Sweet Filthy Boy

  I nod urgently and his pupils dilate, a drop of ink into the green and I can actually see his pulse pick up.

  He’s mine. He is.

  But for how long? The intruding question makes me desperate, reaching for him and needing him deep in every part of me, knowing he can’t really take my breath away but offering it up anyway in tiny, constant bursts.

  He steps closer, and although his grip on my hair doesn’t lessen, I greedily reach for his shirt, tugging it free of his pants. With shaking fingers, I work each button free and once his smooth, warm torso is exposed, I hear my fevered moan and my hands slide up across his skin, frantic. How would it feel, I imagine, to want him as much as I do and not have access? And then just tonight—a single, dangerous night—he lets me touch him, taste him, fuck him?

  I would be wild. I would be insatiable.

  He growls when I spend too long running my hands up and over his chest, fingernails scratching across his small, flat nipples, stroking the teasing line of hair leading down below his belly button and into his pants. Impatiently, he tugs at my hair, pushing his hips forward, and grunts his approval when I quickly unfasten his belt, his zipper, and shove his pants down his thighs so I can free his cock.

  Oh.

  It juts in front of me thick and warm; when I reach for him, he’s steel in my palm. I use both hands, gripping and sliding down his length, wanting him to let go of my hair so I can bend and suck on him with as much hunger as I feel.

  He exhales a tight groan as I pump him in my fist and then curls down, capturing my mouth in a brutal, commanding kiss. His mouth sucks at mine, pushing my lips apart as his fist tightens in my hair. He slides his tongue inside, pushing deep, fucking me with an unmistakable rhythm.

  I won’t be gentle, he’s telling me. I won’t even try.

  Thrill ripples through me and I twist free of his grip, intending to lick him until he comes, but with a growled curse he pushes me back on the bed, bending to retrieve his tie so he can wrap it around my wrists and secure it to the headboard.

  “Your body is for my pleasure,” he tells me, eyes dark. “You’re in my house, little thing. I’ll take whatever I want.”

  He kicks off his pants and climbs over me, yanking my underwear down my legs and shoving my skirt up my hips. With his hands flat on my thighs, he spreads my legs, leans forward, and roughly thrusts into me.

  It’s a relief so enormous it makes me scream; I’ve never before felt so full of him. I’m starving and satisfied, wanting him to stay just like this forever. But he doesn’t stay deep inside me for long. He pulls back and then slams forward, gripping the headboard for leverage and taking me so roughly each thrust makes my teeth clatter, forces air from my lungs.

  It’s wild, and frantic, his body over mine, my legs clamped around his waist so tight I wonder if it hurts him. I want to hurt him, in a sick dark way I want to pull every sensation to the surface, make him feel everything all at once: the lust and pain and need and relief and, yes, even the love I’m feeling.

  “I wanted to get things done tonight,” he hisses, hands clamping around my thighs. He pumps hard and fast, fucking me so roughly, sweat trickles off his temple and lands on my chest. His anger is terrifying, thrilling, perfect. “Instead I need to come home and deal with a naughty student.” His hips are pounding and pounding into me and he groans, eyes growing heavy. His large, rough hands reach for my breasts, and he slides his thumb across my nipple.

  “Please make me come,” I whisper, honestly.

  I want to stop playing.

  I want to play forever.

  I want his approval, I want his anger. I want the sharp smack of his hand across my breast only seconds before he delivers it. He knew.

  “Please,” I beg. “I’ll be good.”

  “Bad pupils don’t get pleasure. I’ll take and take and you can watch me instead.”

  He’s moving so hard the bed is shaking, groaning beneath us. We’ve never been so rough. The neighbors must hear, and I close my eyes, relishing the knowledge that my husband is so completely cared for in bed. I’ll give him anything.

  “Watch me come,” he whispers, jerking from me and gripping his cock. His hand flies down and up his length and he curses, eyes on me.

