Page 87 of The Stranger

“Mon dieu.” He presses his forehead to mine. “Primrose, please. I don’t have a condom.”

“I know,” I whisper. And I do it again, the sensation toe-curlingly magnificent. “Just…”

“Let me take you to bed.”

“I’m happy here,” I whisper, loving how desperate he looks and how French he sounds. I want this moment. I want him. I shouldn’t, I ought not to, but I so want to give in.

I know I’m playing with fire, but if we keep it at this—just this—I can tell myself we just fooled around. That I didn’t really have unprotected sex with a man I met at a sex club.

Please, Lord. Just once, I want to feel him inside me.

“Oh, that’s…” I give a shivery sigh as I slide his crown over my swollen clit. Down, down, slowly, deliciously, I swipe him through my wetness.

Maybe I’m just a big ole masochist.

He makes a carnal groan of my name, pressing his mouth to the soft skin of my neck. “I think I’m leaking brain cells.”

I give a soft laugh. “Same, sir. Same.”

“You’re trying your best, aren’t you?” he asks with a pained laugh.

“You’re saying you prefer Mr. Boss Man?”

I don’t know what I’m saying because he’s so tauntingly close and I’m so turned on right now. With the tiniest tilt of my hips, I know I’d feel him inside me.

A sweet percussion strikes up inside at the thought of just that.

This is madness—sheer and utter madness—but I’ve never been more turned on. My mouth has gone dry, and every breath feels too shallow. Every sensation seems enhanced but at the same time, not enough. Every millimeter that separates our bodies is so bloody inconvenient.

“You feel amazing.” He pulls back a touch, staring down the length of his body to the place we meet. My gaze follows, and I see how wet I am, and how the head of his cock shines in the low light.

“I haven’t.” His eyes lift, his gaze sincere. “I don’t, never without condoms.”

I give a soft sigh. I know what he’s telling me. And I know he’s right.

“But that doesn’t mean I don’t ache to be inside you.”

Ache. God, that sound so so right.

We both moan as I swipe him through my wet flesh again. I begin to shake with the terrible, wonderful effort of denying how completely I want him. We’re so close—practically fucking already.

“Maybe…” I wet my lips. “Just.” I press the flat of my hand to his length, my hips seeming to tilt of their own accord.

He meets me halfway with his own whispered excuses. “Just for a second.”

I fall back on my palm as he pushes inside me—just a little—but enough to make me gasp.

“You feel so fucking good.”

At his carnal groan, my body reacts around him. A little more, I tell myself as he swallows my gasp, feasting on it.

“Let me…” He swaps my hand for his, and I widen my thighs as I watch another inch of his ruddy cock disappear inside. Cursing, in French now, he places my fingers to the place our bodies meet. To where, as he undulates, he pushes deeper in tiny, torturous increments.

“Wait… wait.” I flash him a quick smile. My God, what a monstrous… my thoughts draw off as I pulse around his girth. “Just give me a minute.” I swallow. Audibly. “To adjust.”

“You can do it.” He cups my face, and his expression? Let me put it this way: if I wasn’t into this, I think the way he’s looking at me, all soft and sweet, would be enough to make me try very hard. Just for him. “That’s it. Just breathe.”

And I do, because I am so into this.