Sweet Filthy Boy (13 page)

Chapter
ELEVEN

I
GET HOME, RELIEVED
that Ansel isn’t here yet. Dropping a bag of takeout on the kitchen counter, I move to the bedroom and pull the costume from the garment bag. When I hold it up in front of me, I feel the first pang of uncertainty. The saleswoman measured my bust, my waist, and my hips so she could calculate my size. But the tiny thing in my hands doesn’t look like it will fit.

In fact, it
does
fit, but it doesn’t look any bigger once it’s on. The bodice and skirt are pink satin, overlaid with delicate black lace. The top pushes my breasts together and up, giving me cleavage I don’t think I’ve ever had before. The skirt flares out¸ ending many inches above my knees. When I bend over, the black ruffle panties are supposed to show. I tie the tiny apron, fix the little cap on my head, and pull on the black thigh-highs, straightening the pink bows at my knees. Once I slip on the spiked heels and hold my feather duster, I feel both sexy and ridiculous, if the combination is even possible. My mind seesaws between the two. It’s not that I don’t look good in the costume, it’s that I can’t honestly imagine what Ansel will think when he comes home to this.

But it isn’t enough for me to just dress up. Costumes alone do not a show make. I need a plot, a story to tell. I sense that we need to get lost in another reality tonight, one where he doesn’t have the stress of his job looming over his daylight hours, and one where I don’t feel like he offered an adventure to a girl who left her spark back in the States.

I could be the good maid who has done her job perfectly and deserves reward. The idea of Ansel thanking me, rewarding me, makes my skin hum with a flush. The problem is Ansel’s flat is spotless. There’s nothing I can do to make it look better, and he won’t pick up on what role he’s supposed to play.

That means I need to get in trouble.

I look around, wondering what I can mess up, what he’ll immediately notice. I don’t want to leave food on the counter in case this plan is successful and we end up in bed all night. My eyes move across the apartment and stop at the wall of windows, pinned there.

Even with only the light of the streetlamps coming through the glass, I can see how it gleams, spotless.

I know he’ll be here any second. I hear the grind of the elevator, the metal clanking of the doors closing. I close my eyes and press both palms flat to the window, smearing. When I pull back, two long smudges stay behind.

His key fits into the lock, creaking as it turns. The door opens with the quiet skid of wood on wood, and I move to the entryway, back straight, hands clasped around the feather duster in front of me.

Ansel drops his keys on the table, places his helmet beneath it, and then looks up, eyes going wide.

“Wow. Hello.” He tightens his grip on two envelopes in his hand.

“Welcome home, Mr. Guillaume,” I say, voice breaking on his name. I’m giving myself five minutes. If he doesn’t seem to want to play, it won’t be the end of the world.

It won’t.

His eyes first move up to the tiny, frilled cap pinned in my hair and then down, tripping as they always do over my lips before sliding down my neck, to my breasts, my waist, my hips, my thighs. He eyes my shoes, lips parting.

“I thought you might want to look over the house before I leave for the night,” I say, stronger now. I’m bolstered by the flush in his cheeks, the heat in his green eyes when he looks back at my face.

“The house looks good,” he says, voice nearly inaudible from the rasp of it. He hasn’t even looked away from me to the room beyond, so at least I know so far he’s playing along.

I step aside, curling my hands into fists so my fingers don’t shake when the real game begins. “Feel free to check everything.”

My heart is beating so hard I swear I can feel my neck move. His gaze instinctively moves past me to the window just behind, his brow drawing together.

“Mia?”

I move to his side, biting back my excited grin. “Yes, Mr. Guillaume?”

“Did you . . .” He looks at me, searching, and then points to the window, using the envelopes in his hand. He’s embarrassed I’ve discovered this compulsion. He’s trying to understand what’s going on, and the seconds tick by, painfully slow.

It’s a game. Play. Play.

“Did I miss a spot?” I ask.

His eyes narrow, head jerking back slightly when he understands, and the nervous tickle in my stomach turns into a lurching roll. I have no idea if I’ve made an enormous mistake by trying to do this. I must look like a lunatic.

