Lucien didn't tell me where we were going.

He just drove, one hand on the wheel, the other gripping my thigh. The city blurred past, from glass to trees to ivy-covered brownstones.

"So, not even a hint?" I asked.

His lips curved slightly. "Where's the fun in that?"

I traced the line of his profile: the razor-sharp edge of his jaw, the way his fingers tightened, almost involuntarily, against my leg when we stopped at a red light. Something in him had shifted tonight. He felt lighter, yes, ...