Sweet Filthy Boy (17 page)

Even though I’m in heels and he’s inches above me, I only have to lift my chin and he’s there, the tip of his nose brushing over mine.

“I don’t usually do this,” I say, lost in the idea of a one-night stand. Of letting this sexy stranger do whatever he wants to me. “I hardly kiss on the first date, I never—” I close my eyes and swallow, opening them again to find him smiling down at me.

“I know.” His grin says,
Except that time you married me in Las Vegas.

Except
that
.

He presses a thigh between my legs and I can feel how hard he is already. I relish the small shifts of his hips as he rocks against me.

“Want you,” he mumbles, kissing me, chaste and soft. He pulls back, licks his lips, and moves forward again, moaning softly into my mouth. “Can I?”

“Now?”
My heart takes off, pounding so hard beneath my breastbone that I swear I can feel my chest move from the force of it.

He nods into the kiss. “Here. It’s getting busy,” he says, motioning back toward the restaurant. “We’d have to be quick.”

It feels like someone lights a match inside my chest and I wrap my fingers into the fabric of his shirt, pulling us both back into the empty bathroom. He follows without a word, kissing me until the door shuts behind us and the lock clicks into place.

I’m suddenly overheated, oversensitive. I can feel every inch of clothing that separates us. His hands grip my face, tongue slipping against mine, and he tastes so good, I’m almost light-headed.

The room is dark, lit overhead by another strip of neon pink. It’s so easy to pretend in here, lost in light that makes everything look like make-believe, surrounded by sounds on the other side of the door. I feel the beat of the music push up through the floor and into my feet, and it’s only this that reminds me there are other people on this planet beyond our kisses, our frantic hands as we try to get closer, push clothes out of the way.

My dress comes up, his shirt pulled from the waist of his pants so I can scratch my nails over his stomach. I gasp as cool air finds my skin, where my panties are damp between my legs. He moves a palm down over my navel, fingers slipping just beneath the skimpy lace waistband until he’s cupping me, dragging his fingers between and over, everywhere but the place I want him.

“Want to taste this,” he says.

I rock against his hand, crying out at the way the tip of his fingers tease in and out of me, gathering wetness, moving back and forth over my clit.

Picking me up, he walks us to the counter, setting me down before he kneels between my parted legs. I watch as he leans forward, looking up at me through his lashes while he reaches out, pulls my panties to the side, and flicks the tip of his tongue over me.

“Oh,”
I cry out, too loud and breathing so heavy I fear I might actually pass out. On instinct my hand moves to the back of his head, holding him to me and
God
it’s so dirty to see him like this, head down and washed in neon while he licks me out, moans against me.

I try to stay still, not to rock my hips or be demanding, but every nerve in my body is focused on his tongue as it drags over my clit.

“Fingers,” I gasp.

He swears, two fingers sliding deep, his tongue moving in practiced movements, tiny flicks alternated with long, slow licks.

“Oh God . . .” I say, on the edge of something that starts in my stomach, slips up along my spine. I twist my hands in his hair, hips rocking against him as it grows stronger. I look down and watch, nearly losing my breath when I see his hand down the front of his pants, his arm jerking in a blur of movement.

“Come up here,” I say, breathless. “Please.” I’m so close—
so
close—but I want us to come together.

“God yes,” he says, and stands, pushing his pants down his hips.

His hair is a mess and color blooms across his cheekbones and down his neck. I feel the head of his cock as he slides it over me and I’m so wet that with just the smallest step forward he starts to slip inside.

With a gasp, he tucks his head into my neck, takes deep, steadying breaths. “I need a second,” he says, and holds my hips still.
“S’il te plaît.”

When he straightens again, he reaches a hand over my shoulder, bracing himself against the mirror.

“You feel too good,” he explains, pulling out slowly before pushing in again. “So fucking good.”

He builds a rhythm, hips rocking against mine, the sound of his belt clanking against the counter as he fucks me. I wrap my legs around his waist and he reaches up, holds my face in one hand before pushing his thumb between my lips. I can taste myself on his fingers, on his mouth, but he can’t seem to focus long enough to kiss me.