  The first pulse of his release lashes me across my cheek, and then my neck, my breasts. I’ll never be able to imagine a sexier sound than the deep groan he makes when he comes, the way he growls my name, the way he stares at me. He bends, sweaty and out of breath; his eyes move over my face and down, inspecting how he’s decorated me. Climbing up my body so his hips are level with my face, he presses his cock to my lips, quietly ordering, “Lick it clean.”

  I open my mouth and lick around the tip, and then suck down, along the velvet-soft skin.

  “Ansel,” I whisper when I pull away, wanting to be us now. Wanting him.

  Relief fills his eyes and he runs his finger across my lower lip. “You like this,” he murmurs. “Pleasing me.”

  “Yes.”

  He pulls away, bending to kiss my forehead as he carefully unties my hands. “Attends,” he whispers. Wait.

  Ansel comes back with a damp cloth, wiping my cheek, my neck, my breasts. He tosses it into the bin in the corner before kissing me gently.

  “Was that nice, Cerise?” he whispers, sucking on my lower lip, tongue probing gently into my mouth. He moans quietly, fingers dancing over the curve of my breast. “You were perfect. I love being with you that way.” His mouth moves over my cheek, to my ear, and he asks, “But can I be gentle now?”

  I nod, cupping his face. He wrecks me with his play, with his command that so easily melts into adoration. I close my eyes, sinking my hands into his hair as he kisses down my neck, sucking my breasts, my navel, parting my legs with his hands.

  I’m sore from his rough treatment only minutes ago, but he’s careful now, blowing a soft stream of air across me, whispering, “Let me see you.”

  Ducking, he kisses my clit, licks slowly around. “I love to taste you, do you notice?”

  I curl my hands into fists around the pillowcase.

  “I think this sweetness is just for me. I pretend your desire has never been like this.” He dips a finger inside and brings it up to my lips. “For everyone else it was never so silky and sweet. Tell me it’s true.”

  I let him slide his finger inside and suck, wanting to make this night last for days. I’m wild for him, hoping he stays here with me. Hoping he doesn’t retreat to the office and work until dawn.

  “Isn’t it perfect?” he asks, watching me suck. “I’ve never loved a woman’s flavor as much as I love yours.” He climbs up my body, sucking at my lips, my tongue. He’s hard again, or maybe he’s hard still, and he grinds into my thigh. “I crave it. I crave you. I’m too wild for you. I want you too much, I think.”

  I shake my head, wanting to tell him he could want me more and wilder but the words get stuck in my throat when he returns his lips to my pussy, licking and sucking so expertly now that I arch off the bed, crying out.

  “Like this?” he purrs.

  “Yes.” My hips press up from the mattress, greedy for his fingers, too.

  “I’d be your slave,” he whispers, sliding two fingers into me. “Give me nothing but this and your mouth and your quiet words and I’d be your slave, Cerise.”

  I don’t know how it happened, or when exactly, but he knows how to read my body, knows my tells. He teases me, pulling each sensation longer and tighter, making me wait for the orgasm I’ve wanted for what begins to feel like days. With his tongue, and his lips, his fingers, and his words he brings me to the edge over and over until I’m writhing beneath him, sweating, begging for it.

  And just when I think he’ll finally let me come, he pulls away instead, wiping his mouth with his forearm as he climbs over me.

  I push up onto my elbows, eyes wild. “Ans
el—”

  “Shh, I need to be inside when you come.” With quick hands, he rolls me onto my stomach, spreads my legs, and slides in so deep I gasp, bunching the pillowcase in my fists. His groan vibrates through my bones, along my skin, and I feel the continued buzz of it as he begins to move, his chest pressed to my back, breath hot on my ear.

  “I’m lost in you.”

  I gasp, nodding frantically. “Me, too.”

  His hand slides underneath me and presses, circling against my clit. I’m right there

  right there

  right there

  and I go off like a bomb the second he presses his lips to my ear and whispers, “What you feel, Cerise? I feel it, too. Fuck, Mia, I feel everything for you.”

