Luc
I follow the children’s path to the boot room, turning into the small kitchen garden to the kind of sight that makes my feet and my heart stop. Primrose. Something pleasurable twists in my gut at the vision of her bent over one of the raised pots, her thoroughly enticing ass pointed my way.
I quickly come to realize she’s aware of my presence; some shift in her body giving her away. But she doesn’t stand, which means she likes that I’m watching. Parts of me expands at that knowledge. My lungs, my skin, and yes, the obvious.
So I allow myself a moment to appreciate the shapely line of her legs and her luscious curves beneath her thin summer skirt. With a slight movement, her T-shirt suddenly shifts to reveal a golden slice of her back. It feels like a revelation. Her skin there is as velvet, I know.
My cock pulses and mouth curves. Positively Victorian. Since when have I become titillated at the sight of a trim waist and a little skin? Fuck, tonight can’t come quick enough.
It’s all I’ve thought about since I opened my eyes this morning, the low thrum of anticipation intensifying with each and every vision of her in my head.
How I’ll hold her. How I’ll have her. It’s been an inconvenient few hours, to say the least. Painful, even.
I wouldn’t recommend riding a horse through a rocky trail with your dick periodically at half-mast.
I draw a slow breath, but it does nothing useful. If anything, it only sharpens my awareness of her. Fuck, I want to rush at her. But I can wait a few hours more. I’m not a slave to my desires.
I knew she’d come around eventually. Hoped. Prayed. Pretty much made a nuisance of myself until she did. Though the way she’d looked at me this morning as I’d come into the kitchen makes me wish I’d resorted to the jodhpurs long before today.
But at least we’re at this point. Finally! To say I’m relieved is a vast understatement. A better description would be to say I feel a little unhinged.
I begin to move toward her. Like irons filings to a magnet. My boots kick up dust, the crunch of stones beneath the soles plainly audible. But she doesn’t move. She doesn’t acknowledge my presence. And it seems she’s somehow made a masochist out of me because I fucking love that she’s ignoring me.
“What are you doing?” I come to stand behind her, my voice pitched lower than intended, though amusement threads through it.
“Pruning. What were you up to?”
Like she doesn’t know. “What I do best. Watching you.” I’m careful not to touch her as I take the scissors from her hand. But as she straightens, I settle my hands over her hips. “Watching you massacre the rosemary.”
“It’s for a good cause.”
A laugh escapes me, soft against her neck. Beneath my hands, I feel a tiny shift of her body as my fingers press against the delicate points of her hips.
“Sometimes a little rough handling produces excellent results.”
She gives a small, snickering giggle. “Well, I’ll have to bow to your superior knowledge of such things.”
I go still for half a beat, then I smile against her skin. “Careful, Primevère.” My fingers tighten a touch in warning. “I might remind you of that later.”
As I turn her, her eyes track over me; my hair, disordered and a little sweaty, to my shirt, open at my throat. My mouth twitches as her gaze slides away, refusing to drift lower.
Shame. These jodhpurs don’t leave a lot to the imagination in my current state.
“What are you cooking up?” My eyes drop to the rosemary in her hand.
“It’s for Zoe. She’s making focaccia.”
“As long as she’s not chopping the arms off an effigy that looks suspiciously like me.”
“So you do know her?”
“Has she poisoned the bread? I wouldn’t blame her.” I let my gaze travel over Primrose’s face. “Tu es à faire perdre la tête à un homme.” You’re enough to make a man lose his head.
She gives a tiny roll of her eyes. “I do wish you’d stop whispering dirty things to me in French.”
I smile, relieved I can say such things. And glad she doesn’t insist on a translation. I already like her more than I planned. Look but don’t touch. Touch but don’t taste. Taste but don’t get too attached. And so go the rules I keep breaking.
Desire has limits, and an ending. And this should feel reassuring.
But it’s the little things that seem to trouble me.
The ridiculous way my eyes seek her out when I walk into any room.
The warmth I feel in my chest when she laughs.
The inexplicable joy I get from goading her.
I’ll happily be the recipient of her ire—I’ll feed on it, in fact.
Small things individually, but they do mount up, until seems like I spend most of my day thinking of her.
But before long, I’ll walk into rooms where she no longer is. And when I see her, she’ll only be a memory. It’s odd how my body is counting down the hours until tonight while my brain has already begun counting the days we have left.
“Come with me.” I take her hand, intending what, I’m not sure. Though the animal in me is already on his way to a place far less visible.
“The bread—”
“It can wait.”
