Ciara

 

I walk down the street with my gym bag thumping against my hip. My name is Misha. You’re fucking beautiful. Have dinner with me. Wear that bra.

Who is this man?

It’s not a bad sort of sensation, being told you’re fucking beautiful by a man who looks like Misha. Will he tell me I’m beautiful tonight so I can see from his eyes if he really means it? Will he make me regret giving him yet another chance?

Either way, it felt damn good to provoke a reaction from him, something that shows me he’s a red-blooded human being underneath that cold, robotic exterior.

I cross into the shade of a glass and steel skyscraper. Written atop the revolving door in gleaming, three-feet-high silver letters is ravnikar enterprises. I take a long, slow breath, and my gaze rises up the stories. There must be eighty or ninety of them. If I ever doubted this was about revenge, not money, for something I didn’t even do, I certainly don’t anymore.

I trained myself when I was growing up to be indifferent to my parents’ money. Money isn’t virtue. Money isn’t an accomplishment. Money doesn’t make you interesting. And yet here I am, pursuing money because my life literally depends on it. It’s a mindfuck, going on dates where the endgame is getting as much money as possible out of a stranger. Knowing that the dates will inevitably lead to sex with someone who is much older than me who I have nothing in common with. If not Misha then it will be another man.

I straighten my spine and push through the revolving doors. Let’s get this over with.

“I’m here to see Damir Ravnikar,” I tell the receptionist on the front desk. “My name is Ciara Alders.”

She runs her eyes down her monitor. “Do you have an appointment?”

I tighten my grip on my gym bag. “No. But he’s expecting me.” Sort of. I didn’t make an appointment but it’s not like it takes long to hand over a bag of money.

The woman looks doubtfully at my hoodie and leggings and reaches for the phone. “A moment, please.”

One of my sneakered heels bounces on the floor as I wait. So I’m in my gym clothes. I’m not going to dress up for a Ravnikar, and besides, the outfit and shoes make me feel safer. I can run if I need to.

The receptionist speaks for a moment and then puts the phone down. “You can go down. Floor B05.”

Down? Surely she means up as that’s where offices are in a skyscrapers. Floor B05…basement level five. I think of sewers, graves, darkness. Only bad things happen underground. My heart plummets through my stomach.

“I’ve changed my mind. Can you see that he gets this please?” I dig into my gym bag and hold out a fat yellow pencil case.

The receptionist gives me a bland, unfriendly smile. “I can’t do that for you. Mr. Ravnikar is waiting.”

Damn it. And I thought I was so clever about this, too. I turn and walk into the open elevator on shaking legs. Inside I see there are no buttons and I turn to the receptionist, about to call out that I don’t know how to select the right floor when the doors slide closed.

My heart rises into my throat as the metal cage sinks into the earth with no way for me to stop it. This was a mistake.

The doors open on a long, wide corridor painted stark white. In the distance a neon strip light flickers. I take a hesitant step onto the bare concrete floor. This isn’t the expensively decorated office space that I was expecting. It’s more like a loading bay. Or a dungeon.

“Hello?” My voice echoes along the corridor. No answer.

I take a few slow steps, shoulders clenched, all my senses attuned for danger. I should have told someone where I am. I dig out my phone to text Sloane but there’s no reception down here. When I turn back I see there’s no button to call the elevator, either.

Shit.

I hear the dull sound of something solid hitting something else, and then a muffled grunt.

Staying where I am, I call out, “Mr. Ravnikar? It’s Ciara Alders and I have your money. Some of your money,” I quickly amend, lest he think I have the whole half a million. I have barely one percent of what he says I owe him.

More dull striking sounds and a longer, muffled sound of pain. Then the noises stop and I hear approaching footsteps. A man emerges though an opening into the corridor, a large man with a muscular body and thick, dark hair. Gleaming gunmetal eyes. A blood-spattered face.

Damir Ravnikar.

I freeze like a rabbit at the sight of him. Though he’s broad through the shoulders his hips are lean and narrow. He reminds me of a streetfighter, someone who’s lethal and fast on his feet. The white shirt, black trousers and shiny dress shoes he’s wearing are splattered with more blood.

Did he inherit his money, I wonder distantly, or did he fight tooth and nail for every penny? Something tells me it was the latter.

