Page 15 of Almost Ravaged

As she bends to take the reloaded spoon from my hand, our fingertips brush.

I swear she lingers on purpose, moving in slow motion to maintain the connection longer than necessary. It’s almost impossible not to react. Especially when I see the way she’s staring at me.

As her rich, soulful brown eyes bore into mine, the entire afternoon rushes back into my consciousness. I shudder slightly, not even bothering to hide how deeply she affects me.

When she bites down on her bottom lip, I know she’s caught on.

I cock one brow in warning.

Not here. Not yet.

With a smirk, she swivels again, giving me her back. Damn, she knows exactly what she’s doing. Toeing the line with all her stolen glances and lingering touches.

My chest constricts as she saunters away, the swing of her wide hips in those leggings serving as another reminder of what it felt like when I had my hands on her this afternoon.

Not here. Not yet.

But soon, mon ange.

Soon, everything will be different.

Chapter seven

Sawyer

It’s wildly risky, what I’m doing.

Whatwe’redoing.

If I’m going down, I’m taking Tytus with me. In my mind, we’re in this together. He could have pulled away. If he had, if he’d even shifted in his seat, I would have stopped.

But when I reached through the space between the passenger seat and the car door and wrapped my fingers around his bicep, he didn’t fight the connection.

He deepened it.

He pretended to scratch his arm so he could brush his long, calloused fingers over my hand, and he’s been leaning into my touch ever since.

I’m disoriented, the strain thrumming between us making me almost dizzy.

As we pass the No Outlet sign at the top of our street, I sigh and focus on savoring the last few moments of this.

Our home sits on two hectares of land in a small development built in the 1950s near Cap-Saint-Jacques. Our family moved from Côte-Saint-Luc when Atty and I were in middle school. Its proximity to the water and the parks was a selling point. So was the additional bedroom, since, according to the caseworkerfrom the Child and Youth Protection Centre, my parents had a better chance of fostering Ty long term if he had his own space.

I’ve always loved this house, but now, as the limestone dust kicks up around the car and we drive closer, it’s hard to breathe. Because once we’re back within the confines of the house, I’m all but certain Tytus will pull back.

As if reading my thoughts, he flexes his bicep.

I squeeze his arm tighter in response.

Patience, he implored.

I’m not sure there’s enough patience in the entire provence to ease the suffering I’ll endure while living under the same roof for the next few months.

Though that doesn’t mean I won’t try.

“You guys want to watch something tonight?” Atty asks as he eases the car along the gravel of our driveway.

Sitting in the dark beside Tytus when I can’t touch him sounds like torture.