When Ramsy leads us outside, his hand firmly on the small of my back, I decide that "car" is not the appropriate term for his vehicle. It's a limousine. Not a stretch one. But a sleek, elongated black town car with two benches of seating that face each other. Climbing into the rear of the limousine, I take one side, Ramsy takes the other—and Curtis promptly begins switching sides every thirty seconds.
My brother is fascinated by the glass decanters and buttons and air-conditioning vents, his fingers leaving smudges on the sleek wooden paneling. But Ramsy doesn't even seem to notice. He's looking at me. He tucks his tongue into the corner of his lips and leans back, splaying his long, thick thighs, his gaze heating every part of my body it lands on—and it lands everywhere. My ankles, knees
