Sweet Filthy Boy (19 page)

Immediately, Ansel realizes what he’s said, and ducks his head so I’ll look at him. “Not because I’m married and they aren’t,” he says quickly. His eyes move back and forth, searching mine for understanding. “This isn’t about the annulment; I didn’t want it, either. It wasn’t just that I promised you.”

“Okay.”

“I envy their situation in a different way from what you’re thinking.” Pausing, he seems to wait for my expression to soften before he quietly admits, “I didn’t want to move back to Paris. Not for this job.”

My eyes narrow. “You didn’t?”

“I love the city—it’s the center of my heart—but I didn’t want to return the way I did. Finn loves his hometown; he never wants to leave. Oliver is opening a store in San Diego. I envy how happy they are being exactly where they want to be.”

Too many questions perch on my tongue, fighting to come out. Finally, I ask the same one I asked last night: “Then why did you come back here?”

He watches me, eyes assessing. Finally he says only, “I suppose I felt obligated.”

I assume he’s talking about the obligation of the job he would have been insane to turn down. I can tell even if he hates it that it was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. “Where would you rather be?”

His tongue slips out, wets his lips. “I would at least like to have the
option
to follow my wife when she leaves.”

My heart stutters. I decide to skip over
sloth
and
wrath,
far more interested in pursuing this subject. “You’re married?”

He nods, but his expression isn’t playful. Not even a little. “Yes, I’m married.”

“And where is your wife right now while I’m sitting on your naked lap, wearing this tiny scrap of lingerie?”

“She’s not here,” he whispers conspiratorially.

“Do you make a habit of this?” I ask, wearing a teasing smile. I want to lift the serious cloud that’s descending. “Letting in women while your wife is gone? It’s good you brought her up, since infidelity is next on my list.”

His face drops and
oh shit.
I’ve hit a nerve. I close my eyes, remembering what he told me about his father, how he was never faithful to Ansel’s mother, how the parade of women through the house was finally enough to drive his mother to the States when Ansel was only a teenager.

I start to apologize but his words come out faster than mine. “I
have
been unfaithful.”

An enormous black hole opens up inside me, swallowing my organs in the most painful order: lungs, then heart, and then, when I’m sure I’m suffocating, my stomach drops out.

“Never to my wife,” he says slowly and after a long pause, apparently oblivious to my panic. I close my eyes, dizzy with relief. Still, my heart feels like it returns to my body slightly withered, beating weakly at the realization that he’s more like his father than his mother when it comes to cheating. “I’m trying to do better this time.”

It’s several long seconds before I can speak, but when I do, my words come out reedy, a little breathless. “Well, this certainly tilts the negotiation in my favor.”

“I’m sure it does,” he whispers.

My voice wobbles a little. “I’ll need the details, of course.”

Finally, a tiny, unsure smile pulls at one corner of his mouth. “Of course.” He leans his head back against the couch, watching me with wary eyes. “I met a woman from here,” he says, adding, “or, rather, near here. From Orléans.” He takes a small break, closing his eyes. I can see the way his pulse is fluttering in his throat. Even though his explanation is so factual, so detached,
he
seems amped up.

Is it just that I’m wearing lingerie and he’s completely naked? Or is he worried about my reaction?

I press a hand to his chest. “Tell me,” I whisper, anxiety sending a tight thrill through my veins. “I want to know
everything.”
I do, and I don’t.

Beneath my palm, he relaxes. “I was in law school, and we stayed together even at a distance; she studied fashion here.” He pulls back and watches me before saying, “I can be impulsive with my emotions, I know. After the first couple of months . . . I knew we were more friends than lovers. But I was convinced it would be passionate again when I moved back here. I assumed it was the distance that made it not so exciting for me.” Each sentence is carefully composed. “I was lonely and . . . two times I shared my bed. Minuit still does not know.”

