Sweet Filthy Boy

“Please don’t be mad,” he says. “Lola called to tell me you were here. I was on my way to meet you three for dinner. Also, Harlow mentioned that she would break both my legs along with any other protruding appendages if I didn’t treat you the way you deserved.”

“I’m not mad.” I shake my head trying to clear it. “I just . . . I can’t believe you’re actually here.”

“You thought I would just stay there and fix it at some random point in the future? I couldn’t be so far from you.”

“Well . . . I’m glad.”

I can tell he wants to ask, So why did you leave like that? Why didn’t you at least tell me goodbye? But he doesn’t. And I give him serious points for it, too. Because although my entrance into and departure from France were both impulsive, he was the reason both times: one blissful, the other heartbroken. At least he seems to know it. Instead, he looks me over, eyes lingering on my legs visible beneath my nude tights, below my short dance skirt.

“You look beautiful,” he says. “In fact, you look so beautiful I’m a little at a loss for words.”

I’m so relieved I burst forward. He curls into me and his face is in my neck. His arms seem long enough to wrap several times around my waist. I can feel his breath on my skin and the way he shakes against me, and when I say, “This feels so good,” he just nods, and our embrace seems to go on forever.

His lips find my neck, my jaw, and he’s sucking and nibbling. His breath is warm and minty and he’s whispering in French, some words I can’t translate but don’t need to. I hear love and life and mine and sorry and then his hands are cupping my face and his mouth is on mine, eyes wide and fingers shaking on my jaw. It’s a single, chaste kiss—no tongue, nothing deeper—but the way I’m trembling against him seems to promise him that there’s so much more, because he pulls back and looks victorious.

“Let’s go, then,” he says, dimple deepening. “Let me thank your girls.”

I’m starving for him, for us to be alone, but somehow even more excited just to have him here, with my friends, like this. Taking his arm, I pull him to my car.

ANSEL PUTS HIS dress shirt back on as he talks about his flight, the odd feeling of leaving just after work and arriving here at dawn and then having to wait all day to see me . . . all kinds of little details that skirt the edges of the bigger What Now? I steal glances at him as I drive. With the darkening sky behind him, he looks undeniably polished and gorgeous in his lavender button-down and slim charcoal pants. Even though I’m clearly just coming from a dance class, I’m not going to bother changing. If we went back to my place, no doubt we would stay there, and I need to see my girls, to thank them. And maybe more important, to let him thank them.

I slip on some more functional flats and take him directly to meet Harlow and Lola at Bar Dynamite, pulling him through the crowd, smiling so huge that my person is with me, my husband, my Ansel. They’re sitting in a curved booth, sipping drinks, and Lola sees me before Harlow does. Dammit if her eyes don’t immediately well up with tears.

“No.” I point at her, laughing. For all her tough exterior she is such a sap. “We aren’t doing that.”

She laughs, shaking her head and sweeping them away, and it’s a strange blur of greetings, of my favorite people and husband hugging each other as if they’re the best of friends and merely haven’t seen each other for a while.

But in a way, it’s true. I love him, so they do, too. I love them, so he does, too. He pulls two chocolate bars from the inside pocket of the jacket he has slung over his arm and hands one to Lola and the other to Harlow. “For helping me. I got them at the airport, so don’t look too excited.”

They both take them, and Harlow looks down at hers and then back at him. “If she doesn’t bang you tonight, I will.”

His blush, his dimple, a quiet laugh, and the teeth pressing into his lip again and I’m done for. Fucking kill me now.

“Not a problem,” I tell her as I toss his jacket onto the seat and drag him, wide-eyed and grinning, after me onto the dance floor. I honestly don’t care what song is playing—he’s not leaving my side the entire night. I step into his arms and press into him.

“We’re dancing again?”

“There’s going to be a lot more dancing,” I tell him. “You may have noticed I’m taking your advice.”

“I’m so proud of you,” he whispers. He rests his forehead against mine before pulling back, meeting my eyes. “You just implied you’re banging me tonight.” His grin gets bigger as his hands snake around my waist.

“Play your cards right.”

“I forgot my cards.” His smile wilts dramatically. “But I did bring my penis.”

“I’ll try not to break it this time.”

“In fact, I think you should try your hardest.”

The bass shakes up through the floor and we’ve been semi-yelling this playful banter, but the mood slides away, cooling between us, and the moment grows a little heavy. We’ve always been best at flirting, best at f**king, but we’ve had to pretend to be someone else for us to open up sincerely.

“Talk to me,” he says, bending to whisper the words into my ear. “Tell me what happened that morning you left.”

“I sort of felt like I had to step up and face what comes next,” I say quietly, but he’s still bent close, and I know he’s heard me. “It was shitty of you not to tell me about Perry, but really it just gave me the shove I needed.”