He grabs my hips, his fingers digging into the material of my skirt. Right before he tosses me over his shoulder. After securing his hold on the back of my thighs, he walks to the car. My hair covers my face, the tendrils swaying in time with his steps, hiding my embarrassment from the people on the street. Bennett stops, opens the car door, and then deposits me inside. I sink into the leather seat, my jaw slack. I’ve never been manhandled in my entire life, but from the way my heart pounds and my blood races through my veins, I suspect I’m not as opposed to it as I should be.
