“I’m not sure that you get it, Scarlett,” he says in my ear, and it happens so quickly—one second I straddle him, the next I’m kneeling on the floor, his clothes between my knees and the linoleum. My elbows brace on the low bench, and only one person can control where and how I move. Lukas. Behind me. “Actually, I know you don’t.” “I—” “I’m starting to suspect that you don’t understand a single fucking thing, Scarlett.”
