Page 18 of Dual
The car is warm, the air thick with the lingering scent of funnel cake and sunscreen. The divider partition is up, keeping us separate from the driver.
I turn the volume on the radio down slightly and reach over, running my knuckles lightly along her arm. "You did good today," I murmur.
She stretches, arching her back slightly before tilting her head toward me. "Of course I did. You really thought I was going to be scared of a few roller coasters?" She smirks, but I catch the flicker of something else in her eyes—something hesitant and vulnerable.
I smile, shaking my head. "No. But I was proud of you anyway."
She rolls her eyes but doesn't pull away when I take her hand, lacing our fingers together. Her grip is warm, her nails digging lightly into my palm.
For a few miles, we sit in easy silence, the only sound the soft hum of the tires against the pavement. I want to keep herhere, in this quiet, content space. But I want to press my luck and ask her something real.
"You were happy today," I say finally. "Really happy."
She exhales, tipping her head back against the seat. "Yeah, well. It was fun. Don't go getting a big head, now."
I study her profile, the way the streetlights cast golden streaks across her skin. "You should let yourself have that more often."
Her lips press together. She turns toward me, her expression shifting—playful now, mischievous. "Speaking of things I should have more often…"
Before I can react, she unbuckles her seatbelt and slides onto the floorboard between my legs.
"Mads—" I start, but she's already reaching for my belt, her fingers working the buckle with deft precision.
"We've got a long drive," she purrs, running her hands up my thighs. "Let me make it more fun."
I catch her wrists before she can go any further, holding her still. "Mads."
She looks up at me, her eyes dark, lips slightly parted. "What?"
I sigh, shifting in my seat. The heat of her hands against my thighs is distracting, but I'm not going to let her deflect this time. I'm not going to let her hide.
I reach down, cupping her face in my hands, my thumbs brushing over the curve of her cheekbones. "You don't have to do this."
She tilts her head, her expression unreadable. "I want to."
"No, you want to avoid talking."
She scoffs, pulling away slightly, but I don't let her go.
"What do you want me to say?" she mutters, her voice edged with frustration. "Talk, talk, talk. That's all that dumb therapist ever wants me to do."
"Maybe because it's important." I hold her gaze, firm but gentle. "I want you to tell me what you're feeling. I won't judge, I swear. You have to let me in if you really want me. So let me know what's going on inside that head of yours."
She lets out a humorless laugh. "Oh, you know. Same old, same old. Chaos. Lust. The occasional murderous thought."
I shake my head. "Mads."
She sighs, her shoulders sagging. "I don't like talking about feelings, Donny. You know that."
"I know," I say quietly. "But that doesn't mean you don't have them."
She stares at me for a long moment, something unreadable flickering behind her eyes. Then, she smiles—a slow, sultry thing. "You know what I do like talking about?" She slides her hands up my chest, fingers tracing the lines of my muscles. "Your abs. Your arms. Your gorgeous fucking cock."
I sigh, leaning back against the headrest. "Mads?—"
"Come on," she purrs. "I'll make it so good for you."
I catch her hands, stilling them. "This isn't enough," I say softly.