Mr. Ravnikar reaches up with his ring finger to wipe at one of the drops of blood on the blade of his cheekbone. He smiles at me, and it’s the smile of something monstrous wearing human skin. “Miss Alders. What perfect timing.” He holds out an arm to indicate the room to his left. “Please.”

Every nerve is screaming at me not to approach him. I hold the pencil case out to him with a shaking hand. “Here. Five thousand, five hundred pounds.” Misha gave me six but I’m keeping five hundred for myself to pay for rent and food. And maybe textbooks. I haven’t decided whether I want to go back to school or not. I don’t know if I can concentrate on classes with this mess hanging over my head.

“Please, come on in,” Mr. Ravnikar says pleasantly, and disappears back into the room. I edge toward the doorway—and let out a cry.

There’s a man strung up by his wrists in the middle of a large, barren space. His head is lolling against his shoulder as if he’s passed out. He’s shirtless and blood streaks his chest and drips from his nose. Mr. Ravnikar holds an open bottle of water in one hand and a wickedly sharp hunting knife in the other. My flesh shrinks on my bones as I look at the blade. The sharpened edge practically hums in the air.

“This is Georgios,” Mr. Ravnikar says pleasantly, nodding at the man and then taking a sip of water. “Georgios did a bad thing.” He pours the rest of the contents of the bottle over the man’s face. Watery blood splatters onto the concrete and the man comes round with a groan. “Didn’t you, Georgios?”

Georgios’ blurry gaze runs over me. Then he sees Mr. Ravnikar standing at his side and his face hardens. He spits in his captor’s face and the spittle is red. “Kiss my ass, you son of a—”

The rest of his words are lost in a gurgling sound as Mr. Ravnikar grips Georgios hair in one fist and slashes his throat with the knife, fast and deep. The wound is a gruesome smile from ear to ear. Blood gouts down his front and Mr. Ravnikar’s arm, and as he dies the man’s legs shake as if he’s been electrocuted.

It’s so shocking and all happens so suddenly that it takes a moment for me to realize what I’ve just witnessed, and then I double up, dry retching. He killed him. He killed that man right in front of me. Then, more urgently, I’m going to throw up. The burn rises and up comes the coffee I drank for breakfast and spatters on the concrete.

With my eyes squeezed shut I see the gaping flesh of his throat and I sob. It turns into a gasp as a strong hand grasps my hair and yanks me upright. I cry out, anticipating the blade of his knife against my throat. Mr. Ravnikar holds it close, but not against my throat, so I can see it, the five-inch blade glistening with fresh blood.

Mr. Ravnikar’s silvery blue eyes are fever-bright as he gazes down at me. “Five thousand, five hundred? Is that all? When will you have more money for me?”

I squirm in his grasp and my voice is high and shrill. “Just a few days, I swear.”

“I can help you. I can make this go a lot faster for you. Just say yes.” His face is so close to my mouth that his breath fans my lips.

“I’m managing,” I hiss up at him. “Get your fucking hands off me.”

His grip on my hair tightens, making my eyes water. “Did you know,” he continues in that sinister whisper, “that some girls don’t throw up when they see violence? They get turned on. Some of them get so wet it soaks right through their clothes.”

His eyes travel down over my body and I whimper. I’m so, so screwed. He’s really going to hurt me now. What do they call it in old-fashioned parlance? A fate worse than death.

Mr. Ravnikar lets me go and pushes me away. “I like those girls better.”

I stumble away and swipe my forearm across my mouth as if he really has kissed me, vomit and all. What sort of insane person would get turned on by the sight of someone getting their throat slit?

Mr. Ravnikar’s cold eyes are fixed on my face as he digs his phone out of his pocket and places a call. “Send the elevator down for Miss Alders.”

I throw the pencil case full of money on the ground at his feet, stagger out of the room and run for the elevator. The doors whisper open and I fling myself gratefully inside. The elevator rises, and only then do I start to breathe again.

Curse him, I think as the elevator rises, my whole body shaking. Curse his whole fucking family. Curse every Ravnikar who ever lived and every Ravnikar who ever will. Damn them all to hell.

A few minutes later I come back into myself and find that I’m several streets away from Ravnikar Enterprises, and I’ve walked so fast that I’m breathing hard.

