Sweet Filthy Boy

I’M ALMOST RELIEVED that he goes into the office Monday so I can go back to the tiny shop in the alley, holding my breath in the hope that it will be open. I think the role play is fun for Ansel; at least I hope it’s as fun for him as it is for me. We get to know each other in these tiny glimpses, revealing ourselves while we pretend not to.

And tonight, I want to get him talking.

The store is open, and the same saleswoman is there, greeting me with the warmth of her smile and the familiar scent of iris. She takes me by the hand, drawing me toward the lingerie, the props.

“What are you today?” she asks.

It takes me several long seconds before I find my words, and even then, I don’t really answer her question. “I need to find a way to rescue him.”

She studies me for a beat before selecting a sexy soldier uniform but it isn’t at all what I mean. Instead, my eyes trip on a negligee so vibrantly red, it looks like it could burn my fingers.

Her laugh is throaty and loud. “Yes, today you rescue in that. This time when you come in, your chin is higher, your eyes a little wicked, I think.” Reaching for the wall, she hands me a single accessory and when I look down at what she’s given me, it seems to vibrate in my hands. I would never have picked this on my own, but it’s perfect.

“Have fun, chérie.”

I’VE DONE MY makeup for the stage enough that I can really layer it on, making my eyes smoky and dark, my lips even fuller and siren red. I put just enough blush on my cheeks to look like I might be up to no good.

Stepping back, I examine myself in the slim mirror mounted on the bedroom door. My hair falls straight to my chin, black and sleek. My hazel eyes have more yellow than green lately. My bangs need to be trimmed; they graze my eyelashes when I blink. But the woman staring back at me likes the shadow they give. She knows how to look up from beneath her lashes and flirt, especially with the red horns barely poking out from a slim, black headband hiding in her hair.

The negligee is made of lace and layered, soft macramé tulle. The layering gives the illusion of coverage, but even in the dim candlelight I’ve set up throughout the apartment, my nipples are clearly visible beneath. The only other thing I’m wearing is a small, matching red thong.

This time I’m not nervous when I hear the elevator doors open down the hall, and the steady pace of Ansel’s feet walking to our door.

He enters, dropping his keys in the bowl and sliding his helmet beneath the table before turning to where I sit in one of the dining room chairs I’ve placed about ten feet in front of the entryway.

“Christ, Cerise.” Slowly, he slides his messenger bag over his head, carefully setting it on the floor. A heated smile starts at the corner of his mouth and lazily stretches across to the other side as he notices the horns. “Am I in trouble?”

I shake my head, shivering at the way his accent scratches trouble into my new favorite word, and stand, walking over to him. Letting him take in the entire outfit.

“No,” I say, “but I hear you’re in a situation you’d like to see changed.”

He stills, brows slowly lifting. “A situation?”

“Yes,” I say. “A work situation.”

His eyes turn playful. “I see.”

“I can help.” I step closer and run my hand up his chest to his tie. Loosening it, I tell him, “I’ve been sent here to negotiate a deal.”

“Sent by whom?”

“My boss,” I say with a little wink.

He looks me over one more time and reaches up to drag the pad of his thumb across my bottom lip. It’s a familiar touch now, but instead of opening my mouth and licking him, I bite.

He pulls back with a little gasp, and then laughs. “You’re irresistible.”

“I’m powerful,” I correct him. “If everything goes well tonight, with just a snap of my fingers I can finish this horrible, time-sucking lawsuit.”

I pull his tie loose and blink up to see his amused expression straighten into something more earnest, more pleading. “You can?”

“You give me your soul, and I make your problems go away.”

His smile returns and his hands slide forward, framing my hips. “When you look the way you do, I don’t think I have much use for a soul.” He leans in, runs his nose along my neck, and inhales. “It’s yours. How do we negotiate this transaction?”

I push his hands away, and slide his tie off, draping it around my neck instead. “I’m glad you asked.” Unbuttoning his shirt, I explain: “I’ll ask a few questions so I can determine the value of your soul. If you’re pristine, I’ll end this tonight and make you look like a hero who broke down the other side. If you’re sullied, well . . .” I shrug. “It may be messy but the lawsuit will be gone. And then I take my payment.”