“I want to watch you come,” he whispers, eyes moving across my face. He pulls his thumb back and paints a wet line across my lower lip. “I want to feel you squeezing me and I want to eat your greedy little noises.”

I gasp, wrapping my fists around the hem of his shirt, pulling him harder into me.

“Say what
you
want,” he growls.

“I want it rougher.”

“Make it dirty,” he says, licking my mouth. “You can pretend you never have to see me again. What is your most shameful thought?”

My gaze drops to his mouth as I tell him, “I want someone to hear us fucking.”

His pupils dilate, reflecting the neon back to me, and he grips my thighs tightly before he begins slamming hard and slick into me, grunting roughly every time his hips press to my inner thighs.

Someone knocks on the door and the timing is perfect. It’s locked, but if they walked inside they would hear the slapping of his skin on mine, see my legs on either side of Ansel’s hips, my dress pushed up my body while he fucks me.

“Hurry,”
I cry—louder than I probably should—reaching back and gripping the faucet. My fingers feel slick around the cool metal, my skin flushed and damp with sweat.

I feel so full, stretched, with limbs loose. His body fits perfectly inside and against me, the jut of his pelvis rubbing against my clit with every thrust. The tight feeling in my stomach grows, warmer and hotter until I throw my head back, crying out as I come, lost to everything but the way my body tries to pull him in as I fall apart around him.

He follows only a moment later, movements becoming jagged and frantic, stilling against me with a muffled groan into my skin.

THE EVENING BREEZE
ruffles the back of my hair and the ends tickle my chin as the scent of bread and cigarettes drifts from a café we pass on our way to the métro.

I glance over my shoulder to where rows of motorcycles are parked at the curb. “Where’s your bike?” I ask.

“Home,” he says simply. “I dropped it off earlier so that I could walk with you.”

He doesn’t say this to earn a reaction, so he misses the way my eyes turn up to him. We didn’t really talk about the accident tonight, though it feels like a constant companion anytime the subject of school and life ahead is broached. But he’s shown me that he’s always aware of what happened and won’t ever push, unlike my father, who got me a bike for my first birthday out of the hospital and repeatedly suggested I
get back on the horse
. Ansel’s frankness is still something that takes me by surprise. Where I tend to agonize over everything I say—worrying whether I’ll be able to say it at all—Ansel never filters. Words seem to tumble from his candy-colored mouth without even a second thought. I wonder if he’s always been this unguarded, if he’s this way with everyone.

The busiest part of the day has come and gone but we’re still lucky to find seats together. We sit side by side on the crowded train, and I watch our reflection in the window opposite us. Even in the grimy glass and beneath the harsh, often flickering fluorescent lights, it’s impossible to miss how beautiful he is. It’s not an adjective I’ve ever used to describe a guy before, but as I look at him, taking in the angles of his jaw, the prominence of his cheekbones offset by his soft, nearly feminine mouth, it’s the only one that seems to fit.

He’s loosened his tie, unbuttoning the top of his dress shirt to offer up a triangle of smooth, tan skin. The open shirt frames his long neck, the tempting hint of collarbone peeking out just enough to make me wonder why I never thought of collarbones as sexy before.

As if sensing my gaze, Ansel’s eyes shift from the passing blur of track on the other side of the window, and meet mine in the glass. Our reflections rock with the movement of the train and Ansel watches me too, a small, knowing smile pulling at the corners of his mouth. How is it possible to sit here like this in calm, companionable silence, when only an hour ago I had him inside me, my hands slick with sweat as my fingers fought for purchase on the faucet?

More passengers board at the next stop and Ansel moves, giving his seat to an older gentleman with heavy bags in each hand. They share a few words in French I obviously don’t understand, and he takes the spot in front of me, his right arm raised to grip the handrail suspended from the ceiling.

It gives me an exceptional view of his torso and the front of his dress pants.
Yum.

The sound of laughter draws my attention and I see a group of girls seated only a few rows away. They’re probably in university, I think, and just a few years younger than me. Too old for high school but clearly still students. They sit with their heads pressed together and if their hushed giggles and wide-eyed stares are any indication, I know exactly what they’re looking at. Or, rather, whom.

