Sweet Filthy Boy(67)

Chapter FOURTEEN




ANSEL WORKS, DOING his best to carve out whatever time for me he can, while I pretend my days with him and this novelty I’ve only just discovered, called “leisure time,” won’t soon be a thing of the past. Denial is my friend.

Whatever was bothering him seems to have righted itself; he’s happier, less anxious, our sex life has become decidedly more hot and less bumbling, and neither Perry nor his late night visit is mentioned again.

One morning he’s up before the sun, crashing around the tiny kitchen. But instead of kissing me goodbye and heading out the door, he pulls me out of bed and shoves an apple in one hand, a tiny cup of espresso in another, and tells me that we have a shared, free day; an entire Sunday stretching clear ahead of us. Thrill warms my blood and jolts me awake faster even than the pungent smell of coffee filling the small flat.

I bite into the fruit, smile as he packs us a picnic, and follow him back into the bedroom to watch him dress. I’m mesmerized by the way he so comfortably handles his own body as he pulls on boxers and then jeans, by the way his fingers slide each button through his shirt. I’m tempted to pull off his clothes just to watch him put them on all over again.

He looks up at me, catches me watching, and instead of owning it the way I want to, I blink away, look out the window, and swallow my espresso in one hot, perfect gulp.

“Why are you ever shy with me?” he asks, coming up behind me. “After what we did last night?”

Last night we had a lot of wine after not enough dinner and I was wild, pretending to be a movie star in town for only one night. He was my security guard, ushering me into his flat to protect . . . and then seduce me. It’s strange how such a simple question can be impossible to answer. I’m shy. It’s not a quality that comes out of me in certain situations, it’s my baseline. The magic isn’t why it appears with him; it’s how it so easily goes away.

But I know what he’s saying; I’m unpredictable in his presence. There are nights like the one earlier this week, where it’s easy to talk for hours—as if even as strangers we’ve known each other for years. And then there are moments like this when it should be easier than anything, and I turn away, letting the energy between us flounder.

I wonder if he thinks he married a girl with two personalities: vixen and wallflower. But before I can let the thoughts consume me, I feel the warm press of his lips to the back of my neck. “Today we pretend we’re on our first date, shy girl. I’m going to try to impress you, and maybe later you’ll let me kiss you good night.”

If he keeps sliding his hands up my sides the way he’s doing, and keeps sucking at the sensitive spot just below my ear, I might let him go all the way before we even get out of the apartment.

But he’s tired of being indoors, steering me to the dresser. He takes his turn watching me get dressed but doesn’t hide his open admiration as I pull on underwear, a bra, a white tank top, and a long, lapis jersey skirt. Once I’m dressed, he whistles softly and stands, moving close and cupping my face in his hands. With two fingertips he sweeps my dark bangs to the side so he can stare more clearly into my eyes. Back and forth, he searches.

“You’re truly the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.” Kissing the corner of my mouth, he adds, “It still doesn’t feel real, does it?”

But then he smiles as if this truth—that I have only a few weeks left here—doesn’t bother him at all.

How do you do it? I want to ask him. How does the looming, dangling end of this amuse rather than weigh on you?



I FEEL ADORED and cocooned in the half circle of his arm around me as we drift past his motorcycle parked on the sidewalk and head toward the métro. His free hand carries the bag with our lunch and he swings it as he walks. He hums a song, saying hello to neighbors, bending to pet a dog on a leash. The puppy looks up at him with wide brown eyes, turning as if it wants to follow him home. You and me both, I think. It boggles enough that he chose the profession he did—law—but then didn’t do something wild and free with it like helping old ladies or being the fun law instructor who shouts and jumps on tabletops.

“Where are we going?” I ask, as we get on the train toward Châtillon.

“My favorite place.”

I bump his shoulder with mine, a playful reprimand for not telling me anything, but inside I love it. I love that he’s planned this, even if he only planned it as the sun rose this morning. We change trains at Invalides and the whole process feels so familiar—dodging other bodies through the tunnels, following signs, boarding another train without thinking anymore—that I’m struck with the painful thought that no matter how much it’s starting to feel that way, this place isn’t really my home.