Jordan wisely kept his silence until we reached the outskirts of the city. ‘Want me to stop the car, Sophie?’ he asked. But I managed to slide back up into a sitting position and fumbled back into my seat belt. ‘I’d just like to go home, please,’ I replied, my voice very small. I crossed my arms tightly over my chest. All Roman had done was touch me through my clothes, but I still felt dirty. How had Mum stood it all those years she was a ‘dancer’? I sniffed, blinking back the urge to sneeze and cry at the same time, and Jordan shot me a white-faced look. The rolled up plastic bag was nestled on his lap like a small, sleeping animal that could turn feral if provoked. ‘It’s my fault,’ he muttered, pushing a fall of brown hair out of his eyes. I shrugged, trying to show him I was totes cool with hard fondling from a perfect stranger.
