Page 148 of The Stranger

“Sir.” The guttural sound bursts from her with my shallow thrust.

“Little flower,” I warn as something hot and heady floods my veins. “You will say my name while you take my cock so, so well.”

“Luc.” She feathers it across my lips, her hands slipping to the back of my head to cradle it. Her eyes, they seem to see right into my soul.

With a snap of my hips, I drive back inside her, my curse a counterpoint to her cry.

“Oh God,” she whimpers as I withdraw, her eyes fluttering closed.

I kiss her once—hard—then slide my hands under her ass, burying my mouth in the crook of her neck as I begins to fuck her in earnest then. Deep thrusts, drive us both to the edge, my fingers gripping her so tightly, I can only hope she’ll bruise.

Moments later, she turns languid in my arms, her face tilting to the sun.

She looks like a fucking angel.

“You feel so good. So fucking good. In my house. In my arms. In my fucking head.”

So cries my name again and again, her attention turning inward as her body begins to milk me for all that I’m worth.

Done for, I brace one hand against the wall and begin to fuck her like I mean to break her apart—like I have that right. Like I’ll be the one who always puts her back together again.

Pleasure barrels down my spine, the heat pulsing though me threatening to take my legs from under me. Light splinters, and shards of Luc fall away. Then, like a vortex of sensation, I’m made whole again.

36

PRIMROSE

In my reflection, my black cocktail dress lies across the bed behind me. Do I wear it or not? Not that I plan on turning up naked, curling my bare leg around the door frame as I purr, I’m ready for my close-up, Monsieur du Beaumont.

Not that he can get any closer to me than he did in the herb garden this afternoon. Unless he’s going to crawl under my skin. I put my hand to my cheek, my eyes burning bright as I will myself to concentrate on the matter at hand. But it’s no good. My mind keeps turning back.

Tell me you need me.

I swear I’m the one who might never recover.

The intensity in his expression. The way he closed his eyes, like he thought I saw too much. The silly exchanges and laughter. The way he made me feel utterly treasured.

It was an experience like no other.

Is it any wonder I couldn’t hold back? The man turns my resolve to Silly String.

But back to my little black dress. Will it make me look like a try-hard or a sophisticated woman? It’s not like we’re going out to dinner or anything—no wine, dine, and sixty-nine for me. Just as well, I think, pressing my hand to my stomach. I’m too nervous to ingest anything. Nervous with anticipation, and because of how intense this afternoon was.

My phone bings with a text. I move to the nightstand, where it should be on charge. But it’s not.

ZOE: I am still salty.

I smile. While I hate that I can’t tell her the truth, Zoe going scorched earth on my behalf is quite touching. She’d get on well with Lavender, I think as I type out a small row of heart emoji.

Her response is immediate.

ZOE: His main character syndrome is legit unhinged. Does he think the sun needs his permission to set?

ME: I just keep telling myself he signs my paycheck.

I end my text with a shrug emoji as I think, another fib. This is something I actively choose not to think about.

ZOE: You’re too nice, and I’m too feral. But we will drink wine and scream at the moon together sometime soon.