I hold out my hands.
Snap.
The metal clinks shut around one wrist. Then the other.
He gives the chain a sharp tug.
I jerk forward.
It’s not hard or painful. Just sudden.
He chuckles at my reaction. “Damn. You’re jumpy.”
I laugh, but it’s thin.
He holds my hands in his and runs a thumb along the side as hestudies it.
“Wow. You’ve got tiny wrists,” he murmurs.
“Um... thanks.” I shift in my seat, clearing my throat. “Okay. How do I take them off?”
I try twisting.
They seem heavy. Too heavy... like they’re real handcuffs.
I twist harder,clinkingthe metal.
They don’t unsnap, so I hold them up and repeat, “How do I do it?”
I try to sound breezy. Normal.
Not scared.
But, my pulse is inching higher.
He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he just watches me. But... his eyes aren’t as warm.
They’re not shy, not sweet.
They’re...
Not blinking.
I glance around.
Empty road. No headlights. No people. Just darkness and wind sweeping through the thick brush along the roadside.
What have I done?
Slowly, he leans across the console, causing me to recoil, my shoulder pressed to the cool window. He asks, his voice suddenly deep and gravelly:
“Ever been titty-fucked?”
I suck in a sharp breath.
“What?”
That’s all I can manage.
