Sweet Filthy Boy(110)

“Talk to me,” he says, bending to whisper the words into my ear. “Tell me what happened that morning you left.”

“I sort of felt like I had to step up and face what comes next,” I say quietly, but he’s still bent close, and I know he’s heard me. “It was shitty of you not to tell me about Perry, but really it just gave me the shove I needed.”

“I’m sorry, Cerise.”

My chest tightens when he calls me this pet name and I run my hands up and down his chest. “If we’re going to try to do this, I need to know you’ll talk to me about things.”

“I promise. I will.”

“I’m sorry I left the way I did.”

His dimple flashes for the tiniest second. “Show me you’re still wearing my ring and you’re forgiven.”

I hold up my left hand and he stares for a beat before bending to kiss the thin gold band.

We sway a little, not moving much, while all around us people bounce and shake and dance on the floor. I lean my head into his chest and close my eyes, breathing in every part of him. “Anyway, we’re done with all of that. It’s your turn to babble tonight.”

With a little smile, he bends close, kissing first my right cheek, and then my left. And then he touches his lips to mine for several long, perfect seconds. “My favorite color is green,” he says against my mouth, and I giggle. His hands slide down my sides, arms wrap together around my waist as he bends close, kissing his way up my neck. “I broke my arm when I was seven, trying to ride a skateboard. I love spring, hate winter. My childhood best friend’s name was Auguste and his older sister was Catherine. She was my first kiss, when I was eleven and she was twelve, in the pantry at my father’s house.”

My fingers glide over his chest, up his throat, and link at the back of his neck.

“My greatest trauma was my mother leaving for the States, but otherwise—and even though my father is a tyrant—my childhood was quite nice. I was terrible at math in school. I lost my virginity to a girl named Noémi when I was fourteen.” He kisses my cheek. “The last woman I had sex with was my wife, Mia Rose Guillaume.” He kisses the tip of my nose. “My favorite food is bread—I know it sounds horribly boring. And I don’t like dried fruit.”

I laugh, pulling him in for a real kiss—finally—and Oh. My. God. His mouth is warm, already accustomed to mine. His lips are both soft and commanding. I feel his need to touch, to taste and fuck barely restrained, and his hands slide down over my ass, pulling my hips into him. His tongue barely touches mine and we both groan, pulling apart and breathing heavily.

“I’m not sure I ever made a woman come with my mouth before I met you,” he admits. “I love kissing you there. And I love your ass, it’s perfect.” With this, I feel his length stir against my stomach as his hands squeeze me. “I like any kind of sex with you, but I prefer being on top of you . . . You make missionary feel dirty the way you grab and move under me.”

Holy shit. I squirm in his arms. “Ansel.”

“I know the exact sound you make when you come; you could never fake it with me.” He smiles, adding, “Again.”

“Tell me everyday things,” I beg him. “This is killing me.”

“I hate killing spiders, because I think they’re amazing, but I’ll do it for you if you’re afraid of them. I hate being a passenger in a car because I prefer to drive.” He kisses his way to my ear, whispering, “We can live in San Diego, but I want to at least spend summers in France. And maybe we will move my mother here when she is older.”

My chest almost aches with the force of each heartbeat. “Okay.”

He smiles and I touch his dimple with the tip of my finger. “And you really are moving here?”

“I think in February,” he says with a little shrug. As if it’s so easy. As if it’s a done deal.

I’m relieved, and I’m torn. It makes me giddy to have it so easily settled, but it’s only July. February is so far away. “That seems really far away.”

“I’ll visit in September. October. November. December. January . . .”

“How long are you staying?” Why haven’t I asked this yet? I’m suddenly dreading his answer.

“Only until tomorrow.” My stomach drops and I feel suddenly hollow. “I can miss Monday,” he says, “but need to be in to work on Tuesday for the first phase of the hearing.”

There’s not enough time. I’m already pulling him through the crowd, back to the table.

“You guys—”