Minuit
. . . I search my limited vocabulary, remembering after a beat that it means “midnight.” I imagine a raved-haired beauty, her hands sliding over his chest the way mine do now, her ass pressed to his thighs the way mine is now. I imagine his cock, hard for her the way it is for me now.

I wonder whether I only temporarily have the luxury of his passion before it cools. I want to stab my jealousy with a sharp tool.

“I felt obligated,” he repeats, and finally he looks at me again. “She waited for me, so I returned. I took this job I hate, but I was wrong. We weren’t happy, even when I was back here.”

“How long were you with her?”

He sighs. “Too long.”

He’s been back here nearly a year, and finished law school just before he came back.
Too long
doesn’t tell me very much.

But it’s time to return to something better than this. The subject is heavy, a weighted lure in my mind, pulling my thoughts under the clear surface of our game to something dreary and somber. It’s not who we are.

We’re married for the summer. Summer marriages don’t get dragged down in heavy stuff. Besides, I’m wearing a devil costume and he’s naked, for crying out loud. How seriously can we really take ourselves right now?

I pretend to make a note of something on the clipboard and then look back up at him. “I think I have all the information I need.”

He relaxes in pieces: his legs beneath me first, then abdomen, shoulders, and finally his expression. I feel something unknot in me when he grins. “So it’s all taken care of, then?”

I snap my fingers, and nod. “I can’t make you come out of it with a promotion, but I don’t think you wanted that anyway.”

“Not if it means I have to stay on much longer,” he agrees with a laugh.

“Tomorrow Capitaux will drop the case and everyone will know it’s because you found the document that clears Régal Biologiques of all wrongdoing.”

He exhales dramatically, wiping his brow. “You’ve saved me.”

“So it’s my turn, then,” I remind him. “And time to claim my payment.” I lean in to suck on his neck. “Hmm, would you like to feel my hand or—”

“Your mouth,” he interrupts.

With an evil smile, I move back, shaking my head. “That wasn’t going to be one of the options.”

He huffs out an impatient breath. Every muscle grows tight and urgent beneath my roaming hands once more and I tease him more by scratching my short nails down his chest.

“Then tell me what my choices are,” he growls.

“My hand, or
your
hand,” I say and press my fingers to his lips to keep him from answering too quickly again. “If you choose my hand, that’s all you’ll get, and you’ll remain tied up. If you choose your hand, of course I’ll untie you . . . but you can also watch me use my hand on myself.”

His eyes widen as if he’s not entirely sure who I am all of a sudden. And, to be honest, I’m not sure, either. I’ve never done this in front of someone before, but the words just bubbled up and out of me.

And I’m positive I know what he’s going to choose.

He leans forward, kisses me once sweetly before answering. “I use my hand, you use yours.”

I’m not sure whether I’m relieved or nervous as I reach behind him and pull his hands free of the tie around his wrists. Faster than I expected, he grabs me by the hips and jerks me forward, sliding the wet fabric of my underwear over his cock, grinding up into me with a low groan. Without thinking, I move with him, rocking on top and feeling the delicious press of the hard line of him to my clit. I hadn’t realized how turned on I’d been being so close to him for so long, just listening to him, playing with him, but I can tell I’m soaked.

And I
want
him. I want the thick slide of him into me, the way my body is so full of his it’s the only thing I can imagine ever feeling again. I want to hear his voice, encouraging and urgent in my ear, falling away into a broken mix of English and French, and—finally—the hoarse, unintelligible sounds of his pleasure.

But I’m in charge tonight for better or worse, and no direct report of Satan’s would ever let a man change her plan, no matter how warm his skin, no matter how filthy he sounds when he says, “I can feel your need for me soaked through the silk.”

Pushing off his lap, I pull the red fabric down my legs, kicking it onto his lap. He pulls it to his face, watching me with hooded eyes as I sit on the low coffee table. I watch as he circles his cock with his fist, and strokes up once, slowly.

