Sweet Filthy Boy by Christina Lauren
I rock against his hand, crying out at the way the tip of his fingers tease in and out of me, gathering wetness, moving back and forth over my clit.
Picking me up, he walks us to the counter, setting me down before he kneels between my parted legs. I watch as he leans forward, looking up at me through his lashes while he reaches out, pulls my panties to the side, and flicks the tip of his tongue over me.
“Oh,” I cry out, too loud and breathing so heavy I fear I might actually pass out. On instinct my hand moves to the back of his head, holding him to me and God it’s so dirty to see him like this, head down and washed in neon while he licks me out, moans against me.
I try to stay still, not to rock my hips or be demanding, but every nerve in my body is focused on his tongue as it drags over my clit.
“Fingers,” I gasp.
He swears, two fingers sliding deep, his tongue moving in practiced movements, tiny flicks alternated with long, slow licks.
“Oh God . . .” I say, on the edge of something that starts in my stomach, slips up along my spine. I twist my hands in his hair, hips rocking against him as it grows stronger. I look down and watch, nearly losing my breath when I see his hand down the front of his pants, his arm jerking in a blur of movement.
“Come up here,” I say, breathless. “Please.” I’m so close—so close—but I want us to come together.
“God yes,” he says, and stands, pushing his pants down his hips.
His hair is a mess and color blooms across his cheekbones and down his neck. I feel the head of his cock as he slides it over me and I’m so wet that with just the smallest step forward he starts to slip inside.
With a gasp, he tucks his head into my neck, takes deep, steadying breaths. “I need a second,” he says, and holds my hips still. “S’il te plaît.”
When he straightens again, he reaches a hand over my shoulder, bracing himself against the mirror.
“You feel too good,” he explains, pulling out slowly before pushing in again. “So fucking good.”
He builds a rhythm, hips rocking against mine, the sound of his belt clanking against the counter as he fucks me. I wrap my legs around his waist and he reaches up, holds my face in one hand before pushing his thumb between my lips. I can taste myself on his fingers, on his mouth, but he can’t seem to focus long enough to kiss me.
“I want to watch you come,” he whispers, eyes moving across my face. He pulls his thumb back and paints a wet line across my lower lip. “I want to feel you squeezing me and I want to eat your greedy little noises.”
I gasp, wrapping my fists around the hem of his shirt, pulling him harder into me.
“Say what you want,” he growls.
“I want it rougher.”
“Make it dirty,” he says, licking my mouth. “You can pretend you never have to see me again. What is your most shameful thought?”
My gaze drops to his mouth as I tell him, “I want someone to hear us fucking.”
His pupils dilate, reflecting the neon back to me, and he grips my thighs tightly before he begins slamming hard and slick into me, grunting roughly every time his hips press to my inner thighs.
Someone knocks on the door and the timing is perfect. It’s locked, but if they walked inside they would hear the slapping of his skin on mine, see my legs on either side of Ansel’s hips, my dress pushed up my body while he fucks me.
“Hurry,” I cry—louder than I probably should—reaching back and gripping the faucet. My fingers feel slick around the cool metal, my skin flushed and damp with sweat.
I feel so full, stretched, with limbs loose. His body fits perfectly inside and against me, the jut of his pelvis rubbing against my clit with every thrust. The tight feeling in my stomach grows, warmer and hotter until I throw my head back, crying out as I come, lost to everything but the way my body tries to pull him in as I fall apart around him.
He follows only a moment later, movements becoming jagged and frantic, stilling against me with a muffled groan into my skin.
THE EVENING BREEZE ruffles the back of my hair and the ends tickle my chin as the scent of bread and cigarettes drifts from a café we pass on our way to the métro.
I glance over my shoulder to where rows of motorcycles are parked at the curb. “Where’s your bike?” I ask.
“Home,” he says simply. “I dropped it off earlier so that I could walk with you.”
He doesn’t say this to earn a reaction, so he misses the way my eyes turn up to him. We didn’t really talk about the accident tonight, though it feels like a constant companion anytime the subject of school and life ahead is broached. But he’s shown me that he’s always aware of what happened and won’t ever push, unlike my father, who got me a bike for my first birthday out of the hospital and repeatedly suggested I get back on the horse. Ansel’s frankness is still something that takes me by surprise. Where I tend to agonize over everything I say—worrying whether I’ll be able to say it at all—Ansel never filters. Words seem to tumble from his candy-colored mouth without even a second thought. I wonder if he’s always been this unguarded, if he’s this way with everyone.
The busiest part of the day has come and gone but we’re still lucky to find seats together. We sit side by side on the crowded train, and I watch our reflection in the window opposite us. Even in the grimy glass and beneath the harsh, often flickering fluorescent lights, it’s impossible to miss how beautiful he is. It’s not an adjective I’ve ever used to describe a guy before, but as I look at him, taking in the angles of his jaw, the prominence of his cheekbones offset by his soft, nearly feminine mouth, it’s the only one that seems to fit.
He’s loosened his tie, unbuttoning the top of his dress shirt to offer up a triangle of smooth, tan skin. The open shirt frames his long neck, the tempting hint of collarbone peeking out just enough to make me wonder why I never thought of collarbones as sexy before.
As if sensing my gaze, Ansel’s eyes shift from the passing blur of track on the other side of the window, and meet mine in the glass. Our reflections rock with the movement of the train and Ansel watches me too, a small, knowing smile pulling at the corners of his mouth. How is it possible to sit here like this in calm, companionable silence, when only an hour ago I had him inside me, my hands slick with sweat as my fingers fought for purchase on the faucet?
More passengers board at the next stop and Ansel moves, giving his seat to an older gentleman with heavy bags in each hand. They share a few words in French I obviously don’t understand, and he takes the spot in front of me, his right arm raised to grip the handrail suspended from the ceiling.