I need to go to the police. I’ve just witnessed a murder and they need to investigate. Arrest Damir Ravnikar. Put him a way for a long, long time. Yes, that’s it. That will not only mean a criminal is put behind bars but that I’ll be free at last. I dig out my phone in order to look up the nearest police station—and then pause.

The manner in which the murder was done, so brazenly in front of me, frightens me. No matter how hard Mr. Ravnikar scrubbed that room there’ll be evidence of bloodshed, but what if the police can’t get a search warrant? Worse, what if they won’t? Mr. Ravnikar would know that I talked. Maybe he murdered a man in front of me to make not one point, but two: first, that he has no qualms about killing; and second, that he is one hundred percent confident that even with witnesses, he will get away with it. I don’t want to end up as another body hanging in his basement. I want to get out of this alive.

Reluctantly, a sick feeling in my stomach, I put my phone away and go home.

Later, much later, after I’ve gone for a long run around the park and then had a blazing hot shower, I start to feel myself again. Misha. Our date. I have to go even if I feel like shit. I focus on choosing an outfit for tonight, and remind myself it’s part of ridding myself of Damir Ravnikar.

As I apply my makeup I notice my mood level out, and I get it now. The makeup, the clothes, they are armor. But they’re more than that. They’re my arsenal, my only weapons in a war I’m waging against Damir Ravnikar. With this lipstick, with these high heels, I’ll earn my freedom.

For a moment I grip my mascara wand like it’s a tiny sword and imagine plunging it into one of Mr. Ravnikar’s cold eyes. But I can’t think about him right now. I need to get into a better headspace for my date, so instead I think about Misha. I remember his messages and I smile. It’s as if a chink of humanity peeked through his steely armor, and I like that he trusted me with his name. Misha. It feels soft and sweet on my lips. Maybe he’s just bad with people, as he said, but now we’ve turned a corner together.

I guess I’m about to find out. Date number two with the only daddy I’ve got.

I’ve been checking my messages on the sugar dating website these last few days but all the men who’ve contacted me are scammers and time-wasters or seem outrageously cheap compared to Misha. One man told me that he wouldn’t give me more than three hundred pounds a month but expected two dates a week. Another wanted to pay one hundred pounds per date whenever it suited him, and that I would have to sleep with him every time. These men are less than useless to me.

I type the address Misha gave me into my taxi app and head downstairs. I’m not wearing the bra he told me to wear, but I don’t think he’ll mind as I’m not wearing any bra at all. The apricot silk slip dress doesn’t work with a bra. It’s one from my own wardrobe and I’ve paired it with a pair of cream high heels and a clutch I’ve borrowed from Sloane. Between my bare shoulders and bare legs I’m showing a lot of skin tonight. But hey, it’s hot out.

When I pull up at the address just east of the city I realize we’re not far from Ravnikar Enterprises, and I suppress a shudder as I get out of the car. There’s a huge silver Bentley parked in front of my cab. I know nothing about cars but this one’s a beauty. So is the man standing next to it.

Misha.

He straightens as he sees me, his eyes on my face, hands deep in his trouser pockets. I get the same sense of him that I did the night before last, that he’s utterly gorgeous and totally hostile.

But then his face softens. He doesn’t exactly smile, but the corner of his mouth turns up. He walks toward me, and when he reaches me, he takes my upper arms gently in his large, warm hands and leans down to kiss my cheek. He’s slow and deliberate about it, giving me time to smell the smoky cedar and bay of his cologne. His thumbs caress my skin as his deep voice murmurs, “Ciara. You look beautiful.”

His words vibrate through me. Wow. I feel nervous suddenly, and a little bit shy, but I make myself look up at him and smile. “Thank you, Misha.”

Electricity seems to crackle faintly in the air between us. I’ve never felt anything like this before, and just holding his gaze feels intimate. Like we’re exposed to each other, and vulnerable in a good way. For the first time in weeks, my mind slows down and I’m aware of the moment.

His hands slide slowly down my arms, and then he releases me. “Shall we go in?”

Vaguely, I nod.

He guides me toward the building and swipes a security pass. Today his suit is black and so is his shirt and tie, and again they have that ultra-neat tailored look. Small gold rods gleam at his cuffs. Misha’s an understated dresser, but a particular one. I feel an urge to tug on my skirt and pat down my hair.

You look fine. You look better than fine. You’re a luxury item. I stride through the door he opens for me.

And then I stop dead.