It feels so depraved doing this, but I’m surprised that it doesn’t feel
weird
. I’ve never seen anything as sexy as watching Ansel touch himself. I pretend he’s alone, thinking of me. I pretend
I’m
alone, thinking of
him
. And, like this, my fingers slide over my skin and he begins to pull himself harder, faster, his breath coming out in tiny grunts.

“Show me,” he whispers. “How do you fuck yourself when I’m at work, thinking of you?”

I lie back, turning my head so I can still watch him and start to use both hands. He wants to see me let go. It’s what this is about, after all: the costumes, the pretend. It’s letting ourselves do anything we want. I slide two fingers inside, and use the other hand to circle outside . . . my pulse trips and races when he groans, speeding up and hoarsely telling me he wants to see me come.

It’s a poor approximation of his fingers, and an even worse approximation of his cock, but with his eyes on me and the brushing rhythm of his fist tugging at his length, I feel the rush of blood to my thighs and the heavy ache between my legs build, and build until I’m arching off the table and coming with a sharp cry. With a relieved moan, he lets go after me. I push up on an elbow, watching as he spills onto his hand and stomach.

In a blur, Ansel is on his feet and pulls me down onto the floor, falling on top of me and still hard enough that he can push inside with a steady, hard thrust. He looms above, blocking out even the tiny bit of light from the few candles still burning, and reaches up to pull the strap of my negligee off my shoulder, baring one of my breasts.

“Did you come just now?” he whispers into my skin.

I nod. My pulse was barely slipping back to normal, but the feel of him stretching me even now brings all of my sensation back to the surface. I can feel his orgasm still wet on his stomach pressed to mine, on the hand he has curled around my hip. But feeling him begin to harden in me again so soon gives me a dizzying sense of power.

“If
I
had been Satan tonight . . .” he begins and then stops, his breath choppy so close to my ear.

The air between us seems to grow completely still.

“What, Ansel?”

His lips find my ear, my neck, and suck gently before he asks, “Have you ever been unfaithful?”

“No.” Sliding my hands up his back, I whisper, “But I did once shoot a man in Reno just to watch him die.”

He laughs and I feel my body squeezing his as he lengthens slightly, getting even harder.

I pull back slightly to look up at him. “The idea of marrying a killer turns you on? Something is wrong with you.”

“I love that you make me laugh,” he corrects. “
That
turns me on. Also, your body, and what you did tonight.”

He cups my other breast through the negligee, thumb passing back and forth over the peak. He is strong enough to break me in half, but the way he caresses my skin, it’s as if I’m too valuable to risk hurting.

I thought I might be the only one who noticed the new, fascinating sway to my hips, the heaviness of my breasts, but I’m not. Ansel lingers at my breasts, playing and pushing at them. French cuisine has been good for my body . . . though maybe I’m indulging a little more than I should. It doesn’t matter; I love the feel of my curves. Now I just need to find the Frenchwoman’s secret for enjoying it and still looking like she could fit inside a straw.

“You’re taking care of your body.” He hums into my chest, tongue sliding over my collarbone. “You know your husband wants more flesh on you. I like your hips fuller. I like to be able to squeeze your ass in my hands, feel your breasts move over my face when you’re fucking me.”

How does he do this? His hair falls over one eye and he looks almost boyish, but his words are coarse on my skin. His breath, his fingertips, they brush across my ribs, the bottom swell of my breast, my nipple.

He begins to rock inside me, slowly, lips moving across my neck and up to my ear. My body responds, tensing and thrilled, waiting for the pleasure I know will make me explode. Like I’m made of a thousand tiny beating wings.

“Tonight,
Cerise
. . . thank you for wanting to save
me
.” He puts a tiny inflection on the last word.

It takes a beat for my brain to process the inflection but then adrenaline courses through me so fast my fingertips flush, my pulse thunders.

Come to France for the summer.

He knew his life didn’t have space for this but it didn’t matter. He was trying to save me first.

