Is it just that I’m wearing lingerie and he’s completely naked? Or is he worried about my reaction?

I press a hand to his chest. “Tell me,” I whisper, anxiety sending a tight thrill through my veins. “I want to know


everything.” I do, and I don’t.

Beneath my palm, he relaxes. “I was in law school, and we stayed together even at a distance; she studied fashion here.” He pulls back and watches me before saying, “I can be impulsive with my emotions, I know. After the first couple of months . . . I knew we were more friends than lovers. But I was convinced it would be passionate again when I moved back here. I assumed it was the distance that made it not so exciting for me.” Each sentence is carefully composed. “I was lonely and . . . two times I shared my bed. Minuit still does not know.”

Minuit . . . I search my limited vocabulary, remembering after a beat that it means “midnight.” I imagine a raved-haired beauty, her hands sliding over his chest the way mine do now, her ass pressed to his thighs the way mine is now. I imagine his cock, hard for her the way it is for me now.

I wonder whether I only temporarily have the luxury of his passion before it cools. I want to stab my jealousy with a sharp tool.

“I felt obligated,” he repeats, and finally he looks at me again. “She waited for me, so I returned. I took this job I hate, but I was wrong. We weren’t happy, even when I was back here.”

“How long were you with her?”

He sighs. “Too long.”

He’s been back here nearly a year, and finished law school just before he came back. Too long doesn’t tell me very much.

But it’s time to return to something better than this. The subject is heavy, a weighted lure in my mind, pulling my thoughts under the clear surface of our game to something dreary and somber. It’s not who we are.

We’re married for the summer. Summer marriages don’t get dragged down in heavy stuff. Besides, I’m wearing a devil costume and he’s naked, for crying out loud. How seriously can we really take ourselves right now?

I pretend to make a note of something on the clipboard and then look back up at him. “I think I have all the information I need.”

He relaxes in pieces: his legs beneath me first, then abdomen, shoulders, and finally his expression. I feel something unknot in me when he grins. “So it’s all taken care of, then?”

I snap my fingers, and nod. “I can’t make you come out of it with a promotion, but I don’t think you wanted that anyway.”

“Not if it means I have to stay on much longer,” he agrees with a laugh.

“Tomorrow Capitaux will drop the case and everyone will know it’s because you found the document that clears Régal Biologiques of all wrongdoing.”

He exhales dramatically, wiping his brow. “You’ve saved me.”

“So it’s my turn, then,” I remind him. “And time to claim my payment.” I lean in to suck on his neck. “Hmm, would you like to feel my hand or—”

“Your mouth,” he interrupts.

With an evil smile, I move back, shaking my head. “That wasn’t going to be one of the options.”

He huffs out an impatient breath. Every muscle grows tight and urgent beneath my roaming hands once more and I tease him more by scratching my short nails down his chest.

“Then tell me what my choices are,” he growls.

“My hand, or your hand,” I say and press my fingers to his lips to keep him from answering too quickly again. “If you choose my hand, that’s all you’ll get, and you’ll remain tied up. If you choose your hand, of course I’ll untie you . . . but you can also watch me use my hand on myself.”

His eyes widen as if he’s not entirely sure who I am all of a sudden. And, to be honest, I’m not sure, either. I’ve never done this in front of someone before, but the words just bubbled up and out of me.

And I’m positive I know what he’s going to choose.

He leans forward, kisses me once sweetly before answering. “I use my hand, you use yours.”

I’m not sure whether I’m relieved or nervous as I reach behind him and pull his hands free of the tie around his wrists. Faster than I expected, he grabs me by the hips and jerks me forward, sliding the wet fabric of my underwear over his cock, grinding up into me with a low groan. Without thinking, I move with him, rocking on top and feeling the delicious press of the hard line of him to my clit. I hadn’t realized how turned on I’d been being so close to him for so long, just listening to him, playing with him, but I can tell I’m soaked.

And I want him. I want the thick slide of him into me, the way my body is so full of his it’s the only thing I can imagine ever feeling again. I want to hear his voice, encouraging and urgent in my ear, falling away into a broken mix of English and French, and—finally—the hoarse, unintelligible sounds of his pleasure.

