Page 9 of The Stranger

“Got you.”

I halt—freeze—the hairs on the back of my neck standing like pins at the deep, masculine voice tinged with amusement. It’s him. Nils. My heart hammers in my ears as a soft feminine laugh follows. Oh thank God. A whoosh of my hot breath fogs the dark glass as I realize the voices are coming from behind me.

“I wasn’t running,” the owner of the laugh says in French. “Not from you.”

I fake gag even as some strange part of me startles awake. It’s not that I’m interested in him but more that she sounds so confident. A tiny spike of envy runs through me as I turn to an arc of soft, lacy light spilling across the dark stage. The pair stand in the center, locked in a passionate embrace.

The woman is kind of stunning. Tall and lithe, dressed in a moss-green satin slip gown. Chin tilted, her eyes are only for him. Next minute, they’re kissing like their lives depend on it. The sight of their roving hands does something awful and wonderful to the pit of my stomach. Have I ever been kissed like that? I’m sure I would’ve remembered, I think with a tiny pang.

She sighs, and I find myself joining her, though mine is more from melancholy. Which is silly because how can you miss what you haven’t had? Hugging the shadows, I take a step back, then another. I’ve got to get out of here. I’ll just keep to the walls and turn around. Make my way up the stairwell silently and… do another sweep of the place, I suppose.

Another step backward as he reaches for her face as they trade whispered words. And longing looks. I ought to turn around—I know that—but I can’t seem to make myself.

His hands slip to her shoulders, and her head falls back, her expression one of bliss. Maybe it’s a signal or a sign as he suddenly spins them both until they’re facing the front of the stage. Facing me.

I swallow a gasp. Feel one hammering heartbeat, then two, as a sense of heat washes over me. I feel prickly and wrong, like I’ve been caught with my hand in the cookie jar. Or my knickers, maybe. But my deafening heartbeat is replaced by a quiet whoosh of breath when I remind myself it’s dark here in the shadows. There isn’t much chance they’ll see me. Besides, they’re much too into each other to notice.

He whispers something in her ear, something good judging by the way her body convulses. And the way my body reacts. Does it make me a voyeur that I haven’t turned around? That a deep pulse beats between my legs. Maybe this is where I see and learn. See where I’ve been going wrong—learn what I’ve been missing. At least, that’s what I tell myself as I watch blondie’s hands roam over her. Hips, belly, then breasts, he frames them like an offering, her nipples peaking against the fabric. She laughs softly and licks her lips, reaching her hand to the back of his neck.

That prickly sensation takes another form as I think, that could’ve been me. If I hadn’t brushed him off. If he hadn’t been with his friend. He might’ve fixed the parts of me that have never seemed to work. He looks like he knows what he’s doing—to her, to us both—as his hands glide over her hips and he begins to gather the slippery fabric of her dress.

His fingers crawl and the silk slides higher. Higher. And my eyes flutter closed to the image of his table mate. Mr. Darcy-esque wasn’t he something? Something cold. Something… uninterested.

I snap out of my thoughts, and suddenly, my brain is struggling to make sense of what’s happening. It’s like, on some level, I don’t comprehend that I’m watching him push his hand into her underwear.

Her head drops back against his shoulder with a soft moan, and he buries his lips at her neck. She begins to move with his hand, and my heart begins to thunder. I wish it was me in the green silk. I wouldn’t be watching then, wondering, playing the voyeur as my core pulses emptily. I’d be in the dark-haired man’s arms, bending to his will.

But I’m not. And I never will be.

I won’t ever experience passion this intense. Because I freeze. Stiffen up. Become wooden. Even when I try really hard not to.

Suddenly, watching makes me feel worse. I spin away⁠—

“Oh!” My fingers jump to my lips, but it’s too late to muffle my gasp as I find cool blue eyes staring down at me.

4

PRIMROSE

Why did it have to be him? Out of all the people who might’ve ventured down here, why did it have to be the man who made me feel so dismissed? He probably thinks I’m trying to cop a feel because my hand is plastered flat to his chest. But it was shock—it must’ve landed there to stop my forward momentum. To keep our bodies from connecting.

My heart feels like it’s trying to break free from my ribs and I hate how he’s even more handsome up close. Thick hair and piercing eyes, the light catching the strong angles of his face. His square jaw. The hollows beneath his cheekbones. The shadow below his full bottom lip. In the cool of the basement, heat seems to emanate from his skin, his cologne assaulting my senses in the most delicious way. I mean, I hate it. He stinks. He might be big, hot, and brooding, but I bet he has a little dick.

“What are you doing down here?” He crooks his finger under my chin, his demeanor so different from the garden room.

Stick to English, my brain reminds me. Think—form words! Plant your flag in this patch of rocky ground. But this is what you do, my mind whispers. Shut down when boys are around. Except this is no boy. He’s all man.

“Help?” I give a nervous titter. “I’m totally lost. I wasn’t⁠—”

“There’s no need to be embarrassed.”

My first instinct is to deny it, but keeping in character, I frown instead. His lashes are so long and sooty, and his gaze feels like a hook. And I’m the little fishy dangling on it.

“I should go back upstairs.” I feel like I’m having an out-of-body experience as he strokes a wisp of hair from my cheek, gently sliding it behind my ear. “I came down here to find my friend but she… she isn’t here.”

“There’s no need to leave.”

“I can’t think where she might be.”