“Have Ansel introduce you to some people for when he’s gone.”
“Yeah, I haven’t even heard about any of his friends.” My thoughts trip on this a little. “I mean don’t get me wrong, we get so little time together that I’m not really sure I want to share him. But . . . is that weird? Do you think it’s strange that he hasn’t mentioned getting together with some people here?”
“Hmm, well . . . either he has a stack of dead girlfriends somewhere that he’s trying to keep hidden—”
“Ha ha.”
“—or it’s like you said and he’s just busy. There were literally weeks at a time where we barely saw my mom growing up because she was on set.”
I pull at a thread on my T-shirt, wondering if she could be on to something. “Yeah, I guess you’re right.”
“Orrrrr,” she starts, “he’s a boy and therefore likes to pretend you’re happy just walking around his apartment naked all day. That’s the hypothesis that gets my vote.”
“I’ll take it.”
“You’ll be on a plane in a few weeks. Enjoy the freedom. Fill your days with sun and wine. Naked times with hot French boys. One in particular.”
“We had the most awkward sex in the history of the world the other night. I couldn’t stop overthinking everything. And nothing else for the past three days and I want to touch him constantly. It’s torture.” And it is. As soon as I say it, I think of the smooth skin of his neck, the gentle bite of his teeth, the clean lines of his chest and stomach.
“So get out of your head,” she says in a dramatic Russian accent, “and give his head some attention, if you catch my drift.”
“I don’t, Whorelow. Can you explain that to me? His . . . ‘head’? Do you mean his penis? I wish you would stop speaking in riddles.”
“Well, tell me something. Why was it easy in Vegas, and not easy there?”
“I don’t know . . .” I wrinkle my nose, thinking. “I just pretended to be the kind of girl who would do something like that. One-night stand and sexy and blah blah.”
Laughing, she asks, “So be that girl again.”
“It’s not really that easy. It’s weirder here. Like, everything is loaded. ‘We should have sex because I am very attracted to you and also we are married. Married people have sex. Beep boop boop, system reboot failure.’”
“You’re doing the robot right now, aren’t you?”
I look at my hand raised at my side, fingers pointed and pressed together. “Maybe.”
Her laugh gets louder and she pushes the words out: “Then be someone less neurotic, you troll.”
“Oh, dude, I should have thought of that, Whorelow. I could totally just be someone less neurotic. Thanks so much, my problems are solved.”
“Okay, fine,” she says, and I can just see her face, can just see the way she would lean in and grow serious about her favorite topic ever: sex. “Here’s a suggestion just for you, Sugarcube: get a costume.”
I feel like the sky has just opened up and the universe has dropped an anvil on my head.
Or a gauntlet.
I close my eyes and remember Vegas, how easy it was to be playful rather than earnest. To pretend to be someone braver than I am. And the morning I used his hand as a sex toy. It worked then, too. Being someone else, getting lost in the part.
I feel the idea tickling in my thoughts before it spreads, wings expanding with a rush.
Play.
What did you love most about dancing, he’d asked me.
The ability to be anyone up onstage, I told him. I want a different life tonight.
And then I chose a different life but it sits here, wilting.
“Do I know you or what?” Harlow asks, her smiling pushing all the way across the ocean through the phone line.
EVEN AFTER MY epiphany that it helps me relax when I’m pretending, I’m still not really sure how to tackle this. A costume . . . like sexy underwear to get me in the right headspace? Or is Harlow really suggesting I pull out all the stops and go full-on, jazz-hands, showtime? My phone continually buzzes with texts from her, all of them filled with links and addresses within an area known as Place Pigalle.
And of course they’re all in the neighborhood near our apartment, lending even greater sense of destiny to this plan. Make it easy on me why don’t you, Harlow?
But none is exactly what I’m looking for: they’re either dark and cavelike, or advertised with bright neon lights and posed mannequins dressed in scraps of frightening lingerie in the window. I continue to walk, following the last address Harlow sent and wandering down one narrow alley and then another. In the shadows it’s quiet, nearly damp, and I continue for what feels like blocks before the sky appears in a tiny courtyard. And only about ten yards down, there is a little, understated shop with lace and velvet and leather in the window.
I feel like I’ve been transported to Diagon Alley.
I open the door and am hit with the smell of iris and sage, a scent so warm and earthy, I immediately feel myself relaxing. A woman inside steps out from behind the counter and somehow knows to give me a “Hello,” and not a “Bonjour.”
She wears a leather corset, her breasts pushing up enviably. Dark denim wraps around her legs and her heels have to be at least five inches of screaming, fire engine red.
All around me there are cases of toys—dildos and vibrators, rubber fists and handcuffs. Near the back of the store are shelves of books and videos, and along the side walls are racks of costumes of every color and for nearly every fantasy.
“You are looking for a costume to wear or play?” she asks, noticing where I’ve turned my attention. Even though her question, as phrased, is a little confusing, and even though my brain wants to linger on the sweetness of her accent curling around “costume,” I know what she meant. Because it’s exactly why I walked in here.
“Play,” I say.
Her eyes turn up in a warm smile. A real smile in a tiny store buried in an enormous city.
“We start you out easy, okay?” She walks over to a rack with costumes I recognize: nurse, maid, schoolgirl, cat. I run my hand over the rack, feeling excitement bloom beneath my ribs. “And then you come back when he will like some more.”