But I’m in charge tonight for better or worse, and no direct report of Satan’s would ever let a man change her plan, no matter how warm his skin, no matter how filthy he sounds when he says, “I can feel your need for me soaked through the silk.”

Pushing off his lap, I pull the red fabric down my legs, kicking it onto his lap. He pulls it to his face, watching me with hooded eyes as I sit on the low coffee table. I watch as he circles his cock with his fist, and strokes up once, slowly.

It feels so depraved doing this, but I’m surprised that it doesn’t feel weird. I’ve never seen anything as sexy as watching Ansel touch himself. I pretend he’s alone, thinking of me. I pretend I’m alone, thinking of him. And, like this, my fingers slide over my skin and he begins to pull himself harder, faster, his breath coming out in tiny grunts.

“Show me,” he whispers. “How do you fuck yourself when I’m at work, thinking of you?”

I lie back, turning my head so I can still watch him and start to use both hands. He wants to see me let go. It’s what this is about, after all: the costumes, the pretend. It’s letting ourselves do anything we want. I slide two fingers inside, and use the other hand to circle outside . . . my pulse trips and races when he groans, speeding up and hoarsely telling me he wants to see me come.

It’s a poor approximation of his fingers, and an even worse approximation of his cock, but with his eyes on me and the brushing rhythm of his fist tugging at his length, I feel the rush of blood to my thighs and the heavy ache between my legs build, and build until I’m arching off the table and coming with a sharp cry. With a relieved moan, he lets go after me. I push up on an elbow, watching as he spills onto his hand and stomach.

In a blur, Ansel is on his feet and pulls me down onto the floor, falling on top of me and still hard enough that he can push inside with a steady, hard thrust. He looms above, blocking out even the tiny bit of light from the few candles still burning, and reaches up to pull the strap of my negligee off my shoulder, baring one of my breasts.

“Did you come just now?” he whispers into my skin.

I nod. My pulse was barely slipping back to normal, but the feel of him stretching me even now brings all of my sensation back to the surface. I can feel his orgasm still wet on his stomach pressed to mine, on the hand he has curled around my hip. But feeling him begin to harden in me again so soon gives me a dizzying sense of power.

“If I had been Satan tonight . . .” he begins and then stops, his breath choppy so close to my ear.

The air between us seems to grow completely still.

“What, Ansel?”

His lips find my ear, my neck, and suck gently before he asks, “Have you ever been unfaithful?”

“No.” Sliding my hands up his back, I whisper, “But I did once shoot a man in Reno just to watch him die.”

He laughs and I feel my body squeezing his as he lengthens slightly, getting even harder.

I pull back slightly to look up at him. “The idea of marrying a killer turns you on? Something is wrong with you.”

“I love that you make me laugh,” he corrects. “That turns me on. Also, your body, and what you did tonight.”

He cups my other breast through the negligee, thumb passing back and forth over the peak. He is strong enough to break me in half, but the way he caresses my skin, it’s as if I’m too valuable to risk hurting.

I thought I might be the only one who noticed the new, fascinating sway to my hips, the heaviness of my breasts, but I’m not. Ansel lingers at my breasts, playing and pushing at them. French cuisine has been good for my body . . . though maybe I’m indulging a little more than I should. It doesn’t matter; I love the feel of my curves. Now I just need to find the Frenchwoman’s secret for enjoying it and still looking like she could fit inside a straw.

“You’re taking care of your body.” He hums into my chest, tongue sliding over my collarbone. “You know your husband wants more flesh on you. I like your hips fuller. I like to be able to squeeze your ass in my hands, feel your breasts move over my face when you’re fucking me.”

How does he do this? His hair falls over one eye and he looks almost boyish, but his words are coarse on my skin. His breath, his fingertips, they brush across my ribs, the bottom swell of my breast, my nipple.

He begins to rock inside me, slowly, lips moving across my neck and up to my ear. My body responds, tensing and thrilled, waiting for the pleasure I know will make me explode. Like I’m made of a thousand tiny beating wings.

“Tonight, Cerise . . . thank you for wanting to save me.” He puts a tiny inflection on the last word.