I blink up to find him looking down at the older man, listening and oblivious to the leering glances being cast in his direction.

I don’t blame them, of course. If I saw Ansel on a train I’m positive I’d practically break my neck in an attempt to get a better look, and now the night I saw him across the bar in Vegas feels like a lifetime ago. It’s in these moments I find myself wanting to congratulate past-me for doing or saying whatever it was that caught Ansel’s attention in the first place and—by some act of God or alcohol I still don’t understand—held it. Sometimes, I think, past-me is a genius.

He laughs a deep, masculine laugh at something the man has said, and heaven help me, the dimple is out in full force again. I immediately glance over like the jealous girlfriend—
wife
—I’ve become and sure enough, every head in that gaggle of girls is turned, eyes wide, mouths wider, swooning over him.

And although I’ve said absolutely nothing, I’m beginning to wonder if every thought I have is somehow projected onto a screen above my head. Because it’s this moment Ansel chooses to glance down at me, eyes soft and warm as he reaches to brush a single finger along my bottom lip. Possessiveness sparks like a flare in my chest and I turn into his hand, pressing my mouth to his palm.

Ansel is beaming when the train comes to a stop at our station. He takes my hand as I stand and pulls me out the door, fitting his arm around my waist as soon as we’re on the platform.

“You left work early,” I say.

He laughs. “Are you only now realizing this?”

“No. Well . . . yes. I didn’t think about it before.” What he told me about his boss and his job replays itself like an echo inside my head. “You won’t be in trouble, will you?”

He shrugs in that way he does, easy and loose. “I can work from home,” he says. “I went in before everyone else, and even leaving as early as I did, I still worked a full day. It just wasn’t a fourteen-hour one. They’re going to have to adjust.”

But clearly they won’t have to adjust
yet
. Ansel kisses me sweetly when we walk into the flat, and then moves to his desk, booting up his laptop. As if on cue, his phone rings and he shrugs at me apologetically before answering it with a clipped
“Âllo?”

I hear a deep male voice on the other end, and then, instead of his weary work expression, see a happy smile spread over my husband’s face. “Hey, Olls,” he says. “Yeah, we’re home.”

I wave, tell him to say hi to Oliver for me, and then turn to the bedroom, grabbing my book from the couch before closing the door behind me to give them some privacy.

The bed is wide and perfect, and I lie the wrong way across it, spreading out like a starfish. I can hear sounds from the street filtering up, and let the smell of bread and roasting garlic filter through my senses while I stare at my book, idly thinking about what we might do for dinner. But of course I can’t focus on a single word on the page.

Partly it’s the way Ansel’s smile into the phone lingers in my vision, or the way his voice sounded—so deep, relieved, relaxed—so different from how I’ve heard him the past few weeks. Even though he’s never awkward, and we just spent the most amazing evening out together, he’s still the tiniest bit formal with me, and I only see it now with the intimacy of a best friend on the other end of the line. It’s exactly how I am with Lola or Harlow: unguarded, unfiltered.

I listen to his voice through the door, wanting to absorb the velvet smoothness of it, his deep belly laugh. But then I hear him clear his throat and his voice drops. “She’s good. I mean, of course she’s amazing.” He pauses, and then laughs quietly. “I know you think that. You’ll think that even when we’ve been married for thirty years.”

My stomach does a delicious pirouette but it dips uncomfortably when he says, “No, I haven’t talked to her about it.” Another pause, and then, quieter, “Of course Perry hasn’t been over. I don’t want any of that mess to threaten Mia.” I stop, leaning closer to hear better. Why didn’t he tell Oliver that Perry was here banging on the door just last night?

I hear the unfamiliar edge of frustration in his voice when he says, “I will. I
will
, Oliver, shut the fuck up.” But then he laughs again, removing any tension from the conversation I’m hearing through the door, and I blink, completely confused. What is the story with Perry? What is this unknown mess of him, the unanswered questions surrounding why he wasn’t in the States, and how could he possibly threaten me?

Shaking my head to clear it, I realize I either need to walk out there and let him know I can hear him, or leave. Or both. We already have enough unintentional secrets . . . at least he does.