Page 40 of Wretched Thorns

He drove ten miles in a quiet Tara had never been on the receiving end of in her life.

She caught him looking at her once. A flick of the eyes.

She kept her face on the window and held it there.

Five more miles.

He downshifted as they made a turn, his hand casually brushing her knee.

Casual. Wide warm palm. Long fingers. Heat through the denim. He didn’t move it. Didn’t look at her.

Heat bloomed low in her belly. Her thighs pressed together half an inch before she could stop them.

His nostrils flared again.

Goddamn it.

She would not look at him. She would not move her leg.

His mouth moved at the corner. The slow, knowing one. He still didn’t say anything. He still didn’t look at her.

He’s fucking with me.

I am going to kill him.

I am going to kill him and Grandmère is going to help me dump the body. Giggling wench owes me.

The hand stayed.

Three feet behind her, Grandmère had not made a sound in twenty minutes.

Mère, if you are enjoying this, I will burn the kitchen down.

From the back seat: a small, suspicious sound.

Tara turned her head a fraction.

“Fontaine.”

“Mm.”

“Move your hand.”

“Mm.”

“That was not a question.”

“I heard you.”

“And?”

“And I’m thinking about it.”

“Oh, you are thinking about it.”

“Mm.”

“Does the thinking come before or after I break your goddamn fingers.”