Sweet Filthy Boy

“When I ran into the office on Thursday to retrieve some files to bring home, the senior partner I work most closely with saw my wedding ring. She was . . . displeased.”

My stomach drops, and this is the moment the reality of what we’re doing hits me like an enormous wave. Yes, he invited me here, but I’ve crashed directly into his life. Once again I’m reminded how little I know about him. “Are you two . . . involved?”

He freezes, looking mildly horrified. “Oh, no. God, no.” His green eyes narrow as he studies me. “You think I would have slept with you, married you, and invited you here if I had a girlfriend?”

My answering laugh comes out more like a cough. “I guess not, sorry.”

“I’ve been her little slave boy these past few months,” he explains. “And now that I’m married, she’s convinced I’ll lose focus.”

I wince. What we’ve done is so rash. So stupid. Not only is he married now, but soon he’ll be divorced. Why didn’t he bother to hide our Vegas mishap at his job? Does he approach anything with caution? “I don’t need you to change your work schedule while I’m here.”

He’s already shaking his head. “I only need to work this weekend. It will be fine. She’ll get over her panic. I think she got used to having me in the office whenever she wanted.”

I bet she did. I feel my frown deepen as I look him over, and I’m not so ill that a hot slide of jealousy doesn’t slip through my bloodstream. With the sunlight streaming down from the ceiling and lighting up the sharp angles of his jaw and cheekbones, I’m struck all over again by how amazing his face is.

He continues, “I’m almost done with this enormous case and then I’ll have more flexibility. I’m sorry I’m not really here for your first weekend.”

God, this is so, so weird.

I wave him off, unable to say more than “Please don’t worry.” He’s practically been serving me since I arrived, and the mortification and guilt commingle into a sour mix in my stomach. For all I know, he’s seen enough of me at my worst to put him off this game we’re playing entirely. I wouldn’t be all that surprised if, after I’ve fully recovered, he suggests a few hotels I might find fitting for the remainder of my stay.

What a horrible start to our . . . whatever this is.

Since the opportunities might eventually be limited, when he walks across the room I ogle the hell out of him. He’s so long, thin but toned. Suits were made for exactly his type of body. His light brown hair is combed neatly off his face, his tan neck disappearing beneath the collar of his shirt. He no longer looks like the casual and playful man I met in Vegas; he looks like a young, badass lawyer and he’s eminently more f**kable. How is it even possible?

I push up onto an elbow, wanting a sharper memory of how it felt to draw my tongue down his chin and over his Adam’s apple. I want to remember him unhinged and desperate, rumpled and sweaty, so I can relish knowing that the women he sees today will only know this put-together, clothed side of him.

The pants are deep blue, the shirt a crisp white, and he stands in front of a slim mirror, knotting a beautiful silk blue and green tie.

“Eat something today, hmm?” he says, smoothing his hand down his front before reaching for a blue suit jacket hanging on a small stand in the corner.

For once, I want to be the woman who climbs up on her knees, beckons him to the bed, and pretends his tie needs to be fixed before using it to pull him back under the covers.

Unfortunately for this seduction plan, I was already slim but I feel skeletal now. My legs are shaky and weak when I push myself out of bed. Not sexy. Not even a little. And before I shower, before I even approach a mirror—and definitely before I attempt to seduce this hot husband/stranger/person-I’d-like-to-be-naked-with-again—I do need something to eat. I smell bread, and fruit, and the sweet nectar of the gods: I haven’t had coffee in days.

Ansel walks back over and his eyes make the circuit of my face and down over my entire body, hidden to mid-thigh beneath one of his T-shirts. I forgot to pack pajamas, apparently. He confirms my suspicion that I look like death barely warmed over when he says, “There’s food in the kitchen.”

I nod and hold on to the lapels of his jacket, needing him to linger just a second longer. Other than Ansel, I know no one here, and I’ve barely been able to process my decision to get on that plane nearly four days ago. I’m struck with a confusing mix of elation and panic. “This is the weirdest situation of my life.”

His laugh is deep, and he bends so it rumbles past my ear as he kisses my neck. “I know. It’s easy to do, harder to follow through. But it’s fine, okay, Mia?”

Well, that was cryptic.

When I let him go, he turns to pack his computer into a leather messenger tote. I follow him out of the bedroom, freezing as I watch him grab a motorcycle helmet from where it rested on a table near the door.

“You drive a motorcycle?” I ask.

His smile stretches from one side of his face to the other as he nods, slowly. I’ve seen how cars drive in this city. I’m really not all that confident he’ll return in one piece.

“Don’t make that face,” he says, lips pouting out the quiet words and then curling into a panty-dropping smile. “Once you ride with me, you’ll never get in a car again.”

I’ve never been on a motorcycle in my life—never wanted to—and I’ve sworn off two-wheeled vehicles forever in general. But something about the way he says it, the way he comfortably tucks the helmet under his arm and hitches his bag over his shoulder, makes me think maybe he’s right. With a wink, he turns and leaves. The door closes with a quiet, perfunctory click.