But then I remember Ansel in the hall in his boxers, flirting. I remember his voice hot in my ear, sneaking up on me, and Finn sneaking up on
him,
nearly pulling his pants around his ankles. I remember what Finn told me about Bronies and serendipity. I know that at his core, beyond the stress of work, Ansel is game for some fun.

Shit. I just hope he’s game for
this
. I don’t want to be wrong. Wrong will send me back to the dark ages of awkward silence.

He turns slowly, wearing one of his easy smiles I haven’t seen in days. He looks me over again, from the top of my head to my tiny, dangerous heels. His gaze is tangible, a brush of heat across my skin. “Is this what you need?” he whispers.

After a beat, I nod. “I think so.”

A cacophony of horns blares up from the street below and Ansel waits until the flat is silent again before he speaks.

“Oh yes,” he says slowly. “You missed a spot.”

I pull my brows together in mock concern, my mouth forming a soft, round O.

With a dramatic scowl he turns, stomping to the kitchen and pulling out an unlabeled bottle. I can smell the vinegar, and wonder whether he has his own glass-cleaning recipe. His fingers brush mine when he hands me the bottle. “You may fix it before you leave.”

I feel my shoulders straighten confidently as he follows me to the window, watching as I spray a cloud over the handprints. There’s a heavy buzz in my veins, a sense of power I hadn’t expected. He’s doing what I want him to do, and though he’s handing me a cloth to wipe the window clean, it’s because I’ve orchestrated it. He’s just playing along.

“Go over it once again. Leave no streaks.”

When I’m finished, it gleams, spotless, and behind me he exhales slowly. “An apology seems appropriate, no?”

When I turn to face him, he looks so sincerely displeased that my pulse trips in my throat—hot and thrilled—and I blurt, “I’m sorry. I—”

He reaches up, eyes twinkling as his thumb strokes across my bottom lip to calm me. “Good.” Blinking toward the kitchen, he inhales slowly, smelling the roasted chicken, then asks, “Have you made dinner?”

“I ordered—” I pause, blinking. “Yes. I cooked you
dinner.”

“I’d like some now.” With a tiny smile, he turns and walks across the room to the dining table, sitting down and leaning back in the chair. I hear the rip of paper as he opens the mail he’d been holding and a long, quiet exhale as he places it on the table beside him. He doesn’t even turn around to look at me.

Holy shit is he good at this.

I move to the kitchen, pulling food from the takeout container and arranging it as neatly as I can on a plate for him between stolen glances in his direction. He’s still waiting and reading his mail, patiently, completely in character while he waits for me—
his maid
—to bring him his dinner. So far, so good. Spotting a bottle of wine on the counter, I pull out the cork and pour him a glass. The red shines decadently, climbing up the sides as it sways in my hand. I pick up the plate and carry his dinner out to him, setting it down with a quiet
thunk
.

“Thank you,” he says.

“You’re welcome.”

I hover for a beat, staring down at the letter I think he’s left for me to see. It sits, faceup, on the table and the first thing my gaze snags on is his name at the top, and then the long list of checkmarks beneath the
Negatif
column for every sexually transmitted disease we were tested for.

And then I see the unopened envelope beside his, addressed to me.

“Is this my paycheck?” I ask him. I wait until he nods before sliding it off the table. Opening it quickly, I scan the letter and smile. Good to go.

He doesn’t ask what mine says, and I don’t bother to tell him. Instead, I stand to the side and just behind him, my heart jackhammering in my chest as I watch him dig into his dinner. He doesn’t ask if I’ve eaten, doesn’t offer anything to me.

But there’s something about playing this game, a mild domination role for him, that makes my stomach flutter, my skin hum with warmth. I like to watch him eat. He curls over his plate and his shoulders flex, muscles in his back defined and visible through his light purple dress shirt.

What will we do when he’s done? Will we continue to play? Or will he drop the act, pull me to the bedroom, and touch me? I want both options—I especially want him now that I know I’ll feel every inch of his skin—but I want to keep playing even more.

He seems to drink his wine quickly, washing down every bite with long gulps. At first, I wonder if he’s nervous and just hiding it well. But when he puts his glass down on the table and gestures for me to refill it, it occurs to me that he’s simply wondering how far I’ll go serving him.

When I bring the bottle out and refill his glass, he says only a quiet
“Merci,”
and then returns to his food.

