Page 163 of The Stranger

“Look at me,” I growl, then give a snap of my hips to get her attention. “You will look at me.” I give a shallow thrust as her head comes up.

“I know you can take it.” I deliver another shallow jab.

“Ohmygoddd.”

“That’s my good little flower, opening up, blooming for me.”

The next sound she makes is nonsensical and lovely.

“Just breathe…”

The earlier tremor becomes a seismic shift as I withdraw, and her back bows with a silent cry. I slide the hair from her face, kiss her shoulder and, taking her hips in my hands, I thrust.

“Oh fuck. Oh, fuck,” she whimpers, her thighs beginning to shake. “I don’t think I can…”

“Yes. Yes, you can.” I grit my teeth against the urge fuck hard.

“My legs. They’ll give out.”

“I’ll hold you,” I answer as I begin to move again. Slow and deep, I drive us both to the edge of our minds.

“Oh God. Oh Luc.” And so goes the catechism of her cries. “I-I feel sorry for every woman on the planet you haven’t fucked. Oh, jeezzzz.”

I laugh, and her body reacts, squeezing me like a fist, and making me groan as I cast my eyes to the ceiling. Jesus God. I withdraw, and sink into her again, our pleasure climbing. Ricocheting from the walls. She’s hot and tight and the angle is just right as I give in to the instinct to really fuck her. Her cries turn to shouts of encouragement, the moment is so wild, so frantic.

“Little flower,” I rasp as her body begins to throb around me, scrambling my brain and threatening to take the strength from my legs. “You’re going to come for me.”

“I can—I can’t.”

“Look at me.” I give a snap of my hips to get her attention. “Look at me now.” I give a shallow thrust as her head comes up. Fuck, she is messy and she is beautiful. “You are going to come for me.”

“Luc, please, just…”

“I know you can handle it. I know you can take it, little flower.” Another shallow jab and her eyes roll back in her head.

“Ohmygoddd.” She chokes on a strangled cry, her body bowing as her orgasm hits so hard, it will probably register on the European earthquake log.

So hard, it almost drags me with it—but I fight it, every inch of my skin coming alive as she rides out this wave. As she rides me. I watch us in the mirror, one body, not two, my arms tight around her and my face buried in her neck.

The sensation ebbs but I need the flow as I curl my hand around her shoulder. Not a moment too soon as something white hot and angry shooting down my spine. I’m coming, yes, and hard, but it drags a truth through me too.

I don’t want Primrose to recover from all men as I bury my mouth against her salt-slick skin. I want to ruin her for them. I want her to be mine always.

40

PRIMROSE

Morning has transformed Luc’s bedroom.

Last night, the room was shadows and urgency, the dark gleam of wood and the pale spill of moonlight. Just fragments of a room that I glimpsed between kisses and bliss.

Now sunlight pours in through the tall windows, turning everything quietly golden. The room has traditional Mallorcan bones with honey-limewashed walls and pale ancient oak beams in a gently vaulted ceiling. But everything else is Luc to a T. Restrained, stylish, and absolutely expensive.

His bed is vast, the linens in shades of white. Or they were white. Now they’re stained with various substances and ridiculously crumpled. A charcoal cashmere throw hangs from a distressed leather chair, with a scarred metal barrel table beside it piled with books. The floors are wooden, the rugs plush, and nothing matches too perfectly, giving the room an elegant, lived-in feel.

I turn my head to the tall glass doors where gauzy curtains breathe inward with the warm breeze. Beyond is a private terrace that’s tiny and brightly tiled and hemmed in by lacy wrought iron railings.

And the view? By far the best in the house. From the bed, a person can see all the way out to the brilliance of the Mediterranean. And if I move my head ever so slightly, I can see the mountain range rising hazily to the other side. The peaks were a hazy blue-gray in the early light, though now glow gold in the sun.