Sweet Filthy Boy(51)

Even with only the light of the streetlamps coming through the glass, I can see how it gleams, spotless.

I know he’ll be here any second. I hear the grind of the elevator, the metal clanking of the doors closing. I close my eyes and press both palms flat to the window, smearing. When I pull back, two long smudges stay behind.

His key fits into the lock, creaking as it turns. The door opens with the quiet skid of wood on wood, and I move to the entryway, back straight, hands clasped around the feather duster in front of me.

Ansel drops his keys on the table, places his helmet beneath it, and then looks up, eyes going wide.

“Wow. Hello.” He tightens his grip on two envelopes in his hand.

“Welcome home, Mr. Guillaume,” I say, voice breaking on his name. I’m giving myself five minutes. If he doesn’t seem to want to play, it won’t be the end of the world.

It won’t.

His eyes first move up to the tiny, frilled cap pinned in my hair and then down, tripping as they always do over my lips before sliding down my neck, to my breasts, my waist, my hips, my thighs. He eyes my shoes, lips parting.

“I thought you might want to look over the house before I leave for the night,” I say, stronger now. I’m bolstered by the flush in his cheeks, the heat in his green eyes when he looks back at my face.

“The house looks good,” he says, voice nearly inaudible from the rasp of it. He hasn’t even looked away from me to the room beyond, so at least I know so far he’s playing along.

I step aside, curling my hands into fists so my fingers don’t shake when the real game begins. “Feel free to check everything.”

My heart is beating so hard I swear I can feel my neck move. His gaze instinctively moves past me to the window just behind, his brow drawing together.

“Mia?”

I move to his side, biting back my excited grin. “Yes, Mr. Guillaume?”

“Did you . . .” He looks at me, searching, and then points to the window, using the envelopes in his hand. He’s embarrassed I’ve discovered this compulsion. He’s trying to understand what’s going on, and the seconds tick by, painfully slow.

It’s a game. Play. Play.

“Did I miss a spot?” I ask.

His eyes narrow, head jerking back slightly when he understands, and the nervous tickle in my stomach turns into a lurching roll. I have no idea if I’ve made an enormous mistake by trying to do this. I must look like a lunatic.

But then I remember Ansel in the hall in his boxers, flirting. I remember his voice hot in my ear, sneaking up on me, and Finn sneaking up on him, nearly pulling his pants around his ankles. I remember what Finn told me about Bronies and serendipity. I know that at his core, beyond the stress of work, Ansel is game for some fun.

Shit. I just hope he’s game for this. I don’t want to be wrong. Wrong will send me back to the dark ages of awkward silence.

He turns slowly, wearing one of his easy smiles I haven’t seen in days. He looks me over again, from the top of my head to my tiny, dangerous heels. His gaze is tangible, a brush of heat across my skin. “Is this what you need?” he whispers.

After a beat, I nod. “I think so.”

A cacophony of horns blares up from the street below and Ansel waits until the flat is silent again before he speaks.

“Oh yes,” he says slowly. “You missed a spot.”

I pull my brows together in mock concern, my mouth forming a soft, round O.

With a dramatic scowl he turns, stomping to the kitchen and pulling out an unlabeled bottle. I can smell the vinegar, and wonder whether he has his own glass-cleaning recipe. His fingers brush mine when he hands me the bottle. “You may fix it before you leave.”

I feel my shoulders straighten confidently as he follows me to the window, watching as I spray a cloud over the handprints. There’s a heavy buzz in my veins, a sense of power I hadn’t expected. He’s doing what I want him to do, and though he’s handing me a cloth to wipe the window clean, it’s because I’ve orchestrated it. He’s just playing along.

“Go over it once again. Leave no streaks.”

When I’m finished, it gleams, spotless, and behind me he exhales slowly. “An apology seems appropriate, no?”

When I turn to face him, he looks so sincerely displeased that my pulse trips in my throat—hot and thrilled—and I blurt, “I’m sorry. I—”

He reaches up, eyes twinkling as his thumb strokes across my bottom lip to calm me. “Good.” Blinking toward the kitchen, he inhales slowly, smelling the roasted chicken, then asks, “Have you made dinner?”

“I ordered—” I pause, blinking. “Yes. I cooked you