Chapter
SIXTEEN

S
OMEWHERE IN MY
subconscious I sense Ansel crawling on the bed and hovering over me beneath a sun-warmed blanket cave. He wakes me up with the pressure of his stare.

I stretch, frowning up at his neatly pressed dress shirt, white with small purple geometric shapes.

“You’re going in to work?” I ask, my voice still thick with sleep. “Wait,” I add, once consciousness forces its way to the surface. “It’s Tuesday. Of course you’re going in to work.”

He kisses my nose, running a warm palm from my shoulder, down over my breast, to my waist. “I only have a few weeks left of this craziness,” he says.

“Me, too,” I say, laughing. And then my smile drops like a hammer out of the sky and I pout. “Ugh. Why did I even say that? Now I want to eat my feelings in the form of an enormous chocolate croissant.”

“Croissant,” he repeats, kissing me before whispering, “Better this time,
Cerise
. But we call it
pain au chocolat
.”

He touches my lip with his index finger. I smile and bite his fingertip. I don’t want him to be frustrated with my impending departure, either. We’re both so much happier when we’re pretending it doesn’t exist.

He pulls his hand back and runs it over my breast again. “I’m pretty sure Capitaux will settle eventually.”

“I wish you didn’t have to go.”

“Me, too.” He kisses me, so softly, so earnestly that something swells painfully inside my chest. It can’t just be my heart because it sucks the air from my body, too. It can’t be only my lungs because it causes my pulse to race. It’s as if Ansel has taken up residence inside my rib cage, making
everything go haywire.

“Do you have very important plans for an adventure today?” he asks.

I shake my head.

“Then today you practice speaking French,” he says, resolute.

“With who?”

“With Madame Allard downstairs. She loves you and thinks we’re going to have a baby soon.”

My eyes go wide and I press both hands to my stomach. “I have
not
gained that much weight.” I look down at my hands and ask, “Have I?”

He laughs, and bends to kiss me. “You don’t look very different from when you arrived. Tell me how you say ‘I’m not pregnant’
en français
. You can go downstairs and tell her yourself.”

I close my eyes, thinking. “
Je ne
. . .
suis pas
. . . uh”—I look up at him—“pregnant.”

“Enceinte,”
he says. His eyes move over my body, and I stretch under his gaze, wondering what the chances are that he will take off his clothes and make love to me before he goes to work.

He pushes away, but I can see the tight bunching of his dress pants where he’s hard beneath his zipper.

I palm him, arching my back. “Ten minutes.”

I mean it to sound playful, but his eyes grow a little pained. “I can’t.”

“I know.”

“I’m so sorry, Mia.” His eyes search mine. “I knew I would be busy, what was I thinking? But you’re here and I’m
wild
for you. How can I regret it?”

“Stop,” I tell him, curling my hand around the shape of him. “It’s the best decision I made in a long time.” His eyes flutter closed when I say this, and he pushes into my palm before lowering himself over my naked body.

“It is strange, isn’t it?” he asks quietly, pressing his face to my neck. “But it isn’t fake. It’s never really been pretend.”

In a wild burst of color, images from the past several weeks pop through my vision, each one bringing such a surge of nostalgia, so much
emotion
. The disorienting first two weeks with him gone nearly every waking minute. The awkwardness of the first time we made love after we arrived. The renewed heat between us the night I dressed up as his maid. I would no more be able to serve Ansel with an annulment than I would be able to swim all the way home in a few weeks.

“What are we going to do?” I ask, my voice disappearing on the last word.

My sunshine Ansel returns as he pulls back with a smile, as if he knows only one of us at a time is allowed to consider the darker side to our impulsive—and wonderful—adventure.

“We’re going to have a lot of sex when I get home from work.” This time, when he pushes away, I can tell he’s determined to get moving. “Let me see the naughty side again.”

The comforter flaps over me with a burst of air, and when it settles, he’s gone, and all I hear is the heavy click of the front door.