The silence is unnerving, and it
has
to be intentional. Ansel may be a workaholic, but when he’s home the flat is not ever quiet. He sings, he chatters, he makes everything into a drum with his fingers. I realize I’m right—it
is
intentional—when he swallows a bite and says, “Talk to me. Tell me something while I eat.”

He’s testing me again, but unlike refilling his wine, he knows this one is more of a challenge.

“I had a nice day on the job,” I tell him. He hums as he chews, looking over his shoulder at me. It’s the first time I catch a glimpse of hesitation in his eyes, as if he wants me to be able to tell him everything I did today, and truthfully, but can’t while we play.

“Cleaned for a while over near the Orsay . . . then near the Madeleine,” I answer with a smile, enjoying our code. He returns to his food, and his silence.

I sense that I’m meant to keep talking, but I have no idea what to say. Finally, I whisper, “The envelope . . . my paycheck looks good.”

He pauses for a moment, but it’s long enough for me to notice the way his breath catches. My pulse picks up in my throat when he carefully wipes his mouth and puts his napkin down beside his plate, and I can feel it along the length of my arms, deep down in my belly. He pushes back from the table, but doesn’t stand. “Good.”

I reach for his empty plate but he stops me with his hand on my arm. “If you’re to remain my maid, you should know I’ll never overlook the windows.”

I blink, trying to unscramble this code. He licks his lips, waiting for me to say something.

“I understand.”

A tiny, playful smile teases at the corner of his mouth. “Do you?”

Closing my eyes, I admit, “No.”

I feel his fingertip run up the inside of my leg, from my knee to the middle of my thigh. Every sensation is as sharp as a knife.

“Then let me help you understand,” he whispers. “I like that you fixed your mistake. I like that you served me dinner. I like that you wore your uniform.”

I like that you wanted to play,
he means, and he says it with his tongue wetting his lips and his eyes raking over my body.
I’ll understand next time,
he’s saying.

“Oh.” I exhale, opening my eyes. “I may not forget the window every night. Maybe some nights I’ll forget other things.”

His smile appears and is gone as soon as he can control it. “That’s okay. But uniforms, in general, are appreciated.”

Something inside my chest unknots, as if seeing this confirmation that he understands this about me. Ansel is comfortable in his skin, a portrait of ease. Unless dancing, I’ve never been that girl. But he makes me feel safe exploring all the ways I can wrestle my way out of my own head.

“Did serving me dinner make you wet?”

With this blunt question, my eyes fly to his and my heart takes off in a frantic sprint. “What?”

“Did serving. Me dinner. Make you
wet
.”

“I . . . think so.”

“I don’t believe you.” He smiles, but it has a deliciously sinister curve to it. “Show me.”

I reach down, pushing my shaking hand into my underwear. I
am
wet. Embarrassingly, wantonly so. Without thinking, I stroke myself while he watches, eyes growing darker.

“Feed it to me.”

The words burst something open inside me and I moan, pulling my hand free. He watches its path from between my legs to just in front of his mouth, the slickness visible in the dim light.

I paint his lips until he parts them and I press two fingers inside. His tongue is warm and curls around my fingers; it’s torture—I want to feel his mouth between my legs now—and he knows it. He holds me by the wrist so I can’t pull away as he sucks my fingertip, licking it like he would my clit, teasing me until my entire body aches. It’s the kind of ache that comes with pleasure on its heels, promising more.

“Again.”

I whimper a little, not wanting to feel the pressure of my hand there again without relief. I don’t remember the last time I’ve wanted sex so intensely. If possible, I’m even more soaked. He lets me glide my fingers back and forth longer this time, long enough that I can feel my orgasm in the distance, know how much my body wants to let go.

“Stop,” he says sharply, this time reaching for my arm and pulling my hand out. He sucks each finger in turn, eyes fixed to mine. “Climb on the table.”

I move around him, pushing his plate far out of the way and lifting my butt onto the dining table so I’m sitting in front of him, his thighs bracketing mine.

“Lie back,” he tells me.

I do as he says, exhaling a shaky breath when his hands run up my legs and back down again, before taking off my sleek, black, sky-high heels. He rests my feet on his thighs and leans forward, kissing the inside of my knee.