Page 127 of The Stranger
“How fascinating. She does take her cake eating seriously.” That shouldn’t have sounded provocative.
Three days. He’s waged his campaign for three days, but not once has he touched me. I’m beginning to wonder if that’s the genius part of his plan. Because, if he had, I might’ve taken the high ground and reminded him of my decision.
Or I might’ve caved and folded myself around him like a second skin.
Instead, when he looks at me, or when he takes the chair opposite instead of beside me, when he stands so close that I expect his arm to brush mine, my skin prickles and my mind goes a little haywire. The absence of his touch has become a longing. And he knows it. Arsehole.
Sylvie’s squeal pulls me from my thoughts as her brother tips her from a pink inflatable unicorn.
I leave their father to sort that out as I remember the paperback Zoe loaned me. Digging it from the pool bag, I flick to the first page. I find myself reading the first couple of paragraphs at least three times, and they still don’t sink in. Mainly because I can feel his eyes on me.
“Can I help you?” I snark, looking up.
“In which capacity?”
“Dream on,” I mutter, looking down again. From behind the dark lenses, I watch how he leans back on his palms, his biceps flexing and the ladder of his abs tautening as though for my explicit entertainment.
“The temperature really is beautiful,” he purrs, flicking water upwards from his toes. “Are you sure you wouldn’t like to join us?”
“I’m reading,” I retort with just a hint of irritation.
He tips back his head, gaze on the blue, cloudless sky. “You’re very good at resisting the things you want.”
“What I want is to read my book,” I snipe, somehow knocking the book from my lap.
From the other side of the pool, M. LDH is unrepentant, his gaze sliding over me like a lover’s touch. Like his touch. And because that’s not provocative enough, he widens those strong thighs as though in invitation.
Subtlety is not his strong point and composure isn’t exactly mine as I narrow my gaze his way, though the effect is wasted thanks to my sunglasses.
I make a show of holding the book out as I open it, flexing the spine with a little more force than necessary. Placing it back on my lap, I lower my head. I keep my eyes glued to the page despite seeing nothing on the page thanks to the image of how his shorts bunch in one particular place. What that bunching contains and how heavenly it felt to be full of him.
“Is it a good book?”
“Yes.” My answer sounds long-suffering even if my heartbeat is a little wild.
“It’s interesting?”
“Very.”
“You know what’s interesting to me? How you’re reading it upside down.”
“I—” My head jerks up, then down. Dammit, he’s right. My brain begins to flick through a ream of excuses as to why. Nada. I’ve got nothing. “Apologies to everyone and everything I’ve previously called the worst,” I mutter, slapping to book closed. “Because you are at the top of that pile.”
“I think I might’ve heard you say something like that before,” he answers casually. “Do you remember my reply?”
I do remember and frantically glance around, worried he might be about to repeat it, like a call and response.
You’re the worst.
Except when you’re riding my face.
“But you’ve also paid me the best kinds of compliments.” He begins to swirl his feet in the enticing water, the action reminding me of a cat flicking its tail as it prepares to pounce. “When you’re barely verbal and begging for me to—”
“That’s—” A rookie nanny error, it turns out. I shouldn’t be arguing with him. I should be paying attention to his progeny because, when children are quiet, alarm bells should ring somewhere. “Sylvie!” I announce as her wet head pops up in front of me. “What are you doing?” I ask, my spidey senses telling me I should work out where her brother is.
“It is very hot today. Are you sure you will not swim?”
Why did that sound like a threat? I’m momentarily distracted as, at the far side of the pool, Luc stands, grabs his towel, and begins to dry himself off. Lucky towel, I think as the snowy white cotton rubs over his pecs.