IT TAKES A
while for Madame Allard to get around to asking me whether we’re having a baby—she’s determined to cycle through her thoughts on the new puppy in the building and the fresh grapes at the corner market—and then even longer for me to convince her that we are not. Her joy over my simple sentence,
“Madame, je ne suis pas
enceinte,”
is enough to make me want to try to order lunch in French.

But the far less approachable grouchy waiter with the wild eyebrows at the corner brasserie makes me reconsider, and instead I order my favorite—
soupe à l’oignon
—in my standard apology-glazed English.

I wonder how many of the people in Ansel’s life assume that I came back here with him because I got pregnant. Even though he was gone for only three weeks, who knows what the people in his life assume? And then I wonder: Has he told his mother? His father?

Why does the idea of being pregnant right now make me laugh, and then make me feel a tiny bit tingly inside?
Enceinte
is such a gorgeous word. Even more gorgeous is the idea of being
full
—full of him, and the future, and this thing building between us. Even if a baby isn’t growing inside me, genuine emotion is.

So is a glowing hope. Immediately, my stomach drops.

Impulsively, I pull out my phone, texting him,
Do your parents know you’re married?

How has it never occurred to me to ask him this yet?

He doesn’t answer while I eat, and it isn’t until nearly an hour has passed and I’m a mile away from the apartment, wandering aimlessly through curving alleys, when my phone buzzes in my bag.

My mother knows, not my father.
And then:
Does this bother you?

Knowing he’s at work and I may only have his attention for a second, I type quickly:
No. My parents don’t know. I just realized how little we’ve really talked about it.

We’ll talk about it later, but not tonight.

I stare at my phone for a beat. That’s certainly cryptic.
Why not tonight?

Because tonight you are naughty, not nice.

I’m typing my reply—basically
hell yes
and
get home as soon as you can
—when my phone buzzes with another incoming message . . . from Harlow.

I’m in Canada.

My eyes widen as I search for any other explanation than the one my brain immediately latches on to. Harlow has no family in Canada, no business in Canada. I type my question so fast I have to correct typos seven times in five words:
Are you there banging Finn???

She doesn’t answer immediately, and without thinking, I text Ansel for confirmation.

Not Lola.

In fact, it feels natural to text Ansel first . . .
holy crap
we have mutual people, a shared community now. My fingers shake as I type:
Did Harlow fly up to Canada to visit Finn this weekend?!

Ansel replies a few minutes later,
They must have texted us at the same time. Apparently she arrived wearing nothing but her trench coat.

I nod as I type my reply:
That sounds like Harlow. How did she get through security without having to take that of
f
?

No idea,
he says.
But they’d better not be trying to steal our costume game.

My blood simmers deliciously in anticipation.
What time will you be home?

I’m here with the dragon until around 21:00.

Nine o’clock?
Immediately I deflate, typing
OK
before slipping my phone back into my bag. But then, a thought occurs to me: He wanted me to be naughty? I’ll give him naughty.

LATELY, ANSEL HAS
been texting me around dinnertime—when he’s working and I’m home. The routine has only been going on maybe the past four days when our schedules land like this, but somehow I know to expect it around seven, when he takes his evening break.

I’m ready, in the bedroom, when my phone buzzes on the comforter beside me.

Don’t forget what I want tonight. Eat dinner. I will keep you up.

With shaking hands, I press his name to call him, and wait while it rings once . . . twice . . .

“
Â
llo?”
he answers, and then corrects to English. “Mia? Is everything all right?”

“Professor Guillaume?” I ask in a high, hesitant voice. “Is it an okay time to call? I know it isn’t your office hour . . .”

Silence greets me across the line and after several long beats, he clears his throat, quietly. “Actually, Mia,” he says, voice different now—not him, but someone stern and irritated at the interruption, “I was in the middle of something. What is it?”

