Page 185 of The Stranger

A better man would ask.

A better man would stop this.

The man she loves wouldn’t have brought her here in the first instance.

As though hearing my thoughts, she turns her head, licks her lips and gives a soft moan, her blue eyes burning with a thousand fuck yous.

My attention snaps back as he pulls at her dress, snagging at my wrists. I force my hands to lift as everything inside me screams.

Her dress falls and the fucker in front of her stares at her like she’s Christmas. He shakes his head, almost coming back to himself. And the sound Primrose makes as his palm slides up her leg is so impossibly small it can hardly be categorized as a breath. I feel it, not hear it, all vibration through the bones of my hand as I brace again.

He’s methodical, thumbs mapping the seam of her thighs. Her head tips back against my chest, hair working loose and scented by whatever she washed it with. Something sweet and floral, it makes me want to bury my face in it when she stretches against me, her eyes falling closed.

She could be anywhere in the dark. Less in her body. Drowning in sensation. And the mouth sliding down to her breast could be anyone. He could be me.

It should be me as another tiny, breathless hitch echoes through her body to mine. The realization spreads through me like wildfire: This isn’t pleasure. This is distress.

He either doesn’t hear it or chooses not to. But either way, rage detonates inside me.

“Enough.” The word is ragged, my nostrils flaring like a bull as I hook my arm around her waist and simultaneously seize him by the shoulder. I push him so violently, he stumbles.

“What the hell?” he protests, only just keeping his balance. His attention jumps to Primrose, but she pivots and buries her face in my chest. Her whole body is fucking trembling, and I did this. Me. I should be flayed alive for putting her through this.

My lips swipe her hair before I set her gently aside. I advance on him, head lowered, fists clenched, every civilized thought burned clean out of me.

He takes one look at my face and retreats, getting to the door before I get to him, slamming it behind him before I can raise a fist.

The sound of the lock turning in my fingers is so deafening. I turn to the sight of her, heels and pale satin underwear.

I rush at her—she rushes at me—as we collide, her hand cracks across my face with enough force to knock my head back. But it doesn’t slow us down as her hands seize my shirt and mine her waist. Our mouths fuse, and there isn’t an ounce of tenderness in this kiss.

As fury shines wet in her eyes, we maul each other. There’s no other word for this congress. Her teeth catch my lip, my hands driving into her hair, pulling on the pale silky strands to hold her immobile. She makes a broken sound against my mouth, and I eat it as grief tears through me. I fucked up. I’m fucked up.

I kiss her harder as though the thoughts will stop.

She’ll leave. Of course she will.

So I won’t stop as my arm locks around her, and I crush her to me.

“Primevère.” Her name sounds dragged from the depths, and she answers by biting my lip. Relief is not gentle. It does not wash through me. But need explodes.

“I hate you,” she moans into my mouth.

“I know.” She tastes familiar and strange all at once.

“I hate that you did this to me.”

“I know.” My voice breaks against her throat. “I know, mon coeur.” But I can’t bring myself to say I’m sorry.

“Don’t.” She shoves at me, but I’m back in an instant. I feel uncontrolled, like I’ve stepped out of myself. Like this is happening but not to me.

My hand slides under her knee and I lift it. It locks around my waist as she fucking climbs me—like the tale of the tree in the garden, the hose trapped between fit to burst. I stagger to the other side of the room, setting her down on a dresser.

Breaths ragged and hearts beating the same tune, her teeth scrape over my neck. My shirt is open, the buttons lost. Misery and need still permeates the air between us.

Her breasts press into me, her underwear nothing but tissue paper. I take the weight of them in my hands, and she makes a broken noise as I clasp them tighter than I mean to.

“This means nothing,” she gasps, closing her eyes tight as mine watch while I rasp my thumbnail across the hardened peaks.