Sweet Filthy Boy - Lauren Christina (читать книги без TXT) 📗

Ansel turns, tight smile in place, and I lift my hand, offering a small, awkward wave.

“Hi,” I whisper. “Sorry.”

He waves back, and with another apologetic smile holds up a finger signaling for me to wait. I nod, thinking he means for me to wait while he ends his call . . . but he doesn’t. Instead he nods toward the back of the flat and then moves across the floor and into the bedroom, closing the door behind him.

I can only stare, blinking at the simple white door. His voice filters out into the living room and, if possible, is even louder than it was before.

Deflating, I let my bag slip from my shoulder to land in a heap on the couch.

There are groceries on the counter: a bag of fresh pasta, some herbs, and a wedge of cheese. A baguette wrapped in brown paper sits next to a pot of water that’s just starting to boil. The simple wooden table is set in bright red dishes, a bouquet of purple flowers spilling from a small vase in the center. He was making us dinner.

I open a few of the cupboard doors, searching for a wineglass, and try to ignore the words I can still hear in the other room. To a person I don’t know. In a language I don’t speak.

I also try to tamp down the thread of uneasiness that’s begun winding tightly in my gut. I remember Ansel telling me his boss was concerned he’d become distracted, and wonder if that’s who he’s talking to. It could be one of the guys—Finn or Oliver—or Perry, the one who couldn’t make it to Vegas. But would he sound this frustrated speaking to his boss, or a friend?

My eyes dart to the bedroom just as the door opens, and I jump, startling slightly before trying to look busy. I reach for a bunch of basil and search in the drawer nearest my hip for a knife.

“I’m so sorry,” he says.

I wave him off, and my voice comes out a little reedy: “Don’t worry! You don’t have to explain anything to me. You had a life before I got here.”

He leans forward, placing a kiss on each of my cheeks. God he smells good. His lips are so soft and I have to grip the counter to keep myself steady.

“I did have a life,” he says, taking the knife from my hand. “But so did you.” When he smiles it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. There’s no dimple. I miss it.

“Why does your job kill your joy?” I ask him, wishing he would touch me again.

With an amused grin, he shrugs. “I’m very junior at the firm still. We’re representing a huge corporation in a very big case, so I have thousands and thousands of pages of documents to go through. I don’t even think the attorneys who have been there for thirty years remember being this busy.”

I lift a small tomato to my lips, humming against it and saying, “That stinks,” before popping it in my mouth.

He watches me chew, nodding slowly. “It does.” His eyes darken and he blinks once, and then again, harder, his eyes clearing as his gaze meets mine again. “How was your day?”

“I feel guilty I’m out there having so much fun and you’re stuck in the office all day,” I admit.

He puts the knife down and turns to face me. “So . . . you’re staying?”

“Do you want me to stay?” I ask, voice thick with awkwardness and my pulse heavy in my throat.

“Of course I want you to stay,” he insists. With a fumbling hand, he pulls his tie loose and off, dropping it on the far end of the counter. “On vacation it’s easy to pretend real life doesn’t exist. I didn’t consider how my job would affect this. Or maybe I just figured you were smarter than I am and less impulsive.”

“I promise. I’m fine. Paris doesn’t exactly suck.” I give him a bright smile.

“The problem is, I’d like to be enjoying you while you’re here.”

“You mean my sparkling wit and big brain, don’t you?” I ask with a grin, reaching for the basil on the counter.

“No, I don’t care about your brain. I mean your boobs. I really only care about boobs.”

I laugh, relief trickling into my bloodstream. There he is. “Who let you graduate from law school, you oaf?”

“It took some convincing, but my father is a wealthy man.”

I laugh again and he takes a step closer but as soon as he does, the moment explodes into awkward again as I reach for him and our hands collide in midair. We apologize in unison and then stand there, staring at each other.

“You can touch me,” I tell him just as he asks, “Why don’t you ever take the money I leave on the table?”

I pause for a beat before whispering, “I’m getting a weird prostitute vibe from that sequence.”

Ansel bends over, laughing with me. “I’m sorry. I don’t know how to say everything I’ve been practicing all day.” He runs a hand through his hair and it leaves it sticking up and ridiculous and damn. I want to run my fingers through it, too. “I just have so much guilt that I’m not around much since you arrived, and I want to make sure you’re having fun.”

Ah. Guilt is making him the robot version of the adoraboy I married. “Ansel, you don’t have to take care of me.”

His face falls a little but he puts it back together. “I want to contribute somehow.”

“You brought me here,” I remind him.

“But I’ve barely seen you. And last night, I fell asleep . . . and you . . .” I watch as his tongue slips out and wets his lips. He stares at my mouth, lips parted. “This is so weird,” he whispers.

“The weirdest,” I agree. “But I’m not taking your money.”

“We’re married.”

“We aren’t that married.”

He laughs, shaking his head in mock exasperation, but amusement digs his dimple into his cheek and it makes my heart grow ten sizes too big for my chest. Hello, lover.

Legally, yes, we’re married. But I’m already relying on him for shelter, and food. There is no way I’m comfortable taking his money when I don’t even know his middle name.

Holy shit I don’t even know his middle name.

“I think it’s great you’re having such a good time,” he says, carefully. “Have you been to the Musee—?”

“What’s your middle name?” I blurt.

He tilts his head, letting a tiny smile tease at the corner of his lips. “Charles. After my father.”

Exhaling, I say, “Good. Ansel Charles Guillaume. A good name.”

His smile slowly straightens as he seems to catch up with me. “Okay. What is your middle name?”

“Rose.”

“Mia Rose?”

I love the way he says Rose. The r sound comes out more purr than actual letter. “You say my name better than anyone ever has.”

“I should,” he murmurs, winking. “It’s officially my new favorite name.”

I watch him for a beat, feeling a smile slowly curve my mouth. “We’re doing everything backwards,” I whisper.

Taking a small step closer, he says, “I need to seduce you all over again, then.”

Oh, the flutters. “You do?”

His smile curls up, dangerous. “I want you in my bed tonight. Naked beneath me.”

He’s talking about having sex, and suddenly there is no way I would be able to eat a bite of food. My stomach crawls up my throat and my panties practically drop in anticipation.

“It’s why I wanted to start by making you dinner,” he continues, oblivious. “And my mother would skin me alive if she knew how much takeout I eat.”

“Well, I can’t imagine you coming home at midnight and making yourself something to eat.”

“True,” he says slowly, drawing the word out into several syllables as he takes another step closer to me. “I wanted to make up for last night.” He smiles and shakes his head before glancing down at me. “And having to leave so quickly this morning after you used my fingers so ingeniously.” He pauses, making sure he has my undivided attention before adding, “I wanted to stay.”

Oh. I wonder if he can hear the way my heart suddenly drops into my stomach because it feels like the crash it makes reverberates around the room. My head is full of words but there must be some disconnect between my brain and my mouth because nothing comes out. Every hair along my arms stands on end and he’s watching me, waiting for a reaction.