Page 186 of The Stranger

“Nothing,” I agree, lowering my mouth to trace the rise and fall of her breath. Nothing and everything.

Her back arches. Such a sight. I press my fingers into her mouth, and she sucks hard, but she won’t look at me. So I slip my wet fingers down her chest and under the elastic between her legs.

She cries out. Bucks. Her thighs trembling around my hips.

Eyes still closed.

“Look at me,” I plead, fingers sunk deep inside. Curling. Rubbing. Making her shake.

A gray-blue flash, there and gone in an instant. I press my hand to her throat and hold her there. Add another finger and begin to fuck her with them.

“I thought I had lost you,” I whisper, putting my forehead to hers. Breathing her in, every tremble. Every withheld gasp.

“You threw me away.”

The fist around my heart tightens because she’s right. And wanting this, wanting me, isn’t the same as forgiveness.

“I’m sorry.”

“Fuck you,” she whispers, knocking my hands away as she reaches for my belt. Hot hands fumble. She pulls me out, hot and hard, then wets her lips, thirsty for this. With the grace of a queen, she settles back against the dresser, thighs wide, already coated with her pleasure. “Do it.” Like a taunt, she slides a finger between her legs. “Fuck me,” she whispers as her body offers everything. And her eyes promise me a world of pain.

48

PRIMROSE

“My first wife had gentle hands,” the old gent says as I loosen the tourniquet from his upper arm.

“Did she?” I ask absently, pressing a cotton wool over the puncture wound while also keeping an eye on the vials. A couple of days ago, a patient with dementia whipped them away and swore blind it had nothing to do with her.

“She ran off with the milkman years ago.”

“Oh, I am sorry to hear that, George.”

“Don’t be. He had a van. I only had a bicycle.”

A laugh escapes me before I can stop it. It feels strange in my throat, rusty from disuse, but George beams.

“There,” I say, popping a dressing over the tiny puncture. “All done.”

“You got a husband?”

“I do not.” The blue gloves make a snap as I take them off. “Why, was that a proposal?”

“I don’t even have a bike now. What kind of husband would I be? You set your sights higher, girlie. Marry a rich man.”

“I have my own car,” I say, not touching the rest. Rich men are a scourge on the earth. Well, some of them.

“You know what I can’t stand?”

I shake my head.

“Let me rephrase that. You know what? I can’t stand.” He pats the arms of his wheelchair, his expression remaining serious for a couple of seconds before his amusement gives, his mouth collapsing into a wicked, albeit toothless, grin.

This time, the laugh comes more easily. “Ah, you got me there, George.”

“Seriously though, if you can get my wheelchair in your car, I’ll marry you.”

“George, are you cheating on me?” The curtain around George’s bed is whipped back. Maya, the ward manager folds her arms across her ample chest.