I blink, wondering if the universe is playing jokes on me. Given my conversation with Percy, his wording seems a littletoo specific.Unbury yourself.Against my better judgement, I dig around for the black Zippo buried beneath everything else. My hands tremble so badly I nearly drop it, but Eric doesn’t comment, just gives me the occasional glance.
The car slows down the gatepath as he leans in, and when I lift the cigarette, his lips part just enough to accept it. I flick the lighter; the scent of butane burns sharp, and the tip burns bright orange. His lips tighten, eyes heavy-lidded as he inhales; the perfect image of an old habit being dragged to the surface. With an infuriatingly lazy confidence, his left hand lifts and removes the cigarette.
A slow curl of smoke ghosts across my still-raised wrist before coasting towards the window. He drags his gaze back to the road and asks, “Want a taste?”
It takes a moment for my tongue to realise it’s a working organ and that I need it to produce coherent words. “I prefer breathing, thank you.”
Lightning illuminates the sky, and I jump, turning so fast that my elbow knocks his wrist. The cigarette tumbles from his grasp, pinwheeling to the floor mat by his boots.
He jerks the wheel, steadying the car with a low curse. “Really? Now you’ve done it. Hope you’re prepared to tell Philip why the upholstery smells like burnt tobacco.”
Too big of a risk. Too big of a fucking risk.
I fumble for my belt release anddive. Hair falls into my eyes as I tilt further, my left hand searching blindly under pedals for the cigarette and completely uncaring that I could potentially burn my fingers. I’d take that over a pissed-off Philip any day.
My right hand, still pressed to the edge of his seat, slides for balance towards his thigh and lands on a thick, unmistakable shape beneath his trousers. Eric’s breath goes tight, and the car doesn’t slow, but my world does. It slows, tilts and tips me offthe edge of it into the goddamn abyss. I realise (ploddingly, mortifyingly) exactly what I’ve touched.
It’s not thigh.
It’s not evenalmost-thigh.
“Francesca.” His voice is strained. “Wrong gearstick, love.”
Why’s he breathing like that? Why amIbreathing like this? Leave the castle, sure. Take risks, even better. Palming girthy royal appendages? Fuck no. I refuse to believe I’m holding his penis. Eric isn’t moving—oh my God—does he think I do this a lot? Does he think I reach out and just grab penises for fun? I’m going to jail for assaulting a prince.
Let go, Francesca.
Let. Go.
But I don’t move, and he speaks again. “You’re holding onto my cock.”
“No, I’m not,” I blurt, as though that would undo the last minute of my life.
“Yes, you are, clever girl.”
I make a strangled noise. Every molecule of blood swerves towards my face. Shock shoots up my arm, and I whack blindly at the floor. My left hand finally lands on the smouldering butt, and the burn stings my fingertips, but I don’t care. Without another thought, I yank myself upright and toss the cigarette into my empty smoothie cup from earlier.
Crisis averted; other crisis, not so much. Rain thrums louder, and the wipers thrash, but the world may as well be a crypt for how silent it feels within this bloody vehicle. I pop my seatbelt back in, with hair in my mouth and heart running faster than when someone tells Percy her mum will be at an event. Eric’s knuckles are tight around the wheel, jaw clamped down on either a laugh or another curse.
What escapes is a rough, delicious chuckle. It’s intoxicating enough without the mineral smell of wet earth slipping in through the top of his window.
“Are you okay?” His exhale trembles with amusement.
“I justshook handswith the future of the monarchy while searching for contraband. Going through several stages of grief right now.”
“Should I get down on one knee or pretend I didn’t notice?”
“Stop laughing; I’m gonna cry.”
Though the road is empty, he still stops at a red light. He reaches across the console, takes my singed fingers in his hand and strokes his thumb over the sensitive skin. The temperature spikes five degrees, and the rain continues its mocking applause.
