Page 182 of The Stranger

Yeah, mate. From another planet. At least, that’s what it feels like.

How have I gone from passion and whispered words of love to standing before a stranger feeling like I’m something to be passed across a table?

Conversation resumes without my participation. Luc supplies little, and the man supplies enough for both of them, perfectly at ease (or ignorant of) the hostility rolling from the man opposite.

Maybe this idiot’s ultimate kink is being beaten to death during sex.

Sex. As if.

Luc isn’t going to make me do this.

There is no way I’m going through with this.

He sways closer and Luc notices, a muscle beginning to pulse in his jaw. But he says nothing. Meanwhile, something savage and wounded unfurls inside me.

He brought me here to suffer. He made this offer. He is the one trying to drag us back to the beginning. This isn’t about fucking; it’s about being fucked over. To reduce us to actions and appetites so the rest won’t matter.

Fine. If I have to sit in the wreckage, he’s taking the passenger seat.

I angle myself towards the man and slide him a seductive smile. “Luc will be watching. I hope you don’t mind.” Actually, I hope you do. I hope the thought of being watched by this man makes your dick shrivel up.

He looks from me to Luc, perhaps checking that this is the arrangement. Hey, assholes. Didn’t anyone ever tell you that she who holds the pussy holds the power?

“How did you put it again, babe?” I shoot daggers Luc’s way. “You wanted me to take risks, the kind that make me feel alive?” I turn back to the stooge. “He wants me to be openly desired. And, well,” I add, reaching out to slide my hand down Luc’s silken lapel. “I desire you to watch this gentleman rearrange my insides.”

Goading. Yes.

Touching. I can’t help myself. Maybe I’ll even get to put my hands around his neck.

“If that’s what you want, mon—” He stops himself. Restarts. “Ma belle.” I can be beautiful, but I can’t be his heart. Not when he’s expecting another man to put his penis inside me.

No, he’s not.

He’s expecting me to run.

“As you so lovingly pointed out recently, I do so love an audience.”

He steps backward, not staggers, the light behind him making his face a collection of hard shadows. I can’t make out his expression, and I don’t know whether the rigid set of his shoulders is from anger or disgust. Or if he’s turned on.

Let it be anger. Let it hurt.

Let this man be hung like a horse.

Or not. Because I’m not going through with this.

No way.

He’s not going to let me.

Not after he called me his beloved.

My heart is beating so hard it seems impossible they can’t hear it. I keep my chin raised and my mouth curved into something that might pass for confidence. From a distance. I can do this. Or pretend that I can. Long enough to force Luc to admit that he can’t.

Because he can’t.

No way.

He’ll let this play out for another minute, maybe two. Long enough to prove whatever brutal point he thinks he’s making.