Sweet Filthy Boy

I wonder whether I only temporarily have the luxury of his passion before it cools. I want to stab my jealousy with a sharp tool.

“I felt obligated,” he repeats, and finally he looks at me again. “She waited for me, so I returned. I took this job I hate, but I was wrong. We weren’t happy, even when I was back here.”

“How long were you with her?”

He sighs. “Too long.”

He’s been back here nearly a year, and finished law school just before he came back. Too long doesn’t tell me very much.

But it’s time to return to something better than this. The subject is heavy, a weighted lure in my mind, pulling my thoughts under the clear surface of our game to something dreary and somber. It’s not who we are.

We’re married for the summer. Summer marriages don’t get dragged down in heavy stuff. Besides, I’m wearing a devil costume and he’s naked, for crying out loud. How seriously can we really take ourselves right now?

I pretend to make a note of something on the clipboard and then look back up at him. “I think I have all the information I need.”

He relaxes in pieces: his legs beneath me first, then abdomen, shoulders, and finally his expression. I feel something unknot in me when he grins. “So it’s all taken care of, then?”

I snap my fingers, and nod. “I can’t make you come out of it with a promotion, but I don’t think you wanted that anyway.”

“Not if it means I have to stay on much longer,” he agrees with a laugh.

“Tomorrow Capitaux will drop the case and everyone will know it’s because you found the document that clears Régal Biologiques of all wrongdoing.”

He exhales dramatically, wiping his brow. “You’ve saved me.”

“So it’s my turn, then,” I remind him. “And time to claim my payment.” I lean in to suck on his neck. “Hmm, would you like to feel my hand or—”

“Your mouth,” he interrupts.

With an evil smile, I move back, shaking my head. “That wasn’t going to be one of the options.”

He huffs out an impatient breath. Every muscle grows tight and urgent beneath my roaming hands once more and I tease him more by scratching my short nails down his chest.

“Then tell me what my choices are,” he growls.

“My hand, or your hand,” I say and press my fingers to his lips to keep him from answering too quickly again. “If you choose my hand, that’s all you’ll get, and you’ll remain tied up. If you choose your hand, of course I’ll untie you . . . but you can also watch me use my hand on myself.”

His eyes widen as if he’s not entirely sure who I am all of a sudden. And, to be honest, I’m not sure, either. I’ve never done this in front of someone before, but the words just bubbled up and out of me.

And I’m positive I know what he’s going to choose.

He leans forward, kisses me once sweetly before answering. “I use my hand, you use yours.”

I’m not sure whether I’m relieved or nervous as I reach behind him and pull his hands free of the tie around his wrists. Faster than I expected, he grabs me by the hips and jerks me forward, sliding the wet fabric of my underwear over his cock, grinding up into me with a low groan. Without thinking, I move with him, rocking on top and feeling the delicious press of the hard line of him to my clit. I hadn’t realized how turned on I’d been being so close to him for so long, just listening to him, playing with him, but I can tell I’m soaked.

And I want him. I want the thick slide of him into me, the way my body is so full of his it’s the only thing I can imagine ever feeling again. I want to hear his voice, encouraging and urgent in my ear, falling away into a broken mix of English and French, and—finally—the hoarse, unintelligible sounds of his pleasure.

But I’m in charge tonight for better or worse, and no direct report of Satan’s would ever let a man change her plan, no matter how warm his skin, no matter how filthy he sounds when he says, “I can feel your need for me soaked through the silk.”

Pushing off his lap, I pull the red fabric down my legs, kicking it onto his lap. He pulls it to his face, watching me with hooded eyes as I sit on the low coffee table. I watch as he circles his c**k with his fist, and strokes up once, slowly.

It feels so depraved doing this, but I’m surprised that it doesn’t feel weird. I’ve never seen anything as sexy as watching Ansel touch himself. I pretend he’s alone, thinking of me. I pretend I’m alone, thinking of him. And, like this, my fingers slide over my skin and he begins to pull himself harder, faster, his breath coming out in tiny grunts.

“Show me,” he whispers. “How do you f**k yourself when I’m at work, thinking of you?”

I lie back, turning my head so I can still watch him and start to use both hands. He wants to see me let go. It’s what this is about, after all: the costumes, the pretend. It’s letting ourselves do anything we want. I slide two fingers inside, and use the other hand to circle outside . . . my pulse trips and races when he groans, speeding up and hoarsely telling me he wants to see me come.

It’s a poor approximation of his fingers, and an even worse approximation of his cock, but with his eyes on me and the brushing rhythm of his fist tugging at his length, I feel the rush of blood to my thighs and the heavy ache between my legs build, and build until I’m arching off the table and coming with a sharp cry. With a relieved moan, he lets go after me. I push up on an elbow, watching as he spills onto his hand and stomach.