Sweet Filthy Boy (Wild Seasons #1)(45)

Shit. I just hope he’s game for this. I don’t want to be wrong. Wrong will send me back to the dark ages of awkward silence.

He turns slowly, wearing one of his easy smiles I haven’t seen in days. He looks me over again, from the top of my head to my tiny, dangerous heels. His gaze is tangible, a brush of heat across my skin. “Is this what you need?” he whispers.

After a beat, I nod. “I think so.”

A cacophony of horns blares up from the street below and Ansel waits until the flat is silent again before he speaks.

“Oh yes,” he says slowly. “You missed a spot.”

I pull my brows together in mock concern, my mouth forming a soft, round O.

With a dramatic scowl he turns, stomping to the kitchen and pulling out an unlabeled bottle. I can smell the vinegar, and wonder whether he has his own glass-cleaning recipe. His fingers brush mine when he hands me the bottle. “You may fix it before you leave.”

I feel my shoulders straighten confidently as he follows me to the window, watching as I spray a cloud over the handprints. There’s a heavy buzz in my veins, a sense of power I hadn’t expected. He’s doing what I want him to do, and though he’s handing me a cloth to wipe the window clean, it’s because I’ve orchestrated it. He’s just playing along.

“Go over it once again. Leave no streaks.”

When I’m finished, it gleams, spotless, and behind me he exhales slowly. “An apology seems appropriate, no?”

When I turn to face him, he looks so sincerely displeased that my pulse trips in my throat—hot and thrilled—and I blurt, “I’m sorry. I—”

He reaches up, eyes twinkling as his thumb strokes across my bottom lip to calm me. “Good.” Blinking toward the kitchen, he inhales slowly, smelling the roasted chicken, then asks, “Have you made dinner?”

“I ordered—” I pause, blinking. “Yes. I cooked you

dinner.”

“I’d like some now.” With a tiny smile, he turns and walks across the room to the dining table, sitting down and leaning back in the chair. I hear the rip of paper as he opens the mail he’d been holding and a long, quiet exhale as he places it on the table beside him. He doesn’t even turn around to look at me.

Holy shit is he good at this.

I move to the kitchen, pulling food from the takeout container and arranging it as neatly as I can on a plate for him between stolen glances in his direction. He’s still waiting and reading his mail, patiently, completely in character while he waits for me—his maid—to bring him his dinner. So far, so good. Spotting a bottle of wine on the counter, I pull out the cork and pour him a glass. The red shines decadently, climbing up the sides as it sways in my hand. I pick up the plate and carry his dinner out to him, setting it down with a quiet thunk.

“Thank you,” he says.

“You’re welcome.”

I hover for a beat, staring down at the letter I think he’s left for me to see. It sits, faceup, on the table and the first thing my gaze snags on is his name at the top, and then the long list of checkmarks beneath the Negatif column for every sexually transmitted disease we were tested for.

And then I see the unopened envelope beside his, addressed to me.

“Is this my paycheck?” I ask him. I wait until he nods before sliding it off the table. Opening it quickly, I scan the letter and smile. Good to go.

He doesn’t ask what mine says, and I don’t bother to tell him. Instead, I stand to the side and just behind him, my heart jackhammering in my chest as I watch him dig into his dinner. He doesn’t ask if I’ve eaten, doesn’t offer anything to me.

But there’s something about playing this game, a mild domination role for him, that makes my stomach flutter, my skin hum with warmth. I like to watch him eat. He curls over his plate and his shoulders flex, muscles in his back defined and visible through his light purple dress shirt.

What will we do when he’s done? Will we continue to play? Or will he drop the act, pull me to the bedroom, and touch me? I want both options—I especially want him now that I know I’ll feel every inch of his skin—but I want to keep playing even more.

He seems to drink his wine quickly, washing down every bite with long gulps. At first, I wonder if he’s nervous and just hiding it well. But when he puts his glass down on the table and gestures for me to refill it, it occurs to me that he’s simply wondering how far I’ll go serving him.

When I bring the bottle out and refill his glass, he says only a quiet “Merci,” and then returns to his food.

The silence is unnerving, and it has to be intentional. Ansel may be a workaholic, but when he’s home the flat is not ever quiet. He sings, he chatters, he makes everything into a drum with his fingers. I realize I’m right—it is intentional—when he swallows a bite and says, “Talk to me. Tell me something while I eat.”

He’s testing me again, but unlike refilling his wine, he knows this one is more of a challenge.

“I had a nice day on the job,” I tell him. He hums as he chews, looking over his shoulder at me. It’s the first time I catch a glimpse of hesitation in his eyes, as if he wants me to be able to tell him everything I did today, and truthfully, but can’t while we play.

“Cleaned for a while over near the Orsay . . . then near the Madeleine,” I answer with a smile, enjoying our code. He returns to his food, and his silence.