  Chapter SEVENTEEN

  IT’S NOT THAT I don’t already think about Ansel a hefty proportion of the time, but after last night I haven’t been able to stop thinking about him. While I sit outside at the café the next evening with Simone, I’m tempted to see if I can get him to play hooky with me tomorrow, or maybe drop in and see him tonight for a change. Being an eternal tourist alone is growing dull, but keeping busy is the far preferable alternative to being home with my thoughts all day, with the increasingly loud countdown clock ticking away in the back of my mind.

  “Today was so fucking long,” she groans, depositing the keys into her purse before rifling through it. Searching for her ever-present vapor cigarette, I suppose. Being around Gruesimone is a paradoxical comfort: she’s so unpleasant, but it makes me love Harlow and Lola even more, and seeing them is the one thing I’m looking forward to when I return home. Simone pauses, eyes lighting up when she finds the familiar black cylinder in one of the inner compartments.

  “Fucking finally,” she says, and holds it to her mouth before frowning. “Dammit. Dead. Fuck this shit, where are my Marlboros?”

  I’ve never felt like more of a bum in my life, but I don’t even care. Every time I consider getting organized to move home, my mind bends away, distracted by the pretty, shiny life right in front of me. The far preferable one where I can pretend money is endless, I don’t really need to go to school, and it’s easy to silence the gnawing voice in the back of my thoughts telling me I need to be a contributing member of society. Just a few more days, I keep telling myself. I’ll worry about it in a few more days.

  Gruesimone produces a crumpled pack of cigarettes and a silver Zippo from her bag. She lights up beside me, moaning as she inhales like that cigarette must be better than chocolate cake and all the orgasms combined. For a moment, I seriously consider taking up smoking.

  She takes another long drag, the tip burning orange in the dim light. “So when do you leave again? Like three weeks? I swear to God I want your life. Living in Paris just for shits and giggles for an entire summer.”

  I smile and look past her as I lean back, barely able to see her face through the plume of acrid smoke. I try the words out for size, to see if they still ring with the same feeling of panic: “I start business school in the fall.” I close my eyes for a moment and breathe. Yep, they do.

  Lampposts pop to life up and down the street, halos of light dropping to the sidewalks below. Over Simone’s shoulder, I see a familiar shape emerge: long and lean, slim hips belied by strong, wide shoulders. For a moment I’m reminded of last night, my hands gripping his narrow waist as he moved over me, his sweet expression when he asked if he could be gentle. I actually wrap my fingers around the table to steady myself.

  Ansel looks up when he nears the corner, doubling his steps when he sees me.

  “Hi,” he says, leaning in and placing a lingering kiss on each of my cheeks. Damn I love France. Oblivious to Simone’s wide eyes or gaping expression, he pulls back just long enough to grin before kissing me again, this time on the mouth.

  “You’re off early,” I murmur into another kiss.

  “I find it harder to work late these days,” he says with a little smile. “I wonder why?”

  I shrug, grinning.

  “Can I take you to dinner?” he asks, pulling me to stand and linking his fingers with mine.

  “Hi,” Simone says, accompanied by the sound of her spiked heels shuffling on the sidewalk, and finally, he looks over to her.

  “I’m Ansel.” He gives her the customary kiss on each cheek, and I’m more than a little pleased to see her crestfallen expression when he pulls quickly away.

  “Ansel is my husband,” I add, rewarded by a smile on Ansel’s face that could power each and every streetlight up and down Rue St.-Honoré. “This is Simone.”

  “Husband,” she repeats, and blinks quickly as if she’s seeing me for the first time. Her eyes move from me back to Ansel, almost blatantly looking him up and down. She’s clearly impressed. With a shake of her head she hoists her large bag over her shoulder, before saying something about a party she’s going to be late for and tossing a “well done” in my direction.

  “She was pleasant,” Ansel says, watching her go.

  “She’s not, really,” I say with a laugh. “But something tells me she might be now.”