His dimple makes a cameo. “And what kind of questions do I need to answer?”

“I need to see how bad you’ve been.” Lowering my voice, I add, “I hope you’ve been very bad. My boss doesn’t like to pay very much, and making you look like a hero is pretty expensive in this business.”

He looks genuinely confused. “But isn’t my soul more valuable to you the more corrupt I am?”

Shaking my head, I tell him, “I’m only bargaining to lure you away from the angels. I get you for a better price if they’d be unlikely to want you anyway.”

“I see,” he says, wearing an amused smile.

Silence slides between us and the threat of tension looms just outside the little circle our bodies form, standing so close together. For once, the rules are all mine, the game all mine, and still I feel power in this, too. My fingers shake against his chest with the reality of this full circle, closed. I’m his equal. I’m his wife, wanting to save him.

“I suppose I’m at your mercy, then,” he says quietly. “If you can do what you say, I’m game.”

Tilting my head, I say, “Get undressed.”

“Completely naked?” Amusement returns to his expression.

“Completely.”

He pushes his fancy checked blue shirt off his shoulders. I struggle to keep my attention on his face, knowing that the skin he’s slowly revealing is quite possibly my favorite thing about France.

“How did you get into this line of work?” he asks, unfastening his belt.

“My boss found me, alone and wandering the streets,” I tell him, unable to resist reaching forward, running my hands lightly down his chest. I love the way his breath hitches, his skin seems to tighten beneath my fingers. “He thought I’d make a good negotiator. When I found out I’d get to play with pretty boys like you, how could I resist?”

His hand pulls at his belt, sliding the smooth leather free so fast it makes a sharp cracking sound against the stretch of leather still looped through his dress pants. It drops to the floor, and his pants follow not far behind.

When his thumbs hover in the waistband of his boxers, I can tell he’s teasing me, waiting for me to look up at his face.

But I don’t.

“Off,” I tell him. “I need to see what I’m working with.”

He lowers the shorts from his body and slowly—confidently—steps out of them. I’ll never get used to the sight of Ansel completely naked. He’s bronze, and strong, and looks like he would taste good. And God, I know how good it is. It’s all I can do to not slide down onto my knees and lick a wet line from his balls to the tight crown of his cock.

But somehow, I manage to resist, even as he reaches down, circles his base with his thumb and middle finger, and holds it out as if offering it to me. I pull his tie from my neck and reach for his hands instead, guiding his arms behind his back and turning him to tie them together at the wrist. It’s tight, but not so tight he couldn’t get out if he wanted.

Turning him back around, I push lightly on his chest. “Go sit on the couch. It’s time for questions.”

“I’m a little nervous,” he admits with a tiny wink, but walks confidently over and carefully lowers himself to the seat, hands trapped behind him.

“Men are always nervous about this part,” I say, following him and straddling his thighs. I reach forward and draw a circle around the head of his cock with my index finger. “No one likes to admit all of the terrible things they’ve done.”

“And how many men have you done this with?” This time, his voice catches on something—jealousy, maybe. Or maybe the dark thrill that comes from imagining me doing this to someone else.

These are the things I need to learn about the man I’ve married.

“Thousands,” I whisper, relishing the way his eyes grow hard. Jealousy, then. “I’m the best negotiator out there. If you want me to remember tonight, you should probably impress me later.”

I rest my ass on his thighs and then slide forward, giving his cock the briefest bit of friction against me before I slide away again. Beneath my palms, his shoulders bunch as he pulls against the bind around his wrists.

“Does it make you wet to take control, Cerise?” he whispers, looking torn. He’s broken role, but it seems like he can’t help himself. “I wish I could tell you what seeing you like this does to me.”

He doesn’t need to tell me; I can see what it does to him. But in the length of a heartbeat, I know what he’s asking for. It’s the same as our first night playing maid and master: feed it to me.