It gives me an exceptional view of his torso and the front of his dress pants. Yum.
The sound of laughter draws my attention and I see a group of girls seated only a few rows away. They’re probably in university, I think, and just a few years younger than me. Too old for high school but clearly still students. They sit with their heads pressed together and if their hushed giggles and wide-eyed stares are any indication, I know exactly what they’re looking at. Or, rather, whom.
I blink up to find him looking down at the older man, listening and oblivious to the leering glances being cast in his direction.
I don’t blame them, of course. If I saw Ansel on a train I’m positive I’d practically break my neck in an attempt to get a better look, and now the night I saw him across the bar in Vegas feels like a lifetime ago. It’s in these moments I find myself wanting to congratulate past-me for doing or saying whatever it was that caught Ansel’s attention in the first place and—by some act of God or alcohol I still don’t understand—held it. Sometimes, I think, past-me is a genius.
He laughs a deep, masculine laugh at something the man has said, and heaven help me, the dimple is out in full force again. I immediately glance over like the jealous girlfriend—wife—I’ve become and sure enough, every head in that gaggle of girls
And although I’ve said absolutely nothing, I’m beginning to wonder if every thought I have is somehow projected onto a screen above my head. Because it’s this moment Ansel chooses to glance down at me, eyes soft and warm as he reaches to brush a single finger along my bottom lip. Possessiveness sparks like a flare in my chest and I turn into his hand, pressing my mouth to his palm.
Ansel is beaming when the train comes to a stop at our station. He takes my hand as I stand and pulls me out the door, fitting his arm around my waist as soon as we’re on the platform.
“You left work early,” I say.
He laughs. “Are you only now realizing this?”
“No. Well . . . yes. I didn’t think about it before.” What he told me about his boss and his job replays itself like an echo inside my head. “You won’t be in trouble, will you?”
He shrugs in that way he does, easy and loose. “I can work from home,” he says. “I went in before everyone else, and even leaving as early as I did, I still worked a full day. It just wasn’t a fourteen-hour one. They’re going to have to adjust.”
But clearly they won’t have to adjust yet. Ansel kisses me sweetly when we walk into the flat, and then moves to his desk, booting up his laptop. As if on cue, his phone rings and he shrugs at me apologetically before answering it with a clipped “llo?”
I hear a deep male voice on the other end, and then, instead of his weary work expression, see a happy smile spread over my husband’s face. “Hey, Olls,” he says. “Yeah, we’re home.”
I wave, tell him to say hi to Oliver for me, and then turn to the bedroom, grabbing my book from the couch before closing the door behind me to give them some privacy.
The bed is wide and perfect, and I lie the wrong way across it, spreading out like a starfish. I can hear sounds from the street filtering up, and let the smell of bread and roasting garlic filter through my senses while I stare at my book, idly thinking about what we might do for dinner. But of course I can’t focus on a single word on the page.
Partly it’s the way Ansel’s smile into the phone lingers in my vision, or the way his voice sounded—so deep, relieved, relaxed—so different from how I’ve heard him the past few weeks. Even though he’s never awkward, and we just spent the most amazing evening out together, he’s still the tiniest bit formal with me, and I only see it now with the intimacy of a best friend on the other end of the line. It’s exactly how I am with Lola or Harlow: unguarded, unfiltered.
I listen to his voice through the door, wanting to absorb the velvet smoothness of it, his deep belly laugh. But then I hear him clear his throat and his voice drops. “She’s good. I mean, of course she’s amazing.” He pauses, and then laughs quietly. “I know you think that. You’ll think that even when we’ve been married for thirty years.”
My stomach does a delicious pirouette but it dips uncomfortably when he says, “No, I haven’t talked to her about it.” Another pause, and then, quieter, “Of course Perry hasn’t been over. I don’t want any of that mess to threaten Mia.” I stop, leaning closer to hear better. Why didn’t he tell Oliver that Perry was here banging on the door just last night?
I hear the unfamiliar edge of frustration in his voice when he says, “I will. I will, Oliver, shut the fuck up.” But then he laughs again, removing any tension from the conversation I’m hearing through the door, and I blink, completely confused. What is the story with Perry? What is this unknown mess of him, the unanswered questions surrounding why he wasn’t in the States, and how could he possibly threaten me?
Shaking my head to clear it, I realize I either need to walk out there and let him know I can hear him, or leave. Or both. We already have enough unintentional secrets . . . at least he does.
I open the bedroom door, stepping into the living room and putting a hand on his shoulder. He jumps slightly at the contact, turning to me and then lifting my hand to kiss it.
“I can hear you,” I tell him, wincing a little in apology as if it’s my fault. “I’m going to go to the corner and pick up some dinner.”
He nods, eyes grateful for the privacy, and then points to his wallet on the entryway table. I ignore it and slip out the door, finding I’m able to really exhale for the first time once I’m closed inside the tiny elevator.
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
“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.
For the first time since I arrived nearly a month ago, I know with absolute certainty that I don’t want to leave.
Ansel’s voice pulls my attention to the door. “Ici,” he murmurs, taking my hand and pulling me through when the double doors part with a blustery whoosh.
We rise out of the métro and walk a couple of blocks until the view appears and I stop without realizing it, my feet planted on the sidewalk.
I’d read of the Jardin des Plantes in the guidebooks Ansel would leave for me, or the tiny maps of Paris I would find tucked into my messenger bag. But in all my days exploring I still haven’t been and he must know that because here we are, standing in front of what must be the most beautiful garden I’ve ever seen.
It seems to stretch for miles, with lawns so green they seem nearly fluorescent, and flowers of colors I don’t think I’ve ever seen in nature before.