My hand slides down my torso, over my navel and lower, between my spread legs. “I had some questions about what you were teaching me, but I can call back if there is a better time.”

I need to hear his voice, to get lost in it to find the bravery to do this when he’s not expecting it. When he may be sitting across the table from someone.

I can almost imagine the way he leans in, pressing the phone flush to his ear and listening carefully for every sound on the other end of the line. “No, I’m here now. Out with it.”

My hand slides up and back, fingers pressing to my skin. I pretend it’s his hand, and he’s hovering over me, watching every expression as it passes over my face. “Earlier today in class,” I start, my breath catching when I hear him exhale forcefully. I search my memory for some rudimentary law terms from my poli sci class two years ago. “When you were talking about judicial politics?”

“Yes?” he whispers, and now I know he must be alone in his office. His voice has gone hoarse, goading, deep enough that if he were here I can just imagine the way the sunshine would melt from his eyes and he would pretend to be hard and calculating.

“I don’t think I’d ever been more wrapped up in a lecture before.” I hold my phone between my ear and hunched shoulder, sliding my other hand up and over my breast. My breasts . . . Ansel loves them in a way no one ever has before. I always loved being able to move around them easily. But under his touch, I realize just how sensitive they are, how responsive. “I’ve never enjoyed a class as much as yours.”

“No?”

“And I couldn’t stop thinking . . .” I say, pausing for effect but also because I can hear him breathing and I want to dive into the slow, deep cadence. I feel something inside me ignite with
want
. “I was thinking what it would be like if you would meet with me outside of school.”

It’s several tight, pounding heartbeats before he answers. “You know I can’t do that, Miss Holland.”

“Can’t because of the rules? Or because you don’t want to?” My fingers are moving faster now, sliding easily over skin that has grown slick with the sound of his voice, the sound of his breath through the line. I can imagine him sitting behind a desk, his hand clutching himself through his zipper. Even the thought makes me gasp.

“Because of the rules.” His voice drops to barely a whisper. “Also, I
can’t
want to. You’re my student.”

Without meaning to, I moan quietly, because he
does
want it. He wants
me,
even when he’s drowning at work and miles away.

How would it feel to really be his student, or to be one of the girls on the métro, watching him,
wanting
him? What if he really were my teacher, and every day I had to sit, and listen to his quiet, deep voice, unable to move forward, catch his eye, run my hands up his chest and into his thick hair?

“Mia, you’re not doing anything . . . inappropriate right now, are you?” he asks, stern voice back in place. It’s the first time I can’t see his face when we’re playing like this, but already I know him well enough to know he’s pretending. His voice is never stern with me, even when he’s upset. He’s always even, always steady.

My back arches off the mattress, sensation pooling and warming in my thighs, low in my belly. “You want to hear me?” I ask. “Do you like to imagine me doing this here in your bed?”

“You’re
in my bed
?” he hisses, sounding irate. “Mia!
Are you touching yoursel
f
?
”

The thrill of the game spins through me, making me dizzy and nearly high. I remember the way he looked over me this morning, conflicted, wanting to take me before he left for work. I remember how his mouth felt on my neck when he climbed into bed last night, how he pulls me against his chest, spooning me every night. And then, when I barely whisper, “Oh, oh,
God
,” I hear his rumbling groan on the other end and completely fall to pieces under my own hand, pretending it’s his, knowing how much better it will feel when it really
is
his, later.

And he can imagine me now, because he’s seen me do this.

My legs are shaking and I’m crying out into the phone, riding through the wave of heat, of slick pleasure sliding across my skin. I say his name, some other things I’m not sure are even coherent but just knowing he’s listening, and it’s
all
he can do—he can’t touch or see or feel—prolongs my release until I’m spent and gasping, my hand sliding to my hip and then down to the mattress beside me.

I smile into the phone, drowsy and satisfied . . . for now.

“Mia.”

Blinking, I swallow and whisper, “Oh, God. I can’t believe I did that. I’m so sor—”