Sweet Filthy Boy (Wild Seasons, #1)(39)

He leans forward, placing a kiss on each of my cheeks. God he smells good. His lips are so soft and I have to grip the counter to keep myself steady.

“I did have a life,” he says, taking the knife from my hand. “But so did you.” When he smiles it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. There’s no dimple. I miss it.

“Why does your job kill your joy?” I ask him, wishing he would touch me again.

With an amused grin, he shrugs. “I’m very junior at the firm still. We’re representing a huge corporation in a very big case, so I have thousands and thousands of pages of documents to go through. I don’t even think the attorneys who have been there for thirty years remember being this busy.”

I lift a small tomato to my lips, humming against it and saying, “That stinks,” before popping it in my mouth.

He watches me chew, nodding slowly. “It does.” His eyes darken and he blinks once, and then again, harder, his eyes clearing as his gaze meets mine again. “How was your day?”

“I feel guilty I’m out there having so much fun and you’re stuck in the office all day,” I admit.

He puts the knife down and turns to face me. “So . . . you’re staying?”

“Do you want me to stay?” I ask, voice thick with awkwardness and my pulse heavy in my throat.

“Of course I want you to stay,” he insists. With a fumbling hand, he pulls his tie loose and off, dropping it on the far end of the counter. “On vacation it’s easy to pretend real life doesn’t exist. I didn’t consider how my job would affect this. Or maybe I just figured you were smarter than I am and less impulsive.”

“I promise. I’m fine. Paris doesn’t exactly suck.” I give him a bright smile.

“The problem is, I’d like to be enjoying you while you’re here.”

“You mean my sparkling wit and big brain, don’t you?” I ask with a grin, reaching for the basil on the counter.

“No, I don’t care about your brain. I mean your boobs. I really only care about boobs.”

I laugh, relief trickling into my bloodstream. There he is. “Who let you graduate from law school, you oaf?”

“It took some convincing, but my father is a wealthy man.”

I laugh again and he takes a step closer but as soon as he does, the moment explodes into awkward again as I reach for him and our hands collide in midair. We apologize in unison and then stand there, staring at each other.

“You can touch me,” I tell him just as he asks, “Why don’t you ever take the money I leave on the table?”

I pause for a beat before whispering, “I’m getting a weird prostitute vibe from that sequence.”

Ansel bends over, laughing with me. “I’m sorry. I don’t know how to say everything I’ve been practicing all day.” He runs a hand through his hair and it leaves it sticking up and ridiculous and damn. I want to run my fingers through it, too. “I just have so much guilt that I’m not around much since you arrived, and I want to make sure you’re having fun.”

Ah. Guilt is making him the robot version of the adoraboy I married. “Ansel, you don’t have to take care of me.”

His face falls a little but he puts it back together. “I want to contribute somehow.”

“You brought me here,” I remind him.

“But I’ve barely seen you. And last night, I fell asleep . . . and you . . .” I watch as his tongue slips out and wets his lips. He stares at my mouth, lips parted. “This is so weird,” he whispers.

“The weirdest,” I agree. “But I’m not taking your money.”

“We’re married.”

“We aren’t that married.”

He laughs, shaking his head in mock exasperation, but amusement digs his dimple into his cheek and it makes my heart grow ten sizes too big for my chest. Hello, lover.

Legally, yes, we’re married. But I’m already relying on him for shelter, and food. There is no way I’m comfortable taking his money when I don’t even know his middle name.

Holy shit I don’t even know his middle name.

“I think it’s great you’re having such a good time,” he says, carefully. “Have you been to the Musée—?”

“What’s your middle name?” I blurt.

He tilts his head, letting a tiny smile tease at the corner of his lips. “Charles. After my father.”

Exhaling, I say, “Good. Ansel Charles Guillaume. A good name.”

His smile slowly straightens as he seems to catch up with me. “Okay. What is your middle name?”

“Rose.”

“Mia Rose?”

I love the way he says Rose. The r sound comes out more purr than actual letter. “You say my name better than anyone ever has.”

“I should,” he murmurs, winking. “It’s officially my new favorite name.”

I watch him for a beat, feeling a smile slowly curve my mouth. “We’re doing everything backwards,” I whisper.

Taking a small step closer, he says, “I need to seduce you all over again, then.”

Oh, the flutters. “You do?”

His smile curls up, dangerous. “I want you in my bed tonight. Naked beneath me.”