Sweet Filthy Boy

EVEN AFTER MY epiphany that it helps me relax when I’m pretending, I’m still not really sure how to tackle this. A costume . . . like sexy underwear to get me in the right headspace? Or is Harlow really suggesting I pull out all the stops and go full-on, jazz-hands, showtime? My phone continually buzzes with texts from her, all of them filled with links and addresses within an area known as Place Pigalle.

And of course they’re all in the neighborhood near our apartment, lending even greater sense of destiny to this plan. Make it easy on me why don’t you, Harlow?

But none is exactly what I’m looking for: they’re either dark and cavelike, or advertised with bright neon lights and posed mannequins dressed in scraps of frightening lingerie in the window. I continue to walk, following the last address Harlow sent and wandering down one narrow alley and then another. In the shadows it’s quiet, nearly damp, and I continue for what feels like blocks before the sky appears in a tiny courtyard. And only about ten yards down, there is a little, understated shop with lace and velvet and leather in the window.

I feel like I’ve been transported to Diagon Alley.

I open the door and am hit with the smell of iris and sage, a scent so warm and earthy, I immediately feel myself relaxing. A woman inside steps out from behind the counter and somehow knows to give me a “Hello,” and not a “Bonjour.”

She wears a leather corset, her br**sts pushing up enviably. Dark denim wraps around her legs and her heels have to be at least five inches of screaming, fire engine red.

All around me there are cases of toys—dildos and vibrators, rubber fists and handcuffs. Near the back of the store are shelves of books and videos, and along the side walls are racks of costumes of every color and for nearly every fantasy.

“You are looking for a costume to wear or play?” she asks, noticing where I’ve turned my attention. Even though her question, as phrased, is a little confusing, and even though my brain wants to linger on the sweetness of her accent curling around “costume,” I know what she meant. Because it’s exactly why I walked in here.

“Play,” I say.

Her eyes turn up in a warm smile. A real smile in a tiny store buried in an enormous city.

“We start you out easy, okay?” She walks over to a rack with costumes I recognize: nurse, maid, schoolgirl, cat. I run my hand over the rack, feeling excitement bloom beneath my ribs. “And then you come back when he will like some more.”

Chapter ELEVEN

I GET HOME, RELIEVED that Ansel isn’t here yet. Dropping a bag of takeout on the kitchen counter, I move to the bedroom and pull the costume from the garment bag. When I hold it up in front of me, I feel the first pang of uncertainty. The saleswoman measured my bust, my waist, and my hips so she could calculate my size. But the tiny thing in my hands doesn’t look like it will fit.

In fact, it does fit, but it doesn’t look any bigger once it’s on. The bodice and skirt are pink satin, overlaid with delicate black lace. The top pushes my br**sts together and up, giving me cle**age I don’t think I’ve ever had before. The skirt flares out¸ ending many inches above my knees. When I bend over, the black ruffle panties are supposed to show. I tie the tiny apron, fix the little cap on my head, and pull on the black thigh-highs, straightening the pink bows at my knees. Once I slip on the spiked heels and hold my feather duster, I feel both sexy and ridiculous, if the combination is even possible. My mind seesaws between the two. It’s not that I don’t look good in the costume, it’s that I can’t honestly imagine what Ansel will think when he comes home to this.

But it isn’t enough for me to just dress up. Costumes alone do not a show make. I need a plot, a story to tell. I sense that we need to get lost in another reality tonight, one where he doesn’t have the stress of his job looming over his daylight hours, and one where I don’t feel like he offered an adventure to a girl who left her spark back in the States.

I could be the good maid who has done her job perfectly and deserves reward. The idea of Ansel thanking me, rewarding me, makes my skin hum with a flush. The problem is Ansel’s flat is spotless. There’s nothing I can do to make it look better, and he won’t pick up on what role he’s supposed to play.

That means I need to get in trouble.

I look around, wondering what I can mess up, what he’ll immediately notice. I don’t want to leave food on the counter in case this plan is successful and we end up in bed all night. My eyes move across the apartment and stop at the wall of windows, pinned there.

Even with only the light of the streetlamps coming through the glass, I can see how it gleams, spotless.

I know he’ll be here any second. I hear the grind of the elevator, the metal clanking of the doors closing. I close my eyes and press both palms flat to the window, smearing. When I pull back, two long smudges stay behind.

His key fits into the lock, creaking as it turns. The door opens with the quiet skid of wood on wood, and I move to the entryway, back straight, hands clasped around the feather duster in front of me.

Ansel drops his keys on the table, places his helmet beneath it, and then looks up, eyes going wide.

“Wow. Hello.” He tightens his grip on two envelopes in his hand.

“Welcome home, Mr. Guillaume,” I say, voice breaking on his name. I’m giving myself five minutes. If he doesn’t seem to want to play, it won’t be the end of the world.

It won’t.

His eyes first move up to the tiny, frilled cap pinned in my hair and then down, tripping as they always do over my lips before sliding down my neck, to my br**sts, my waist, my hips, my thighs. He eyes my shoes, lips parting.