Sweet Filthy Boy (Wild Seasons, #1)(67)

We’ll talk about it later, but not tonight.

I stare at my phone for a beat. That’s certainly cryptic. Why not tonight?

Because tonight you are naughty, not nice.

I’m typing my reply—basically hell yes and get home as soon as you can—when my phone buzzes with another incoming message . . . from Harlow.

I’m in Canada.

My eyes widen as I search for any other explanation than the one my brain immediately latches on to. Harlow has no family in Canada, no business in Canada. I type my question so fast I have to correct typos seven times in five words: Are you there banging Finn???

She doesn’t answer immediately, and without thinking, I text Ansel for confirmation.

Not Lola.

In fact, it feels natural to text Ansel first . . . holy crap we have mutual people, a shared community now. My fingers shake as I type: Did Harlow fly up to Canada to visit Finn this weekend?!

Ansel replies a few minutes later, They must have texted us at the same time. Apparently she arrived wearing nothing but her trench coat.

I nod as I type my reply: That sounds like Harlow. How did she get through security without having to take that off?

No idea, he says. But they’d better not be trying to steal our costume game.

My blood simmers deliciously in anticipation. What time will you be home?

I’m here with the dragon until around 21:00.

Nine o’clock? Immediately I deflate, typing OK before slipping my phone back into my bag. But then, a thought occurs to me: He wanted me to be naughty? I’ll give him naughty.


LATELY, ANSEL HAS been texting me around dinnertime—when he’s working and I’m home. The routine has only been going on maybe the past four days when our schedules land like this, but somehow I know to expect it around seven, when he takes his evening break.

I’m ready, in the bedroom, when my phone buzzes on the comforter beside me.

Don’t forget what I want tonight. Eat dinner. I will keep you up.

With shaking hands, I press his name to call him, and wait while it rings once . . . twice . . .

“llo?” he answers, and then corrects to English. “Mia? Is everything all right?”

“Professor Guillaume?” I ask in a high, hesitant voice. “Is it an okay time to call? I know it isn’t your office hour . . .”

Silence greets me across the line and after several long beats, he clears his throat, quietly. “Actually, Mia,” he says, voice different now—not him, but someone stern and irritated at the interruption, “I was in the middle of something. What is it?”

My hand slides down my torso, over my navel and lower, between my spread legs. “I had some questions about what you were teaching me, but I can call back if there is a better time.”

I need to hear his voice, to get lost in it to find the bravery to do this when he’s not expecting it. When he may be sitting across the table from someone.

I can almost imagine the way he leans in, pressing the phone flush to his ear and listening carefully for every sound on the other end of the line. “No, I’m here now. Out with it.”

My hand slides up and back, fingers pressing to my skin. I pretend it’s his hand, and he’s hovering over me, watching every expression as it passes over my face. “Earlier today in class,” I start, my breath catching when I hear him exhale forcefully. I search my memory for some rudimentary law terms from my poli sci class two years ago. “When you were talking about judicial politics?”

“Yes?” he whispers, and now I know he must be alone in his office. His voice has gone hoarse, goading, deep enough that if he were here I can just imagine the way the sunshine would melt from his eyes and he would pretend to be hard and calculating.

“I don’t think I’d ever been more wrapped up in a lecture before.” I hold my phone between my ear and hunched shoulder, sliding my other hand up and over my breast. My breasts . . . Ansel loves them in a way no one ever has before. I always loved being able to move around them easily. But under his touch, I realize just how sensitive they are, how responsive. “I’ve never enjoyed a class as much as yours.”

“No?”

“And I couldn’t stop thinking . . .” I say, pausing for effect but also because I can hear him breathing and I want to dive into the slow, deep cadence. I feel something inside me ignite with want. “I was thinking what it would be like if you would meet with me outside of school.”

It’s several tight, pounding heartbeats before he answers. “You know I can’t do that, Miss Holland.”

“Can’t because of the rules? Or because you don’t want to?” My fingers are moving faster now, sliding easily over skin that has grown slick with the sound of his voice, the sound of his breath through the line. I can imagine him sitting behind a desk, his hand clutching himself through his zipper. Even the thought makes me gasp.

“Because of the rules.” His voice drops to barely a whisper. “Also, I can’t want to. You’re my student.”

Without meaning to, I moan quietly, because he does want it. He wants me, even when he’s drowning at work and miles away.

How would it feel to really be his student, or to be one of the girls on the métro, watching him, wanting him? What if he really were my teacher, and every day I had to sit, and listen to his quiet, deep voice, unable to move forward, catch his eye, run my hands up his chest and into his thick hair?