He’s just doing it differently.

I reach between my legs, slip my fingers under the satin, and decide to give him a little show: I close my eyes, moan quietly as I stroke myself, rolling my hips. But when I pull my hand back, instead of putting my fingers in his mouth, I capture his chin with my free hand and paint a wet line on his upper lip, just below his nose.

He groans, and it’s an amazing, gravelly, pained sound I want to record and play on a loop while I slide down over him and ride him. He’s so hard, his cock arches up to his navel, the thick ridge nearly pressing to his belly button. A slick bead of moisture forms at the opening and slides, glistening, down his length.

My mouth waters, my chest tightens. I don’t imagine my game is going to be fast. I never know if it’s true, but he looks hard enough for it to be uncomfortable. “Do you want me to put my mouth on you before the questions?” I whisper, briefly breaking role. The corded tension in his neck and the vulnerable expression on his face make me want to take care of him.

“Non,” he says quickly, more quickly than I expected. His eyes are wide, lips wet where he’s just licked them, trying to clean his skin of my taste. “Tease me.”

Pushing off his lap, I stand, giving a crisp “Very well then,” and bend over the coffee table to retrieve the clipboard and pen. I give him a long view of my backside, my thighs, and the red silk thong. Behind me, he exhales a deep, shaking breath.

I return to him, looking over my short list. I’ve written a few things just to remind myself what I want to ask him because in the heat of the moment, over his lap with him naked and looking at me like he’s barely keeping his hands tied up, I’m prone to forget.

Settling back down, I run my pen down the smooth skin of his chest and rock slightly over the tight bunching muscles of his thighs. “We can start with an easy one.”

He nods, staring openly at my breasts. “D’accord.” Okay.

“If you’ve ever killed anyone, you’re really not worth very much to me because we’ll be getting your soul eventually anyway.”

He smiles, relaxing a little as the game reveals itself. “I’ve never killed anyone.”

“Tortured?”

He laughs. “I fear I’m on the receiving end at the moment, but no.”

Blinking back down to my list, I say, “We can reel through the cardinal sins pretty quickly.” I look up at him and lick my lips. “This is where men usually lose the most value.”

He nods, staring intently at me, as if I really do hold the power to change his fate tonight.

“Greed?” I ask.

Ansel lets out a quiet laugh. “I’m an attorney.”

Nodding, I pretend to make note of this. “For a firm you hate, but who pays you ridiculous sums of money to represent one huge corporation suing another. I suppose that means I can also put you down for a bit of gluttony, too?”

His dimple flashes suggestively as he laughs. “I suppose you’re right.”

“Pride?”

“Me?” he says with a winning smile. “I’m as humble as they come.”

“Right.” Fighting my own smile, I look back down at my list. “Lust?”

He pushes his hips up, his cock a heavy presence between us as I gaze at his face, waiting for him to speak. But he doesn’t answer aloud.

Heat ripples along my skin and his gaze is so penetrating, I finally have to look away from his face. “Envy?”

It takes him long enough to answer that I look back up at him, searching his expression. He’s grown oddly contemplative, as if this is a serious exercise. And for the first time I realize maybe it is. I couldn’t simply ask him these things as Mia, sitting across the dining room table from Ansel, though I’d want to. No one can be as perfect as he seems, and part of me needs to understand where he’s damaged, where he’s ugliest. Somehow it’s easier to dress up as a servant of Satan to find out.

“I feel envy, yes,” he says quietly.

“I need you to give me more than that.” I lean forward, kiss his jaw. “Envious of what.”

“I never used to. If anything, I tend to see the positive everywhere. Finn and Oliver . . . they will grow exasperated with me sometimes, telling me I’m impulsive, or I’m fickle.” He tears his eyes from mine, looking past my shoulder at the room behind me. “But now I look at my best friends and see a certain freedom they have . . . I want that. I think that must be envy.”

This one stings. The sting turns into a burn and it crawls up my throat, coating my windpipe. I swallow a few times before I’m able to manage, “I see.”

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.