Page 144 of The Stranger

I follow the children’s path to the boot room, turning into the small kitchen garden to the kind of sight that makes my feet and my heart stop. Primrose. Something pleasurable twists in my gut at the vision of her bent over one of the raised pots, her thoroughly enticing ass pointed my way.

I quickly come to realize she’s aware of my presence; some shift in her body giving her away. But she doesn’t stand, which means she likes that I’m watching. Parts of me expands at that knowledge. My lungs, my skin, and yes, the obvious.

So I allow myself a moment to appreciate the shapely line of her legs and her luscious curves beneath her thin summer skirt. With a slight movement, her T-shirt suddenly shifts to reveal a golden slice of her back. It feels like a revelation. Her skin there is as velvet, I know.

My cock pulses and mouth curves. Positively Victorian. Since when have I become titillated at the sight of a trim waist and a little skin? Fuck, tonight can’t come quick enough.

It’s all I’ve thought about since I opened my eyes this morning, the low thrum of anticipation intensifying with each and every vision of her in my head. How I’ll hold her. How I’ll have her. It’s been an inconvenient few hours, to say the least. Painful, even. I wouldn’t recommend riding a horse through a rocky trail with your dick periodically at half-mast.

I draw a slow breath, but it does nothing useful. If anything, it only sharpens my awareness of her. Fuck, I want to rush at her. But I can wait a few hours more. I’m not a slave to my desires.

I knew she’d come around eventually. Hoped. Prayed. Pretty much made a nuisance of myself until she did. Though the way she’d looked at me this morning as I’d come into the kitchen makes me wish I’d resorted to the jodhpurs long before today.

But at least we’re at this point. Finally! To say I’m relieved is a vast understatement. A better description would be to say I feel a little unhinged.

I begin to move toward her. Like irons filings to a magnet. My boots kick up dust, the crunch of stones beneath the soles plainly audible. But she doesn’t move. She doesn’t acknowledge my presence. And it seems she’s somehow made a masochist out of me because I fucking love that she’s ignoring me.

“What are you doing?” I come to stand behind her, my voice pitched lower than intended, though amusement threads through it.

“Pruning. What were you up to?”

Like she doesn’t know. “What I do best. Watching you.” I’m careful not to touch her as I take the scissors from her hand. But as she straightens, I settle my hands over her hips. “Watching you massacre the rosemary.”

“It’s for a good cause.”

A laugh escapes me, soft against her neck. Beneath my hands, I feel a tiny shift of her body as my fingers press against the delicate points of her hips.

“Sometimes a little rough handling produces excellent results.”

She gives a small, snickering giggle. “Well, I’ll have to bow to your superior knowledge of such things.”

I go still for half a beat, then I smile against her skin. “Careful, Primevère.” My fingers tighten a touch in warning. “I might remind you of that later.”

As I turn her, her eyes track over me; my hair, disordered and a little sweaty, to my shirt, open at my throat. My mouth twitches as her gaze slides away, refusing to drift lower.

Shame. These jodhpurs don’t leave a lot to the imagination in my current state.

“What are you cooking up?” My eyes drop to the rosemary in her hand.

“It’s for Zoe. She’s making focaccia.”

“As long as she’s not chopping the arms off an effigy that looks suspiciously like me.”

“So you do know her?”

“Has she poisoned the bread? I wouldn’t blame her.” I let my gaze travel over Primrose’s face. “Tu es à faire perdre la tête à un homme.” You’re enough to make a man lose his head.

She gives a tiny roll of her eyes. “I do wish you’d stop whispering dirty things to me in French.”

I smile, relieved I can say such things. And glad she doesn’t insist on a translation. I already like her more than I planned. Look but don’t touch. Touch but don’t taste. Taste but don’t get too attached. And so go the rules I keep breaking.

Desire has limits, and an ending. And this should feel reassuring. But it’s the little things that seem to trouble me. The ridiculous way my eyes seek her out when I walk into any room. The warmth I feel in my chest when she laughs. The inexplicable joy I get from goading her. I’ll happily be the recipient of her ire—I’ll feed on it, in fact. Small things individually, but they do mount up, until seems like I spend most of my day thinking of her.

But before long, I’ll walk into rooms where she no longer is. And when I see her, she’ll only be a memory. It’s odd how my body is counting down the hours until tonight while my brain has already begun counting the days we have left.

“Come with me.” I take her hand, intending what, I’m not sure. Though the animal in me is already on his way to a place far less visible.

“The bread⁠—”