We’re in the deserted lobby of a high-rise office building. I feel the hairs on the back of my neck rise as I watch him press the button for an elevator. It’s too much like the encounter I had at Ravnikar Enterprises earlier.

“Where are we?” My voice is tight and shrill. It’s just a coincidence. You’re safe.

He gives me a mysterious look and holds out a hand as the elevator pings open. I take a step forward, telling myself not to be hysterical, but on the threshold I freeze. My leg starts to shake uncontrollably and my high heel raps out a staccato rhythm on the marble floor.

I can’t do it. I can’t get in the elevator. There’s too much blood before my eyes.

“Ciara?”

I try again but it’s as if my shoes are glued to the ground. “I had a—my day was—” My voice is high and thin and I clamp my arms across my chest. “I’m not really in the mood for surprises.”

I take a deep breath, trying to calm the pounding of my heart. He’s going to think I’m crazy. Just when we were starting to get somewhere.

Misha’s expression clears. “I understand. We’re going up to the eightieth floor for dinner. It’s not a restaurant. This was the first important building I constructed in London. I wanted to show you my work because you mentioned you were studying property law.”

I look up at him in surprise, touched and impressed at the same time. This is one of his? It’s one of the most beautiful high-rise buildings in London and it’s featured on all the postcards.

“But if you’re afraid of heights or you’d like to go somewhere else we can.”

The terror dissipates, and I unclench my hands. I even manage to smile a little. Misha is showing me something important to him. “No. Not at all. This sounds wonderful, thank you.”

We step into the elevator and his hand briefly touches my lower back as he leans past me to swipe his pass and select the top floor. I want him to leave his hand there because I like the warmth and weight of it, but it drops away a moment later. As the elevator rises I sneak looks at him out of the corner of my eye. He might be rude and grumpy occasionally, but I find to my surprise that I feel safe with Misha. His large, somber presence is grounding.

“Did someone frighten you today?”

His question startles me and I see he’s frowning at me in concern. “What? Oh, no. It’s the height thing. I just get nervous if I don’t know…how many floors there are going to be,” I finish lamely. What a ridiculous explanation. Thankfully he doesn’t press me about it.

When the elevator door opens we step out into the stars. That’s what it feels like, anyway. There are floor-to-ceiling windows right in front of us and they’re filled with the city lights. I walk forward and press my hands against the windows, breathing softly so I don’t fog the glass. London is a beautiful riot of color and brightness. Misha points out Piccadilly Circus, the London Eye, Buckingham Palace and St Paul’s.

“Which buildings are yours?” I ask, but he merely smiles and says that that would be showing off. No matter how much I press him he shakes his head. It occurs to me that he’s trying to keep his identity private, because if I know which developments are his then I’ll be able to look them up on the internet and find out all about him.

“Tell me about this building, then,” I say.

There’s a table set for dinner nearby and he opens the champagne and pours two glasses, passing me one. “This was my first major development, completed when I was twenty-seven. I felt like I’d made the city my home at last. I’m very proud of it.”

I look around the room, encased on two sides by high glass windows and softly lit, and then out over the glittering city. “You should be. It’s beautiful.”

Twenty-seven and he’d achieved this. I suppose this is what you can do when you’re so focused on work that you wait until you’re forty-two to work on your social graces. I wonder what made him wake up one day and decide he wanted more female company, and why he chose to be a sugar daddy rather than meet a woman through friends or a regular dating site. Maybe to a businessman, the transactional nature of the relationship is comfortingly familiar. Also he’s holding a measure of power by being the one to bestow money and dictate when and where we meet. A sugar baby is never going to be pushy about marriage or babies or his time, and if she is, she’ll be swiftly dumped.

We sit down to eat and it’s like a picnic, but on a linen tablecloth with silver and porcelain, and everything is beautifully presented. There’s a shredded crab and avocado stack, cold roast chicken, smoked salmon and various side dishes for the main course. Suddenly hungry, I can’t get enough of the potato salad with capers and dill and minced prawns on spears of endive.

“You said you were studying law. How are you finding it?” Misha asks.

I lay my knife and fork down, my eyes on my plate. He would ask the one question that I’m struggling to answer myself. “It’s complicated right now. My future is uncertain at the moment. I suppose that’s why I’m here.” Crap, I should be pretending that I’m here for his company, not the money. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to say that.”

