Page 174 of The Stranger

“His what?” I almost shriek. I push up onto my forearms, and not only because it makes my boobs look good.

“The little Primrose felt so much power that she ran amok over the lawn, cartwheeling and showing off her tiny underwear. The exhibitionist,” he adds heavily.

“Was she?” Blood seems to rush through my veins with a mixture of excitement and something harder to define.

“She undoubtably liked to be watched. It made her feel powerful.”

“Why? Why is that?”

“Control.” The word feels like a tiny explosion of delight deep inside. “The power of being seen is a heady aphrodisiac.”

What I feel for him, it’s more than skin deep. It’s more than his looks and his words or how he makes me feel. There’s magic between us, I swear.

I could be his for eternity.

“In the garden, the little Primrose insisted on climbing tallest tree,” he says as he returns to his tale. His tale about me.

“She was a hoe for that wood.”

“She could take it, she said. Take it like a good little girl.”

“I’ll bet she did.”

“She made such enthusiastic use of his garden hose that the neighbors were jealous.”

“Okay, what in the name of gentilism is the tree in this story? I mean, it’s obvious what the hose is.”

“The tree is me. The tallest tree in the garden.”

“Well, you are tall,” I whisper suggestively. “But do me a favor. Don’t tell this story to the children.” I stretch languorously across the couch, and Luc moves with me, sliding his hand under the hem of my dress. I give a soft sigh of a moan as he draws teasing circles against my inner thigh.

“It’s not a story they’d care to hear. Speaking of children, what did you do to make Felix your champion?”

“How’d you mean?”

“During their call earlier, Felix was… protective.”

“Of me?” He nods. “Well, I am the best nanny in the world, according to Poppins and McPhee.”

“Direct quotes?”

I give a nod. “And as far as he’s aware, I haven’t told you about his very particular TV habits.”

“His taste in pornography,” he says flatly.

“I wouldn’t phrase it like that. But I would like to keep it between us.” I lift my head and stare at him. “Seriously. Don’t tell him I told you.”

“Of course. But I sense that’s not what it was about.”

I pull a doubtful face, though I’m not sure he notices as his gaze seems to have turned inward.

“Felix will tell me in his own time. Whatever’s going on in his life, his mind, he always comes to me eventually. Sometimes it’s with a confession, other times it’s a problem he needs to talk out. He knows there’s nothing in this world he can’t say to me.” I watch a barrage of thoughts flicker and fade across his face.

“He probably feels a little sad or maybe sorry for me.” I expect it’s my expression that’s hard to interpret now because, putain de bordel de merde!

Whore of a brothel of shit—French swearing is so imaginative—or to put it another way, fucking hell! Why did I have to say that?

“Why?”