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She does. Not meekly. Not like she’s being led. She moves past me with her chin up and her pulse beating visibly in her throat, and as she climbs into the back seat, my hand goes to her hip.

Then lower.

I don’t plan it.

Or I do. I’m not in the mood to pretend there’s a meaningful difference.

My palm settles over the curve of her ass, firm through denim, and she stops halfway into the car. Just for a second. A tiny hitch in her breath.

My grip tightens before I let go, and she looks back at me over her shoulder.

Christ.

I get in after her and shut the door.

The driver glances into the mirror. “Where to?”

“The nearest hotel,” I say.

Maggie’s head turns toward me. I don’t look away from the mirror.

“The nearest hotel?” the driver repeats.

“Yes.”

The car pulls away from the curb.

For the first few seconds, neither of us speaks.

The back seat is too small. That’s my first thought, which is absurd because the car is not small. There’s enough room. There is legally, practically, socially enough room.

It doesn’t matter.

Her knee is inches from mine. Her coat is open. The green top dips low enough that if I look down, I will lose what little restraint I’m pretending to have.

So I look out the window.

Bad idea.

The glass reflects her. Her throat. Her mouth. The rise and fall of her chest. Her hands curled around the edge of the seat like she’s holding herself in place.

“You’re very quiet,” she says.

I keep my eyes on the window. “Yes.”

“Is that good quiet or murder quiet?”

Despite myself, a short laugh leaves me. “You are not easy to intimidate.”

“I’m extremely easy to intimidate. I just talk through it.”

“I noticed.”

Her shoulder shifts closer to mine. “You notice a lot.”

“Yes.”

“Is that a doctor thing?”