Misha shakes his head, unruffled. “There’s no need pretend otherwise. I know why you’re here, and I hope that I can make you feel a little more secure.”

There’s warmth in his pale blue eyes again, as if he really means what he says. Is he on his best behavior tonight, or is this just how Misha is when he’s got to know someone a little better? After several years doing everything for myself it feels strange to have someone looking out for me. Strange, but nice.

“Thank you,” I say softly.

The corner of his mouth quirks again, and he drops his gaze. “Did you always want to study law?”

“Yes, but it took me a while to get here. That’s why I’m twenty-two and only in my second year. At first I studied art history because I wanted to appease my mother. She thought it would be too threatening for a man if I got too good of an education.”

Misha’s eyebrows creep up his forehead. “I had no idea people thought that way these days.”

“Aren’t you afraid of me, knowing I can think for myself?”

He smiles. “Terrified.”

He’s even better looking that way than when he’s serious. “Do you know what my mother said when I told her I was studying art history? She said, ‘Oh, darling, you’ll be able to choose your own draperies one day instead of hiring an interior designer.’”

Misha smiles down at the piece of bread he’s buttering. “I hear that Da Vinci and Caravaggio have a lot to teach us about choosing our own draperies. What made you finally switch to law?”

I take a sip of my champagne, wondering how much to say. “I decided that I was wasting my time trying to please my parents and that I should be living for me.”

Misha watches me thoughtfully, as if he senses that there’s a lot more I’m not saying. I’ve never talked about this with anyone, not even Sloane. Not properly. I was too ashamed to tell her the truth.

“They were crooks,” I blurt out. “I refused to have anything to do with them or their money after I found out. And then—then they died.”

“I’m sorry,” he says softly.

I give him a tight smile. “We weren’t close, but it still affects you, you know? I’m probably still angry with them for being such hypocrites. All my life they told me how deserving we were, how we had standards to uphold because we were role models in the community. How I had to uphold those standards, no matter what. But then I found out the truth. I hated them as much as you can hate people you love.”

I remember how it felt, sitting on my bed and looking around at my huge bed, the carpets, the expensive furnishings. None of it meant anything. My parents weren’t a cut above, with responsibilities to class and sophistication. They were crooks. Stupid, greedy crooks.

I flick my gaze up to him, suddenly remembering who I’m talking to. “Sorry. I’m being such a downer. We were talking about law.”

Misha makes a dismissive gesture, as if to say it doesn’t matter. “What do you like about studying law?”

I think for a moment. “Well, I enjoy the structure. Using the clear, concise words in the law books to evaluate the messy human experience. It’s calming, reading the steady phrases, drafting contracts.” I take a bite of crab. “It’s makes the world easier to comprehend. What do you like about property development?”

His mouth twitches. “Playing with colored blocks and cement mixers.”

I laugh because in that moment I see in his eyes a little boy’s delight as he plays in the sandpit. “That’s the cutest thing I’ve ever heard.”

He shakes his head, smiling. “Actually the construction side of things is a very small part of what I do. Mostly I look at spreadsheets and reports all day.”

“But you enjoy that, too,” I guess.

“Yes. Actually I do. It’s ordered, structured, like you said about law. The only people I have to deal with are purely abstract entities. I don’t like dealing with people.”

That doesn’t surprise me, but I can also see how much of an effort he’s making tonight, as if he’s looking for some intimacy. I could go on eating, but something tells me that now is the time to move things forward. I reach out and gently run my fingers over his knuckles, holding my breath as I do because the last time I touched him he pulled away. I glance up at him through my lashes. “But sometimes you like people who are flesh and blood, don’t you?”

He looks at my fingers touching him, but he doesn’t move. “Yes,” he says quietly. “Sometimes I do.”

Take my hand, I think as hard as I can. Caress my palm with those strong fingers of yours. I want him to do it so badly and I realize I’m anticipating the sensation, not the victory of knowing I’m finally “finessing” him. His hands are beautiful, large and strong like he does spend all day on a construction site rather than in an office.

But he clears his throat and sits up, and his hand disappears into his lap. “Your allowance. I’ve got an amount in mind but you must tell me if it’s not enough.”

