Page 79 of The Stranger

“When you came? Panting, wrecked, and pulling at my hair?”

“When I climaxed,” she corrects primly. The color in her cheeks deepens, though she pushes on. “But I’m not sure it’ll happen a second time because I’m sexually defective.”

“Is that your professional diagnosis, Doctor?”

“It’s not funny,” she retorts. “I’m serious.”

“I wasn’t laughing at you but at your hypothesis.”

“It’s true. I haven’t⁠—”

“Did you fake it in Ardeo?” I ask, twirling a pale lock of her hair loosely around my index finger. I already know the answer which is perhaps why my question sounds like a taunt.

“No, of course not. But what if it was a one off? What if I can’t… I don’t ever—only when I’m alone.”

Her answer bypasses my brain, affecting my body immediately. I set aside the imagery for examination later. “You can make yourself come.”

A nod.

“But with a partner… not? Only once.”

“There’s no need to look so smug about it.”

“Why, when it makes me feel special?” To put it mildly. And rabid for a repeat. She was so vocal, her hands in my hair, and the way she pulsed and shook. Though I suppose the astounded look on her face makes better sense now.

“I’m delighted to have played some part in your discovery, but as a man who appreciates robust evidence,” I almost purr. “I suggest we replicate the special event to test your hypothesis.” Even if it isn’t the best plan I’ve ever had, in terms of propriety.

It had taken half a bottle of premium Armagnac and a lot of wallowing to reach the point of acceptance: it would be imprudent, erroneous, reckless, not to mention borderline insane to fuck her, nanny or not. She might be perfect in so many ways—single, sane, and with us only temporarily—but it would be the height of stupidity. Sweetly inexperienced and with a tongue as sharp glass, I would not become a fucking cliché.

But then I’d found myself with an empty bottle when I’d needed more glass to seal my unhappy decision. Which found me in the kitchen, cloaked in darkness, and a new bottle open on the table. When who should come dancing into the kitchen but the object of my thoughts.

My desire.

I’d say it was a sign if I believed in such things.

I watched, and I drank in her expressions. Her anticipation, and dancing. Her joy in the moment. As she’d brought the cake fork to her lips, she’d made a sound of such blissful pleasure, I’d had to will myself to stay seated as a heat licked through my insides like a very talented tongue.

She was exuberant. I was in awe. And she reminded me of a lesson I should not have forgotten. Life is short. Too short for some of us. And joy is not a given but something we have to choose. And at that moment, I chose to give in.

I chose her.

“You say that now,” she says, starting up her argument again, “but you’d soon change your tune when you couldn’t make me—oh!”

Hands at her waist, I lift her to the countertop. This is inexperience talking, perhaps her involvement with lazy or selfish men. I press my palms to the counter by her sides and don’t miss the way her eyes fall to the flex of my triceps.

“Talk to me,” I coax, my voice low and soft. “Why won’t I be able to make you come a second time?” C'est des conneries! Absolute bullshit.

“I’m beginning to wonder if it was the setting,” she says, dropping her hands to her lap. “Maybe the place got me all… riled up.”

“I’m not sure I follow.” Not at all.

She lifts her head, those eyes so piercing. “Maybe it was the shock or the thrill of being at a sex club that pushed me over the edge.”

“The edge?” Into the void whispers a voice in my head. “You think you got off because you were at Ardeo?”

“Not to diminish your part in things”—she almost rolls her eyes—“but yeah. Maybe?”

What the fuck?