Page 165 of The Stranger

I give in to a little shiver as my skin remembers the cool slide of their red skin across my nipple.

“And the wine.” His hand glides lower, and I moan softly, still sensitive.

“Maria’s going to freak over the state of the sheets.” I put my hand over his. Yes, no? I can’t decide, though I keep my thighs clamped together.

“I told you, the Spanish think spilling wine is a good omen.” A symbol of abundance and prosperity, he’d said as his soft laughter had drifted out into the warm night.

“I’m not sure she’d agree it should be spilled in bed.”

“You shouldn’t have wriggled then.”

Hard not to when the stuff is cascading down your chest, pooling in your belly button and… other places.

The sheets are whipped from my skin quite suddenly.

“Luc!” I squeal, trying to grab them back, and attempting to roll myself into a human burrito. But he’s stronger than me. And he plays dirty as he pounces, caging me beneath his hard body as he sort of planks over me.

“You’re not nice.”

He stares down at me like I’m something special. And just like that, I stop caring about the covers.

“Nice is overrated.” His gaze slides over me making my skin tingle.

“Sounds like you’ve been talking to Lavender.” My sister insists that nice is the worst thing a woman can be. I can’t say I agree with her.

“Nice is what people ask of you when your refusal would inconvenience or disappoint.”

“Or maybe nice is what I choose to be because there are already enough horrible people in the world.”

“Kindness is admirable, Primrose. But kindness is something you give freely. Nice is what you become when you worry about saying no.”

Ouch.

“Knowing your own worth makes you harder to use.” His thumb traces my cheek. “Know your own worth, Primrose.” His gaze holds mine, fierce enough that I can’t hide.

I wonder if this is what a pinned butterfly feels like. “There’s nothing wrong with being nice sometimes,” I say, my words prickly.

“Being nice is what brought you here.”

“Quelle horreur,” I whisper with a comic widening of my eyes.

His own eyes tighten, a tiny row of creases fanning out in the corners. “Just how much French do you know?”

If I tell the truth now, the little insights into his heart, I mean, his thoughts, will stop.

Maybe everything will stop.

I give a tiny shrug. “I understand a bit. Mostly the stuff I learned in school,” I add. “Maybe a phrase or two I’ve picked up while visiting. Are you worried I might make sense of all the smutty things you’ve been whispering to me?” I put my hand to his cheek, and he pretends to bite my thumb.

“You could ask.” There’s a world of suggestion in his tone.

“Would you tell me?”

“Perhaps.” He lowers to his knees and elbows, and using both hands, gently strokes the hair from my brow. “Never make yourself smaller just to hear someone else call you nice,” he murmurs, returning to his previous thread. “You’re worth more than anyone’s approval. Please start believing that.”

The thought unsettles me. I do know my own worth, don’t I? Maybe I do too much sometimes, but I haven’t been nice to him. I roll my shoulders, suddenly uncomfortable, because I do sometimes find myself wishing, usually after the fact, that I could’ve said no.

His expression softens. But it’s the only thing soft about him as he lowers himself onto his forearm, leaving his other hand free to roam. “So, this sister of yours. What else does she have to say?”