Oh, right. My allowance. I suppose I should be happy that he’s brought it up but I just feel disappointed that he’s pulled away. I force my thoughts back to the conflicting advice I’ve read about allowances. That I should set my own prices; that I should let him pick a number and then try and drive it higher. Misha’s said he’s got a number in mind so I suppose we should start with that.

“All right. I’ll tell you if I think it should be more. What’s the amount?”

“Fifteen thousand.”

I swallow, hard. Fifteen goddamn thousand. For an insane second I want to tell him it’s too much, that surely he can’t afford it. But that’s ridiculous. He owns a Bentley. He builds skyscrapers in London. He can easily afford it.

But why, asks a part of my mind which sounds suspiciously like my mother, does he want to pay fifteen thousand pounds a month for me?

I push the nasty voice away. Maybe Misha is kinky and is going to demand that I do strange things to earn that money. Does he have a foot fetish? A BDSM dungeon? Is he a furry? My limited sexual experiences have been so vanilla, but think I could get on board with almost anything as long as it doesn’t cause me actual pain. If he wants to suck on my toes for fifteen grand a month he’s welcome to them. I’m not precious about my feet.

“How often would you like to see me?”

He frowns at the tablecloth. “I don’t know. Enough to know you’re safe.”

“Pardon?”

“Shall we play it by ear? I’ll text you, and you can tell me if you’re too busy.”

I’m not sure if I like the sound of that but he adds, “You can tell me to back off if I’m being too demanding or that you need more money.”

I bite the inside of my cheek. Have I just landed the holy grail of sugar daddies? He’s good-looking, generous, well-mannered. Sometimes he’s grumpy but I can put up with a bit of grumpiness for such a generous allowance. Before I get carried away, though, I should be sure about what I’m getting myself into.

“Do you have any other… What do you… Is there anything else I should know?”

He gives me a puzzled frown. “Nothing I can think of.”

My face floods with heat and I stare at him hard, willing him to understand. Sex, Misha. What will you want from me in terms of bedroom stuff? But he continues to sit there in puzzled silence and my nerve fails me. I’m not a virgin but the only boyfriend I had was in high school and neither of us were brave enough to talk frankly about sex. I should have practiced this in the mirror today, considering I’m now a sex worker.

Oh, well. I guess we’ll be playing that by ear, too.

I smile at him, letting the genuine gratitude and affection I feel for him fill my face. “Thank you, Misha. That’s a very generous allowance. I appreciate it.”

He drops his eyes and adjusts one of his cufflinks. If I didn’t know better I’d say he was a little flustered.

I’m not drunk but I am a little tipsy as we take the elevator downstairs. Misha doesn’t touch me but I’m hyperaware of him standing by my side, his eyes front and center. I would say this isn’t a man who has spent a lot of time in the company of women. Not talking to them, at least. Maybe he’s always paid for sex by the hour but it’s started to feel lonely.

Outside, the driver gets out of the silver Bentley and opens the rear door, and Misha turns to me. “I won’t be offended if you refuse, but may I offer you a ride home?”

I hesitate. Misha seems trustworthy but I still want to be cautious. I’m also curious about him, and if I accept I might be able to sidle up against him in the back seat of the car and I can ask him quietly what he likes.

I nod, and when we get inside the car I tell the driver an address—not my address, but one a few streets away. Then I take a look around the interior of the car. The seats are deep and broad and covered with quilted black leather. There are screens set in the seat backs and dim lighting. The windows are heavily tinted and a partition slides up between the front and rear seats to give us privacy. Misha and I are alone, but with a foot and a half of space between us.

He’s silent during the drive and I can’t think of a way to bring up what I want to say. I imagine, for some ridiculous reason, inviting him up to my room. He would seem like a giant in my box room, his expensive suit incongruous against the ten-year-old paint on the walls and the faded cotton curtains.

Twenty minutes later the car pulls up and I see through the darkened windows that we’re at the address I gave the driver, a quiet residential street with few streetlights. There’s no one around. I turn to Misha. I feel like I need to address the elephant in the car. Fifteen thousand pounds a month is a lot of money and it’s going to play on my mind if I don’t know what he wants from me.

Clenching my bag in my lap I look down at it and say, “How often did you want… Would you like me to…”

He peers at me, frowning, and I know I won’t be able to put in into words what I need to say. A crazy impulse overtakes me, and I sink down to my knees onto the floor of the car and slide between his legs.