But I don’t even get that. All I get is the steady tap-tap-tap of his keyboard and the occasional grunt when he reads something that displeases him. Not exactly “baring our hearts.”
I turn toward the window and watch France shrink into a patchwork of greens and browns, then disappear entirely beneath a blanket of clouds.
My dress has mostly dried by now, but it’s stiff and uncomfortable against my skin. The flight attendant offered me a change of clothes when we boarded, but I declined. Some perverse part of me wants Lukas to have to look at the evidence of what he did. What he almost did, rather.
Not that he’s looking. But, like, if he does.
I squirm in my seat, and the movement sends a pulse of remembered sensation through my core. His thigh. The pressure. I ground against him like I
