Page 97 of The Stranger

“I answered his questions.” I stop destroying the remains of my croissant. “Best I could.”

“What did he ask?”

“If it was normal. I told him it was normal to be curious, but that his brain wasn’t yet developed enough, aged sufficiently, to deal with seeing that kind of stuff.”

“Was it bad? What exactly was he watching?”

“It was sex. Unrealistic and…” I scrunch my nose. “Nothing kinky, as far as I could tell. I mean, it’s not like I drew up a chair and watched it with him.”

“Bien sûr.” He reaches out to take my hand, but I pull back, dropping it to my lap. “Thank you for being there for him. For being the voice of reason.”

“No problem.” Something like consternation ripples across my brow.

“Was there something else?”

“Well, he, er, asked if ladies really… put it in their mouth.” No way I’m using the word penis, and it’s too early in the day for cock. But—fuck.

No—not buff fuck. Just fuck. And because my brain is a masochist, it reminds me of him teasing me there last night. Not that I’d ever let him bf me, even if the feather of his touch made me throb all over like I was made entirely of heavy bass.

I slice my hair behind my ears. I feel like my head is about to explode. I can’t believe I practically begged him to put his c—penis inside me.

“What did you say?” His face takes on a curious mixture of amusement and smolder.

“I said no—I mean, sorry?”

“No?”

“I was thinking of something else.” My cheeks feel as though they’re a thousand degrees.

“This isn’t funny.” I tip my eyes to the ceiling and mutter, “Why couldn’t he have saved this for Emmy?”

“Because Sophia wasn’t in Paris would be my guess.”

I slide him a questioning look.

“Maybe thoughts of the girl have somehow inspired him.”

“Maybe.”

“So how did you answer him?” he asks, his expression careful. Words too.

“I told him that it only happens within the bounds of marriage.” My mouth probably looks like a flatlining ECG. “And during a leap year.”

He barks out a laugh.

“It’s so not funny,” I answer, even as the sides of my mouth twitch.

“I’m sorry, but it is funny.”

“Not when you’re the one dealing with it,” I retort. “But I thought it best to give him a reality check.”

Still laughing, he shakes his head. Maybe in disbelief. I imagine that is not his experience. Sidenote: The way he laughs—the way I’ve made him laugh—makes me feel all sorts of warm and gooey. It’s hardly helpful to my current experience, but there you go.

“Thank you,” he says, still struggling to control his twitching lips.

“Stop laughing,” I say, struggling against the same.

“I’m not allowed to thank you for… rising to the occasion.”