  AFTER ONLY A few blocks of walking in companionable silence, we turn down a street that is cramped even by Paris standards. Like most restaurants in this neighborhood, the storefront is narrow and unassuming, barely wide enough to accommodate a nest of four wooden tables out front and sheltered by a large brown and orange awning above, the word Ripaille written across it. It’s all cream-colored panels and chalkboards scribbled with the day’s specials, and long, thin windows that throw flickering shadows onto the cobbled streets just outside.

  Ansel holds the door open and I follow him in, quickly greeted by a tall, rail-thin man with a welcoming smile. The restaurant is small but cozy, and smelling of mint and garlic and something dark and delicious I can’t immediately identify. A handful of small tables and chairs fill the single room.

  “Bonsoir. Une table pour deux?” the man says, reaching for a stack of menus.

  “Oui,” I say, and catch Ansel’s proud smile, deep dimple present and accounted for. We’re led to a table near the back and Ansel waits for me to sit before taking his own. “Merci.”

  Apparently my grasp of two of the most basic words in French is awesome because, assuming I’m fluent, the waiter launches into the specials of the day. Ansel catches my eye and I give a small, barely perceptible shake of my head, more than happy to listen while he explains it to me later. Ansel asks him a few questions, and I watch in silence, wondering if listening to him speak, watching him gesture with his hands, or, hell, do just about anything will ever stop being ranked up there with some of the sexiest things I’ve ever seen.

  Jesus, I am in deep.

  When the waiter leaves, Ansel leans across the table, pointing at the different items with his long, graceful hands, and I have to blink several times and remind myself to pay attention.

  Menus have always been the most difficult for me to navigate. There are a few helpful things: boeuf/beef, poulet/chicken, veau/veal, canard/duck, and poisson is fish (I’m completely unashamed to say I knew that one from countless viewings of The Little Mermaid), but how things are prepared or the names for various sauces or vegetables are still things I need help with at most restaurants.

  “The special is langoustine bisque, which is . . .” He pauses, furrows his brow, and looks up to the ceiling. “Uhh . . . it’s a shellfish?”

  I grin. Lord only knows why I find his confused face so endearing. “Lobster?”

  “Yes. Lobster,” he says with a satisfied nod. “Lobster bisque with mint, served with a small pizza on the side. Very crunchy with lobster and sundried tomatoes. Also there is le boeuf—”

  “The bisque,” I decide.

  “You don’t want to hear the others?”

  “You think there’s something better there than soup and pizza with lobster?” I stop, realization dawning. ??
?Unless it means you can’t kiss me?”

  “It’s fine,” he says, waving his hand. “I can still kiss you senseless.”

  “Then that’s it. Bisque.”

  “Perfect. I think I’ll get the fish,” he says.

  The waiter returns and both he and Ansel listen patiently while I insist on ordering my own dinner, along with a simple plate of greens tossed in vinaigrette. With a smile he can’t manage to hide, Ansel orders his food and each of us a glass of wine and sits back, draping an arm over the back of the empty chair beside him.

  “Look, you don’t even need me,” he says.

  “As if. How else would I know how to ask for the large dildo? I mean, that’s a really important distinction.”

  Ansel barks out a laugh, his eyes wide in surprise, his hands flying to his mouth to stifle the sound. A few of the other diners turn in our direction, but nobody seems to have minded his outburst.

  “You’re a bad influence,” he says once composed, and reaches for his wine.

  “Me? I’m not the one who left the translation for dildo on a note one morning, so . . . glass houses, Dimples.”

  “But you did find the costume shop,” he says to me over his glass. “And I must say I owe you endlessly for that.”

  I feel my face warm under his gaze, under the implied meaning of his words. “True,” I admit in a whisper.

  Our food comes and beyond the occasional satisfied groan or voicing my intent to bear the chef’s children, we’re mostly silent while we eat.

  The empty plates are cleared away and Ansel orders dessert for us to share: fondant au chocolat—which looks a lot like a fancy version of the chocolate lava cake we have at home—served warm with a pepper-vanilla ice cream. Ansel moans around his spoon.

  “It’s a little obscene watching you eat that,” I say. Across the table he’s closed his eyes, humming around the spoon in his mouth.