Sweet Filthy Boy

by Christina Lauren

  We walk along the winding paths, taking in all of it. Every flower that grows on French soil is represented in this garden, he tells me proudly, and in the distance I see the museums housed on the grounds: one each for evolution, mineralogy, paleontology, entomology. Such honest and pure sciences but couched in arches of marble and walls of glass, they remind everyone how noble they are.

  Everything in my vision is earth and soil but so colorful my eyes never stop moving. Even as I stare at a thick bed of violet and lavender pansies, my attention is pulled farther down the path to a blinding patch of marigolds and zinnias.

  “You should see the . . .” Ansel stops walking and hums, pressing two fingers to his lips as he thinks of the word in English. Although he rarely struggles to translate something, I can’t help lovingly obsessing over it when he does. It could be the little cluck of his tongue, or the way he usually gives up and says the word in soft, purring French anyway. “Coquelicots?” he says. “A delicate flower in the spring. Red, but also sometimes orange or yellow?”

  I shake my head, uncertain.

  “Before it blooms, the buds look like testicles.”

  Laughing, I guess, “Poppy?”

  He nods, snapping his finger and looking so pleased with me I may as well have planted all of these flowers here myself. “Poppy. You should see the poppies here in the spring.”

  But the idea dissolves in the air between us and without our acknowledging it; he takes my hand again to keep walking.

  He points out everything in front of us: flowers, trees, sidewalk, water, building, stone—and gives me the words in French, making me repeat them in a way that seems to grow more urgent, as if by weighing me down with knowledge I won’t be able to simply climb on a plane and lift off in a few weeks.

  Inside the canvas bag, Ansel has packed bread and cheese, apples, and tiny chocolate cookies and we find a bench in the shade—we can’t picnic on the grass here—and devour the food as if we haven’t eaten in days. Being near him makes me hungry in so many aching, delicious ways, and when I watch him lift the bread from the bag, tear a bit off, and the muscles in his arm tense and pull with the movement, I wonder how he’ll touch me first when we get back to his apartment.

  Will he use his hands? Or his lips and teeth in that teasing, nibbling way he has? Or will he be as impatient as I feel, pushing fabric aside just fast enough for him to be over me, inside me, moving urgently?

  I close my eyes, savoring the sunshine and the feel of his fingers sliding across my back, curling around my shoulder. He talks for a while about what he loves about the park—the architecture, the history—and finally he lets words fall away as the birds take over for us, flapping and chattering in the trees overhead. For a perfect minute, I can imagine this endless life: sunny Sundays in the park with Ansel and the promise of his body all over mine when the sun goes down.

  IT’S THE FIRST time we’ve been together for an entire day and we’re unable to undress, touch, have sex—which really is all we’ve known. After nearly eleven hours of walking and seeing everything we can fit into daylight, I’ve watched his lips pout his perfect words and his broad, skilled hands point to important buildings and his mischievous green eyes fixate on my lips and my body enough times that all I want now is to feel the weight of him moving on top of me.

  I cling to the thought and the easy familiarity we’ve cultivated today as just us—Mia and Ansel—but as soon as we’re back in the apartment, he kisses the top of my head and pours me a glass of wine before powering up his laptop to check his work email, promising to be quick. While he sits at the small desk with his back to me, I tuck my legs beneath me on the couch, sipping my wine as I watch the tension gradually return to his shoulders. He fires off an email that must be heated because his fingers hammer on the keyboard and he clicks send, before leaning back in his chair and running a frustrated hand through his hair.

  “Putain,” he curses on a tight exhale.

  “Ansel?”

  “Mmm?” He leans forward to rub his hands over his face.

  “Come here, okay?”

  He takes another deep breath before he stands, then walks over to me, but as soon as I look up at his face—his eyes are flat, his mouth pulled in a straight, exhausted line—I know the spell is broken and I’ll be going to bed alone. We’re back to real life, where his life is his mysterious, grueling job and I’m only temporary.

  We’re back to playing house.

  “It made more work for you, didn’t it,” I ask, “by taking today off?”

  He shrugs, and reaches down to carefully pull my bottom lip between his thumb and index finger. “I don’t care.” He bends down, kisses my mouth, sucking on my lip before he pulls away. “But yes. I’ll need to go into the office quite early tomorrow.”

  Tomorrow is Monday, and he’s behind on his week already.

  “Why do you do it?” The words feel awkward on my tongue; our conversations about his job have mostly been his apologizing for working so much and me telling him I understand. But I absolutely don’t, and in this moment I’m mortified that I’ve never really asked him about it. Other than knowing he has a dragon-lady boss, and that this job will give him his pick of positions someday, I really have no idea what he does there.

  “Because I won’t be able to find another good position if I leave this one so soon. This is very prestigious, you see. I need to see this lawsuit through.” He only needs to tell me a tiny bit about it—vague details about the corporations at war and the matter of intellectual property and sales tactics at the heart of the case—before I pull back to look at him in surprise.

  I’ve heard of this lawsuit. I know the names of the two businesses going head-to-head. It’s such a big case it’s constantly on the news, in the papers. No wonder he’s working the hours he is.

  “I had no idea,” I tell him. “How did you manage to go to Vegas?”

  His fingers dig through his hair and he shrugs. “It was the only three weeks I wasn’t needed. They were gathering depositions, and I finally had a small break. It is much more normal to take a long vacation here in Europe than it is in the States, maybe.”

  I pull him down on the couch next to me and he complies, but his posture tells me he’s only here for a minute. He’ll get up and return to his computer instead of following me into bed.

  I run my hand down the front of his T-shirt and find myself looking forward to seeing him dressed for work tomorrow, and then immediately feel a tight knot of guilt form in my stomach. “Do you wear a suit and tie in the courtroom?”

  Laughing, he bends and says into the skin of my neck, “I don’t go to court, but no, in court they wear a traditional robe. I’m the equivalent of a junior associate here. Corporate law in France is maybe a bit different from the States, though both are different from criminal law. Here, maybe more proceedings happen across a table.”

  “If it’s different from the States, and you’re licensed to practice there, too . . . why did you come back here after law school?”

  He hums, shaking his head a little as he kisses my jaw, and it’s the first time he hasn’t answered a question. I can’t tell if I’m disappointed or fascinated.

  “I hope you’ll be done soon,” I tell him, pressing my hand to his face and, unable to resist, stroking his bottom lip with the pad of my thumb in his signature, soothing move. “I hope it won’t always be like this. I like it when you’re here with me.”

  He closes his eyes, exhaling slowly as he smiles. “You sound like a real wife when you say that.”

  Chapter FIFTEEN

  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.