“What if the children come back out?”
“Then I’d better take you somewhere they can’t find us.”
“Luc, be serious,” she says, though she doesn’t put up much of a fight as she trails along behind me, her fingers in mine.
“I love it when you say my name.” I glance back at her. “My real name, that is.”
“I only ever use your real name, Monsieur.”
Her innocent expression seems to suggest she’s just insulted me. What other names has she been using for me, I wonder? “I will find out,” I purr warningly.
“Try your best. Sir.”
I make a sound between a snort and a laugh as I lead her to the disused landscaper’s shed. It’s perfect for a moment of privacy, out of sight and shaded by a gnarled pomegranate tree. No one will think of looking here for me.
The old clay wall is warm from the afternoon sun, the scent of baked soil and dried wood heavy in the air. As her back meets the wall, a small gasp escapes her. My body responds instantly, anticipation tightening beneath my skin.
I’ve been thinking about her for far too many hours and, now that she’s here, I don’t want to wait any longer.
“You’re far too tempting,” I whisper, as I watch my knuckles chart the side of her throat. Her honey-colored hair falls over the back of my hand in waves.
She swallows but is valiant in her response. “Let the record show that I’m not the one who seems unable to wait until later.”
I brace my forearm beside her head and watch her breath speed up. “I think you’ve kept me waiting long enough, don’t you?” My hand settles at her waist, and I brush my lips over hers.
“I tried not to want you, but you kind of made that impossible.”
“That was the plan.” And my intention right now is to kiss her slowly, thoroughly, as though we have all the time in the world.
Though her plan, it seems, is very different, as her mouth meets mine and fingers rake through my hair, dragging a rasping sound from my throat.
My fingers flex on her hips as my breathing becomes embarrassingly uneven when she sucks my tongue into her mouth.
“Primevère.” I draw away, before this ends quickly and embarrassingly, when she follows—actually follows my mouth. “Now who’s desperate?” I give a satisfied tilt of my lips.
“I’m not.” Her answer is immediate and contradicted by the hand she still has fisted in my shirt.
God, her competitive nature, I adore—
I shut the thought down before it finalizes. Such dangerous territory. Leaning in, I lower my face to her neck, breathing in the scent of her perfume, warm skin, and rosemary.
“It’s okay to admit it,” I murmur, plucking the sprigs from her fingers. “I know I’m irresistible.”
“Big-headed, more like.”
I press my smile to her skin. This is better. Desire I can handle. It’s the rest I need to stop feeding.
“Well, that too.” Taking her hand in mine, I slide it between our bodies. She gives a little purr as I press it over my cock.
“You’re…”
I don’t wait for her to finish as I put my mouth to hers, my kiss hot and hard as she tightens her fingers around me.
“Je veux te baiser.” The words fall quickly. I want to fuck her. “I want you on your knees and your lips wrapped around me. I want to be inside you when you come, to feel your body pulsing around me.”
“You’re doing it again,” she whispers, tightening her fingers around my cock, and making it cock throb. “Whispering dirty things to me in French.”
“I don’t possess the vocabulary for all I want to do.” I make manacles of my fingers over her wrists and pull them above her head. I give them an instructional squeeze. Hold them here.
She looks so fucking good pinned to the wall, captive to my hands. Her eyes, fathoms deep, and her mouth a soft pout, this woman seems to have been designed to drive me wild.
I bring my hand between us, idly turning the sprigs of rosemary between us. “Rosemary and Primrose,” I murmur as I crush the leaves between my fingers. A burst of herby scent fills the air. “Fresh, delicious, and with just a hint of green.”
“Both?” She quirks a brow, though her tone is husky.
Do I like that she’s inexperienced? More than I would ever admit.
Bringing the sprigs to my nose, I inhale. “How would I describe Primrose?” I wonder aloud as I brush the rosemary over her cheek. “Would I compare thee to a summer’s day? But a summer’s day is too predictable for you.”
“Is this your way of calling me a problem? Perspiration begins to bead in her hairline. I’ve never wanted to taste anything more.
“You are bright and beautiful, stubborn and fearless, just like your namesake.”
“Primroses aren’t fearless. They’re boring.”
“They’re deceptive. Innocent at first glance. Demure little things—”
“I’m hardly little,” she scoffs.
“But get close enough, and, oh, their scent.” Breath stutters from her as I bury my nose in her neck. “As for brave.” She moans as I scrape my teeth over her pulse. “They push their way through the frozen earth and dare to bloom before it’s safe.”
“I’d call that foolish.”