Page 146 of The Stranger

I bring my hand between us, idly turning the sprigs of rosemary between us. “Rosemary and Primrose,” I murmur as I crush the leaves between my fingers. A burst of herby scent fills the air. “Fresh, delicious, and with just a hint of green.”

“Both?” She quirks a brow, though her tone is husky.

Do I like that she’s inexperienced? More than I would ever admit.

Bringing the sprigs to my nose, I inhale. “How would I describe Primrose?” I wonder aloud as I brush the rosemary over her cheek. “Would I compare thee to a summer’s day? But a summer’s day is too predictable for you.”

“Is this your way of calling me a problem? Perspiration begins to bead in her hairline. I’ve never wanted to taste anything more.

“You are bright and beautiful, stubborn and fearless, just like your namesake.”

“Primroses aren’t fearless. They’re boring.”

“They’re deceptive. Innocent at first glance. Demure little things⁠—”

“I’m hardly little,” she scoffs.

“But get close enough, and, oh, their scent.” Breath stutters from her as I bury my nose in her neck. “As for brave.” She moans as I scrape my teeth over her pulse. “They push their way through the frozen earth and dare to bloom before it’s safe.”

“I’d call that foolish.”

“Optimistic.” I trail the rosemary travels over her chin, shifting language again. “You’ve brought spring to places that I thought were stuck in winter.”

I trace the sprigs lower, down between her breasts, ignoring the visible pebbling of her nipples. She inhales as I slide them under her T-shirt. As I glide the greenery back and forth, her breath becomes shallow, and her hips subtly tip.

“Lift your skirt.”

Her lashes flutter. “Say that again.”

“You heard me.” My hand loosens from her wrists. “Be brave, little flower. Lift it.”

She inhales in a shivery, uncertain way, and dieu, I do love that. But perhaps not quite as much as watching as her fingers curl under the hemline. She drags the soft fabric higher until it’s bunched in her fist at her waist.

What a sight. Lips kiss swollen, nipples hard, her skirt in her fist and her panties, gossamer thin, barely concealing her heat of femininity.

“Fresh and clean and green.” She trembles as I swipe the sprigs up the inside of her thigh, then gives a soft moan as I twirl the woody stems between her legs. “And ready for tasting.”

“You mean for the plucking.”

But I don’t have an answer for her witticism as something voracious bursts inside me. I shove my thumb under the elastic at my hip, yanking down one side of the lace, and then the other.

She gasps at the violence of the motion, and I hardly know what I’m saying as this thing inside me grows and expands. I want to cover her body with mine. Press her against the wall and fuck her until she moans my name.

“You look almost undone, but I swear I’m the one who might never recover.” I hardly know which language I’m speaking, I only know it’s the truth. “I want to fuck you and taste you all at once.”

I drop to my heels, and she makes an animal noise, bucking against me when my tongue finds her clit.

“Please!” Her chest rises and falls with tight little breaths, her hands slipping down the wall and into my hair.

“Little flower,” I groan, peeling her pussy open. “Look at what you made me do.” My gaze slides upward as I administer one long lustful lick.

“Oh, f-fuck!”

I watch her as she watches me, as her she cries build into something urgent and agony filled. And then she crests—fuck, yes—and see it and I feel it everywhere, the tremors running through us both as her fingers tighten in my hair.

I don’t wait for the aftershocks, pushing to stand. I feed my greedy tongue into her mouth. and we devour each other, hands grasping, kisses that are a war.

“Primevère,” I warn when she settles her hand over my aching cock.