Page 82 of The Stranger

“Why is this mouth such a distraction?” His thumb rests on my bottom lip, eyes darkening as my tongue darts out to lick the tip. “Again,” he whispers, so I do. He slides the digit into my mouth. “Suck.”

The noise he makes, God, I want to bottle it.

“That’s it, beautiful. Suck harder.”

I give a breathy sigh and hollow my cheeks, taking him deeper into my mouth.

“Yes, take me all the way in. I want you to paint your mouth for me, red like that night. You’ll look so pretty on your knees, your mouth stretched wide around me.”

I groan at the picture he paints, groan as I fellate his thumb like I’m staring in a dirty movie. His dirty movie. I am in way over my head. But oh my God, there is such bliss here.

He trails the wet digit down my chin, and then we’re back to heavenly kissing. The rasp of his cheek against mine is another layer of pleasure, one I could never have anticipated as something I might enjoy. That night in Paris, he was clean-shaven. And every day since. But I kind of like how he is now, unguarded and loose. He’s been drinking, and I can taste the liquor on his tongue. Maybe cigarettes?

“This body was designed to torture me, I’m sure.”

His words pull me out of my own head, and I give a soft laugh. “Have you been perving?”

“I don’t know this word,” he murmurs, sounding very French.

“It means to watch,” I whisper, stretching out under his gaze.

His eyes follow the sinuous ripple of my body. “How could I not? Your smile, your hands. The elegant curve of your neck.” His gaze touches each in turn. “Your legs. You make me feel like a deviant,” he whispers, putting his hand to my sternum and pressing me back against the countertop. He puts his big hands to my thighs.

I swallow a sharp gasp as his thumbs tease. So close yet not there.

“I’ve wanted you since the moment I set eyes on you. You looked so lost. So innocent. I wanted to corrupt you.” Such temptations, but this time in French.

Such a pity I’m not supposed to understand them.

“Is this your version of everything sounds sexy in another language?”

“Is that your version of use your mouth for another purpose?” As he gives a soft chuckle, I begin to wonder if that night in Paris wasn’t a fluke at all. No man could be this confident unnecessarily, right?

“No, I—” That’s as far as I get when Luc (God, that sounds so weird in my head) hooks his thumbs into the waistband of my pajama bottoms. His expression is wickedness personified as he slips them under my bum, then down my legs.

“I want those back,” I say, my words sort of shivery. Anticipation mainly, and maybe a tiny dip in confidence. The feeling doesn’t last long as he moves back a touch, his eyes falling to the space between my legs as he just… stares at me. Stares at me there. It makes me feel so strange. Vulnerable, yes, but also kind of powerful. Like my skin is a net of live wires powered by his gaze as pleasure pulses through me.

What sorcery is this given he’s not even touching me?

No one has ever looked at me this way. Examined me. It should make me want to hide, not make sure he keeps looking. And for the first time in my life, I understand why someone might enjoy being objectified.

It feels intoxicating. A potent aphrodisiac.

My gaze moves to the glass wall overlooking the patio and pool beyond. The lights are still on out there. Anyone could see in. See me lying semi naked across the warmed marble.

That thought shouldn’t feel at all thrilling.

“Everyone is asleep,” he says, following my line of sight. “There’s no one to interrupt.” He presses his lips to my knee.

“The security team?” That wasn’t at all wishful thinking.

“They don’t come this close to the house.”

“Good.” The word sounds as tremulous as my pulse feels.

“But if they did, they would bow at your feet and crown you their queen.”

I close my eyes, imagining just that. People watching. Praising me. A shiver runs through me as his big hands slide up my sides. Higher, higher, exposing my breasts from under my T-shirt.