My heart speeds up to a dizzying pace. I know what he’s asking.

And as I groan again I know I’m saying yes.

My eyes are on Lander, so I can’t see the partition but I can hear it lowering. I can feel the car slow even more.

My eyes are on Lander as he thrusts inside me, harder each time, rubbing against my clit . . . making me come, all while the driver watches me. My body shakes with the impact and I cry out Lander’s name.

The car speeds up again and in an instant I’ve been flipped over so now I’m on my back. Lander throws off his jacket, adding it to the pile of clothes on the floor. He kneels in front of me on the seat, pushes my knees up to my breasts. Almost self-consciously I squeeze my legs together, crossing them at the ankle.

It only makes him smile.

He pulls my hips into his angled lap, my feet now pressing against his chest, feeling the strength of him, measuring his speeding heartbeat as he pushes inside again. The fit is so tight now, with my legs crossed, the angle so perfect, each thrust brings me closer to another explosion . . .

. . . and I can see he’s close too. His fingers dig into my thighs, his eyes holding me as surely as his hands.

This time when I cry out, it’s not a word. It’s more abstract. It’s the sound of triumph. And his voice mingles with mine as he comes as well, completing the victory.

But to whom does the victory belong?

The question flickers through my mind, too weak and insubstantial for me to ponder.

My eyes are still on his, his on mine. He reaches out . . .

. . . and closes the partition.

chapter eight

Only forty minutes have passed since we put our clothes back on, since Lander tried to convince me to go straight to some chic little Upper East Side restaurant. But I had to put him off, if only for a few hours. After what happened, I needed a little time to get my head straight. So after confirming that his brother and his wife were already out for the evening, and that Lander would have to wait until Sunday to see them, I suggested we meet for a late dinner, nine o’clock, in the West Village. I told him I had some errands I needed to do in the area and had him drop me off in front of a Duane Reade. I went in and took my time selecting a few Clif Bars for purchase, reading over the ingredient lists as if I was expecting to find something even faintly interesting there. When I stepped back outside I made sure his limo was nowhere in sight before heading for the subway.

Now as I sit on the train, staring straight ahead but seeing nothing, I wonder . . . What the hell possessed me?