Chapter ELEVEN
I GET HOME, RELIEVED that Ansel isn’t here yet. Dropping a bag of takeout on the kitchen counter, I move to the bedroom and pull the costume from the garment bag. When I hold it up in front of me, I feel the first pang of uncertainty. The saleswoman measured my bust, my waist, and my hips so she could calculate my size. But the tiny thing in my hands doesn’t look like it will fit.
In fact, it does fit, but it doesn’t look any bigger once it’s on. The bodice and skirt are pink satin, overlaid with delicate black lace. The top pushes my breasts together and up, giving me cleavage I don’t think I’ve ever had before. The skirt flares out, ending many inches above my knees. When I bend over, the black ruffle panties are supposed to show. I tie the tiny apron, fix the little cap on my head, and pull on the black thigh-highs, straightening the pink bows at my knees. Once I slip on the spiked heels and hold my feather duster, I feel both sexy and ridiculous, if the combination is even possible. My mind seesaws between the two. It’s not that I don’t look good in the costume, it’s that I can’t honestly imagine what Ansel will think when he comes home to this.
But it isn’t enough for me to just dress up. Costumes alone do not a show make. I need a plot, a story to tell. I sense that we need to get lost in another reality tonight, one where he doesn’t have the stress of his job looming over his daylight hours, and one where I don’t feel like he offered an adventure to a girl who left her spark back in the States.
I could be the good maid who has done her job perfectly and deserves reward. The idea of Ansel thanking me, rewarding me, makes my skin hum with a flush. The problem is Ansel’s flat is spotless. There’s nothing I can do to make
it look better, and he won’t pick up on what role he’s supposed to play.
That means I need to get in trouble.
I look around, wondering what I can mess up, what he’ll immediately notice. I don’t want to leave food on the counter in case this plan is successful and we end up in bed all night. My eyes move across the apartment and stop at the wall of windows, pinned there.
Even with only the light of the streetlamps coming through the glass, I can see how it gleams, spotless.
I know he’ll be here any second. I hear the grind of the elevator, the metal clanking of the doors closing. I close my eyes and press both palms flat to the window, smearing. When I pull back, two long smudges stay behind.
His key fits into the lock, creaking as it turns. The door opens with the quiet skid of wood on wood, and I move to the entryway, back straight, hands clasped around the feather duster in front of me.
Ansel drops his keys on the table, places his helmet beneath it, and then looks up, eyes going wide.
“Wow. Hello.” He tightens his grip on two envelopes in his hand.
“Welcome home, Mr. Guillaume,” I say, voice breaking on his name. I’m giving myself five minutes. If he doesn’t seem to want to play, it won’t be the end of the world.
It won’t.
His eyes first move up to the tiny, frilled cap pinned in my hair and then down, tripping as they always do over my lips before sliding down my neck, to my breasts, my waist, my hips, my thighs. He eyes my shoes, lips parting.
“I thought you might want to look over the house before I leave for the night,” I say, stronger now. I’m bolstered by the flush in his cheeks, the heat in his green eyes when he looks back at my face.
“The house looks good,” he says, voice nearly inaudible from the rasp of it. He hasn’t even looked away from me to the room beyond, so at least I know so far he’s playing along.
I step aside, curling my hands into fists so my fingers don’t shake when the real game begins. “Feel free to check everything.”
My heart is beating so hard I swear I can feel my neck move. His gaze instinctively moves past me to the window just behind, his brow drawing together.
“Mia?”
I move to his side, biting back my excited grin. “Yes, Mr. Guillaume?”
“Did you . . .” He looks at me, searching, and then points to the window, using the envelopes in his hand. He’s embarrassed I’ve discovered this compulsion. He’s trying to understand what’s going on, and the seconds tick by, painfully slow.
It’s a game. Play. Play.
“Did I miss a spot?” I ask.
His eyes narrow, head jerking back slightly when he understands, and the nervous tickle in my stomach turns into a lurching roll. I have no idea if I’ve made an enormous mistake by trying to do this. I must look like a lunatic.
But then I remember Ansel in the hall in his boxers, flirting. I remember his voice hot in my ear, sneaking up on me, and Finn sneaking up on him, nearly pulling his pants around his ankles. I remember what Finn told me about Bronies and serendipity. I know that at his core, beyond the stress of work, Ansel is game for some fun.
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.
I sense that I’m meant to keep talking, but I have no idea what to say. Finally, I whisper, “The envelope . . . my paycheck looks good.”
He pauses for a moment, but it’s long enough for me to notice the way his breath catches. My pulse picks up in my throat when he carefully wipes his mouth and puts his napkin down beside his plate, and I can feel it along the length of my arms, deep down in my belly. He pushes back from the table, but doesn’t stand. “Good.”
I reach for his empty plate but he stops me with his hand on my arm. “If you’re to remain my maid, you should know I’ll never overlook the windows.”
I blink, trying to unscramble this code. He licks his lips, waiting for me to say something.
“I understand.”
A tiny, playful smile teases at the corner of his mouth. “Do you?”
Closing my eyes, I admit, “No.”
I feel his fingertip run up the inside of my leg, from my knee to the middle of my thigh. Every sensation is as sharp as a knife.
“Then let me help you understand,” he whispers. “I like that you fixed your mistake. I like that you served me dinner. I like that you wore your uniform.”
I like that you wanted to play, he means, and he says it with his tongue wetting his lips and his eyes raking over my body. I’ll understand next time, he’s saying.
“Oh.” I exhale, opening my eyes. “I may not forget the window every night. Maybe some nights I’ll forget other things.”
Sweet Filthy Boy Page 14