Sweet Filthy Boy (Wild Seasons #1)(40)

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 nipples harden as he begins walking us back to the bedroom, and I feel the heaviness of my breasts, 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.

Clothes come off, he—literally—trips out of his pants, the room tips, and when I open my eyes again I see the ceiling above and feel the soft sheets at my back. He kisses down my neck and along my shoulder, licks a path down to my breast. It’s darker back here than I’d expected and I almost forget we’re naked until Ansel moves to his knees and stretches across me, fumbling with the bedside table and returning with a condom.

“Oh,” I say, pulling my eyebrows together. I guess we’re ready to go. Also, I guess the blood test results aren’t in yet. “Are we . . . ?”

He looks down to the foil packet. “I checked the mail and . . . we didn’t . . . I mean. If . . .”

“No,” I blurt. “Good. It’s fine.” And could this be more awkward? Is he thinking I have something? Does he think Vegas was, like, an everyday occurrence for me? And what about him? What about the other one? Miles of naked chest and arms are in front of me, his flat stomach, his cock hard as it juts out between us—how many other women have enjoyed this exact view? “We definitely should use one, to be grown-up about it until we know.”

He nods and I don’t miss the way his hands shake as he tears open the wrapper, when he reaches for himself and rolls the latex down his length. My legs are open and he settles between them, his eyes flickering up to me.

“Okay?” he asks.

I nod and choke on a little breath when his fingers find where I’m wet, moving in small circles before he replaces them with his cock.

And oh . . . okay. That feels . . . nice.

“Still okay?” he asks again, and this time I bring my legs around his hips and tighten, pulling him forward.

He exhales as he pushes inside, stilling when his body is flush with mine. His small sounds vibrate along my skin and I nod to tell him I’m good, to keep going. He pulls out, pushes back in. His hair brushes along my chest when he looks down between us, watching the way he moves in me. Over and over.