Sweet Filthy Boy (Wild Seasons, #1)(30)

“Are you on birth control or would you like to arrange?” the doctor asks, blinking from her chart up to me.

“Pill.” I can feel Ansel look at the side of my face and wonder what a blush looks like on skin as green as mine.





Chapter SEVEN

I WAKE TO THE feeling of lips pressed carefully to my forehead, and force my eyes open.

The sky directly above me isn’t an illusion I’ve been imagining all week. Ansel’s bedroom is on the very top floor of the apartment building, and a skylight over the bed lets in the early morning sun. It curls across the footboard, bright but not yet warm.

The far wall slants down from a lofted ceiling of about fifteen feet, and along the low wall of his bedroom are two French doors that Ansel has left open to a small balcony outside. A warm breeze stirs through the room, carrying the sounds of the street below.

I turn my head, my stiff neck protesting.

“Hey.” My voice sounds like sandpaper rubbed across metal.

His smile makes my chest do a fluttery, flipping thing. “I’m glad your fever has finally broken.”

I groan, covering my eyes with a shaking hand as my memory of the past few days returns to me. Throwing up everywhere, including on myself. Ansel carrying me into the shower to clean me up, and later, to cool me down. “Oh my God,” I mumble. “And the mortification sets in.”

He laughs quietly into another kiss, this one to my temple. “I worried. You were very sick.”

“Is there any surface of your apartment that remained untouched by my vomit?”

He lifts his chin, eyes shining in amusement, and nods to the corner. “Over there, the far side of the bedroom is clear.”

I cover my face again, my apology muffled by my hand.

“Cerise,” he says, reaching out to touch my face. Instinctively I shrink away, feeling revolting. I immediately want to correct the flash of hurt in his eyes, but it clears before I’m sure I believe it was really there. “I need to work today,” he says. “I want to explain, before I leave.”

“Okay.” This sounds ominous, and I take a moment to look lower than his face. He’s wearing a dress shirt. After a quick mental calculation, I realize he’s feeling the need to explain because it’s Saturday.

“When I ran into the office on Thursday to retrieve some files to bring home, the senior partner I work most closely with saw my wedding ring. She was . . . displeased.”

My stomach drops, and this is the moment the reality of what we’re doing hits me like an enormous wave. Yes, he invited me here, but I’ve crashed directly into his life. Once again I’m reminded how little I know about him. “Are you two . . . involved?”

He freezes, looking mildly horrified. “Oh, no. God, no.” His green eyes narrow as he studies me. “You think I would have slept with you, married you, and invited you here if I had a girlfriend?”

My answering laugh comes out more like a cough. “I guess not, sorry.”

“I’ve been her little slave boy these past few months,” he explains. “And now that I’m married, she’s convinced I’ll lose focus.”

I wince. What we’ve done is so rash. So stupid. Not only is he married now, but soon he’ll be divorced. Why didn’t he bother to hide our Vegas mishap at his job? Does he approach anything with caution? “I don’t need you to change your work schedule while I’m here.”

He’s already shaking his head. “I only need to work this weekend. It will be fine. She’ll get over her panic. I think she got used to having me in the office whenever she wanted.”

I bet she did. I feel my frown deepen as I look him over, and I’m not so ill that a hot slide of jealousy doesn’t slip through my bloodstream. With the sunlight streaming down from the ceiling and lighting up the sharp angles of his jaw and cheekbones, I’m struck all over again by how amazing his face is.

He continues, “I’m almost done with this enormous case and then I’ll have more flexibility. I’m sorry I’m not really here for your first weekend.”

God, this is so, so weird.

I wave him off, unable to say more than “Please don’t worry.” He’s practically been serving me since I arrived, and the mortification and guilt commingle into a sour mix in my stomach. For all I know, he’s seen enough of me at my worst to put him off this game we’re playing entirely. I wouldn’t be all that surprised if, after I’ve fully recovered, he suggests a few hotels I might find fitting for the remainder of my stay.

What a horrible start to our . . . whatever this is.

Since the opportunities might eventually be limited, when he walks across the room I ogle the hell out of him. He’s so long, thin but toned. Suits were made for exactly his type of body. His light brown hair is combed neatly off his face, his tan neck disappearing beneath the collar of his shirt. He no longer looks like the casual and playful man I met in Vegas; he looks like a young, badass lawyer and he’s eminently more f*ckable. How is it even possible?

I push up onto an elbow, wanting a sharper memory of how it felt to draw my tongue down his chin and over his Adam’s apple. I want to remember him unhinged and desperate, rumpled and sweaty, so I can relish knowing that the women he sees today will only know this put-together, clothed side of him.