Agnes
When I looked down at the spot where Elijah’s hand met my body, it felt as if all of the air had just been sucked out of the car.
His palm was cupping my breast.
My breast.
I didn’t speak. I couldn’t speak. All I could do was sit there, staring at it.
It felt like an eternity before Elijah’s eyes darted to mine, a flash of something I couldn’t name crossing his face. And then, just as quickly, he yanked his hand back, the movement so quick it was as if he had been burned.
“I’m so sorry,” he rasped. “That wasn’t—I didn’t mean—”
“It’s fine,” I interrupted. I quickly looked away and finished buttoning up my shirt, hoping all the while that he couldn’t see the way my fingers were trembling.
Elijah’s jaw tensed, but he said nothing. Instead, he hit the gas
