Sweet Filthy Boy (Wild Seasons #1)(77)

Ansel rolls me to my back, carefully sliding back into me as he always seems to, even when we’re done, and watching my face with clear, serious eyes.

“It felt good?” he asks quietly.

I nod.

“You like me?”

“I do.”

Our hips rock together slowly, trying to hold on.





Chapter EIGHTEEN

“SO WHAT TIME is this party?” I mumble into my pillow. Ansel rests heavily on top of me, his front to my back, the fabric of his suit pressed against my bare skin, his hair tickling the side of my face. I start to laugh, struggling to get away, but this only encourages him. “Mmpf. You’re so heavy. Do you have bricks in your pocket? Get off me.”

“But you’re so warm,” he whines. “And soft. And you smell so good. Like woman and sex and me.” His fingers find my sides and curl, tickling me relentlessly until he rolls me to my back and then he’s there, hovering above me, his thumb tracing my mouth. “The party’s at seven,” he says, eyes mossy green and filled with a weight that tells me he’d much rather take off the suit than get out of this bed. “I’ll meet you here and we’ll go together. I promise not to be late.”

He leans down and kisses me, making a sound that’s somewhere between contentment and longing, and I know he’s telling himself not to get carried away, that as good as this is, there will be time for more later. After work.

I push my hand beneath his jacket and tug his shirt free from where it’s tucked into the waistband of his pants, as I unapologetically search for skin.

“I can hear you thinking,” I say, repeating the line he’s used on me at least a dozen times. “Wondering how much time you have?”

He groans and lets his head fall to my neck. “I can’t believe there was a time when I used to be up and practically out the door before my alarm even went off. Now I don’t want to leave.”

I push my hands through his hair, scratching lightly against his scalp. He works to keep the majority of his weight off me, but I can feel him relax more every second.

“Je ne veux pas partir,” he repeats, voice a little rough now. “Et je ne veux pas que tu partes.”

And I don’t want you to leave.

I blink up to the ceiling, wanting to commit every detail of this moment to memory.

“I can’t wait to show you off tonight,” he says, brighter now, pushing up onto his elbow and looking down at me. “I can’t wait to tell everyone how I tricked you into proposing to me. We’ll ignore the pesky detail that you’re leaving me soon.”

“Hide my passport and I’m here for good.”

“You think I haven’t already thought of that? Don’t be surprised if you come home one day and it’s gone.” He leans in, kisses me before pulling back. “Okay, that’s creepy; it’s in the top of the dresser where it belongs.”

I laugh, swatting him away. “Go to work.”

He groans and rolls off me, lying on his back on the bed. “If I didn’t have a meeting today with a client I’ve been waiting months to talk to, I’d call and say I’m feeling sick.”

I prop my chin on his chest, looking up at him. “It’s a big one?”

“Very big. What happens today could mean the difference between this case ending in the next six weeks, and dragging on for months and months.”

“Then you should get started.”

“I know,” he says on an exhale.

“And I’ll be here, waiting for you at seven.” I haven’t even finished the sentence and he’s turned to me, smiling again. “And you won’t be late.”

He sits up, takes my face in his hands before kissing me deeply, tongues and teeth, fingers that slip down my body to brush over my nipple.

Standing abruptly, he does the world’s most hilarious version of the robot beside the bed. He bleats out the words in an automaton voice: “I won’t be late.”

“Did you just do that so I’d think you’re adorable even if you’re late tonight?”

“I won’t be late!” But he robots again anyway, sandy hair falling over his forehead, and then moonwalks out of the room.

“Worst dancer ever!” I yell after him. But it’s a total lie. He has rhythm and an ease in his skin that can’t be taught. A true dancer is fun to watch, whether or not they’re dancing, and I could watch Ansel for hours.

He laughs, calling out, “Be good, Wife!” and then the door clicks behind him.


BUT OF COURSE he’s late.

At seven thirty Ansel bursts into the flat, and becomes a whirlwind of activity: tossing off his work clothes, pulling on jeans and a casual button-down shirt. He kisses me quickly as he sprints to the kitchen to grab a bottle of wine and then pulls my hand, guiding me out of the apartment and into the elevator.

“Hi,” he says breathlessly, pressing me against the wall as he reaches to push the button for the ground floor.

“Hi.” I barely get the sound out before he’s kissing me, lips hungry and searching, sucking at my bottom lip, my jaw, my neck.

“Tell me you really, really want to meet my friends, or else I’m taking you back there to undress and f*ck until you’re hoarse.”

I laugh, pushing him away slightly and kissing him one more time squarely on the lips before saying, “I want to meet your friends. You can undress me later.”