I’m desperate to reach out and touch him, but I don’t.

Keeping my gaze affixed to the window, I watch the city pass us by as we head downtown. I have no clue where we’re going. I know nothing of Ryder’s personal life besides what he shows me.

And he doesn’t reveal much.

Another ball is hit and the crowd roars, the sound coming from the tinny speakers within the car deafening. I wince and close my eyes, hating how nervous I feel. Hating more that Ryder won’t talk to me.

Maybe he doesn’t know what to say either.

I feel something brush against my pinky and I still my fingers, almost afraid to look. But I know it can only be Ryder touching me. His finger strokes over mine tentatively. Like a test. I keep my hand steady, pressing my lips together when each of his fingertips settles over the length of my pinky. Stroking up and down in the softest, most sensual touch I’ve ever experienced.

Goose bumps form on my skin and a shiver steals through me. My nipples harden beneath my bra. I grow damp between my legs. I feel restless. Uneasy.

Aroused.

His hand slips over my fingers achingly slowly, almost as if he’s afraid I’ll push him away. Deny him. I keep my gaze averted, not wanting to look at him, scared of what I might see. Or what I might not see.

I’d rather savor the way he’s touching me and pretend it means something to him.

His hand covers mine completely and he curls my fingers into his grip. He runs his thumb across the back of my hand, along my knuckles, and then releases me, his hand sliding almost completely away before it comes back and covers mine. His warm, wide palm over the back of my hand, his fingers over the top of mine, he threads our fingers together, interlacing them, connecting us.

My heart is pounding an incessant beat. My body is on fire. All because of his hand linked with mine.

“Violet.” He says my name reverently and I close my eyes. “Look at me.”

I turn my head, my gaze meeting his, and I see so much yet not enough in his eyes. I don’t say anything. I can’t. My throat is clogged with emotion and I’m scared I might burst out crying if I open my mouth and try to speak.

So I don’t.

“You said you hate me.” When I frown, he continues. “Earlier. On the phone.”

I let my gaze drop, ashamed that he’s confronting me with my words, but he squeezes my hand tight, forcing me to look back up at him.

“I can’t blame you. You should hate me.” His eyes close and he leans his head back against the seat. “Having you near … all I can think about are the filthy things I want to do to you.”

Heat sizzles through me, settling in between my legs. I want that, too, but I also need more. I feel so close to him, that we’ve experienced so much together in such a short amount of time. Does he feel the same? I want that connection. I want truth and loyalty and, dare I think it … love.

I’m just afraid to ask for it. Afraid he’ll deny me. He can’t stop reminding me that what we share is temporary. It hurts, even though I know it’s most likely the truth.

I want to share my most innermost secrets with him, but will he push me away? I’m reminded of the night he kept trying to push me physically. That’s not what hurts.

No, what hurts are his words. They tear me apart inside.

“I don’t deserve you being with me tonight,” he whispers, his eyes opening to stare into mine. “You should tell me to fuck off.”

A little sigh escapes me and I shake my head. I still don’t say a word, employing his favorite tactic. He brings our linked hands up to his mouth and brushes a kiss to my knuckles. My eyelids flutter at first contact and I release a shuddering breath. His mouth feels so good on my skin.

“What if I confess something important to you?” I ask, my voice shaking. I’m nervous. I want to admit my darkest secret to him. Am I doing it as some sort of test?

Probably. Is that fair?

Not really. But the way he treats me and the things he says are sometimes not fair. If he really cares, if he really wants to pursue a relationship with me, then he won’t turn me away. He’ll listen, he’ll understand, and he’ll want to take care of me.

That I’m about to confess all in a taxicab is crazy. But I’m feeling a little on edge tonight.

“What do you want to confess?” There’s a wariness in his gaze that wasn’t there before.

“Something happened to me a long time ago, when I was in college.” I pause, swallowing hard before I forge on. “I was attacked.”

His eyes narrow and he shifts away from me, as if he needs the distance. “What do you mean, you were attacked?”

I drop my head, my hair falling forward so I can’t see him. “He was an old family friend, I grew up with him, and when I first got to the university he was the only person I knew.”

“And he raped you?” He sounds incredulous and as ridiculous as it sounds, I love that sign of worry and anger that I hear in his voice.

“No.” I lift my head and stare at him, wishing I could reassure him. Wishing he would reassure me. “No, I was able to stop him before it went too far. It turned into a physical fight and I … he hurt me, but I hurt him worse. I got away and reported it to the police.” I remember how terrified I was. How it felt like such a betrayal, that Alan would try to hurt me when he was supposed to be my friend.

What hurt worse is how angry Father was after he learned that I’d reported the attack to the police, that I made it public. Heaven forbid I tarnish the Fowler reputation, even though I did nothing wrong.