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 Musée—?”
“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.
He wants to have sex tonight. I want to have sex tonight. But what was easy before suddenly feels so . . . complicated. Do we do it now? The couch would be nice, maybe even the table . . . Or should we finish dinner and go into the bedroom to be civilized? I glance out the window and see that the sun still filters through the skylight above the bed. He’ll see my scars. All of them. Logically, I know he’s seen them before—felt them along my skin—but this is different. It’s not spontaneous maybe-it-won’t-ever-happen-again sex. It’s not you-have-no-idea-who-I-am-so-I-can-be-anyone-I-want sex. Not lottery-ticket, just-happened-upon-a-perfect-opportunity sex. This is sex we plan, sex we can have whenever we want. Accessible sex.
All these thoughts and more flash through my head and he’s still watching me, waiting with unsure eyes. I’m thinking too much and panic that I’ll screw this up rises like smoke in my chest, my throat.
“Are you hungry?” he asks, hedging.
“I don’t have to be.” What does that even mean, Mia?
“But . . . you are now?” He scratches his temple, understandably confused. “I mean, we can eat first if you prefer.”
“I don’t. We shouldn’t. Let’s not? I’m okay not eating first.”
With a quiet laugh, Ansel shuts off the stove and turns. He takes my face in his hands, palms warm against my cheeks, and kisses me. His lips tease at mine, teeth gently scraping across. I feel his fingers thread in my hair and he tips my head back, pulling away just long enough to brush his nose along mine and tilt my chin up to him. Against my skin, his fingers tremble with restraint and his noises come out tight, barely controlled.
I suck in a breath as the tip of his tongue pushes inside and he moans into my mouth. My ni**les harden as he begins walking us back to the bedroom, and I feel the heaviness of my br**sts, the heat between my legs.
His foot lands on top of mine and he whispers an apology, wincing as I say, “It’s okay, it’s okay,” into his kiss.
My eyes are closed but I feel the moment he kicks off his shoes, hear them tumble along the wood floor. The edge of a wall connects with my back and he whispers another apology into my mouth, sucks on my tongue, and tries to distract me. His fingers run along my spine, under the hem of my shirt, and soon it’s up and over my head, forgotten somewhere behind us. My hands tug at his shirt until his skin is bare and warm and pressed against mine.