Settling back down, I run my pen down the smooth skin of his chest and rock slightly over the tight bunching muscles of his thighs. “We can start with an easy one.”

He nods, staring openly at my br**sts. “D’accord.” Okay.

“If you’ve ever killed anyone, you’re really not worth very much to me because we’ll be getting your soul eventually anyway.”

He smiles, relaxing a little as the game reveals itself. “I’ve never killed anyone.”

“Tortured?”

He laughs. “I fear I’m on the receiving end at the moment, but no.”

Blinking back down to my list, I say, “We can reel through the cardinal sins pretty quickly.” I look up at him and lick my lips. “This is where men usually lose the most value.”

He nods, staring intently at me, as if I really do hold the power to change his fate tonight.

“Greed?” I ask.

Ansel lets out a quiet laugh. “I’m an attorney.”

Nodding, I pretend to make note of this. “For a firm you hate, but who pays you ridiculous sums of money to represent one huge corporation suing another. I suppose that means I can also put you down for a bit of gluttony, too?”

His dimple flashes suggestively as he laughs. “I suppose you’re right.”

“Pride?”

“Me?” he says with a winning smile. “I’m as humble as they come.”

“Right.” Fighting my own smile, I look back down at my list. “Lust?”

He pushes his h*ps up, his c**k a heavy presence between us as I gaze at his face, waiting for him to speak. But he doesn’t answer aloud.

Heat ripples along my skin and his gaze is so penetrating, I finally have to look away from his face. “Envy?”

It takes him long enough to answer that I look back up at him, searching his expression. He’s grown oddly contemplative, as if this is a serious exercise. And for the first time I realize maybe it is. I couldn’t simply ask him these things as Mia, sitting across the dining room table from Ansel, though I’d want to. No one can be as perfect as he seems, and part of me needs to understand where he’s damaged, where he’s ugliest. Somehow it’s easier to dress up as a servant of Satan to find out.

“I feel envy, yes,” he says quietly.

“I need you to give me more than that.” I lean forward, kiss his jaw. “Envious of what.”

“I never used to. If anything, I tend to see the positive everywhere. Finn and Oliver . . . they will grow exasperated with me sometimes, telling me I’m impulsive, or I’m fickle.” He tears his eyes from mine, looking past my shoulder at the room behind me. “But now I look at my best friends and see a certain freedom they have . . . I want that. I think that must be envy.”

This one stings. The sting turns into a burn and it crawls up my throat, coating my windpipe. I swallow a few times before I’m able to manage, “I see.”

Immediately, Ansel realizes what he’s said, and ducks his head so I’ll look at him. “Not because I’m married and they aren’t,” he says quickly. His eyes move back and forth, searching mine for understanding. “This isn’t about the annulment; I didn’t want it, either. It wasn’t just that I promised you.”

“Okay.”

“I envy their situation in a different way from what you’re thinking.” Pausing, he seems to wait for my expression to soften before he quietly admits, “I didn’t want to move back to Paris. Not for this job.”

My eyes narrow. “You didn’t?”

“I love the city—it’s the center of my heart—but I didn’t want to return the way I did. Finn loves his hometown; he never wants to leave. Oliver is opening a store in San Diego. I envy how happy they are being exactly where they want to be.”

Too many questions perch on my tongue, fighting to come out. Finally, I ask the same one I asked last night: “Then why did you come back here?”

He watches me, eyes assessing. Finally he says only, “I suppose I felt obligated.”

I assume he’s talking about the obligation of the job he would have been insane to turn down. I can tell even if he hates it that it was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. “Where would you rather be?”

His tongue slips out, wets his lips. “I would at least like to have the option to follow my wife when she leaves.”

My heart stutters. I decide to skip over sloth and wrath, far more interested in pursuing this subject. “You’re married?”

He nods, but his expression isn’t playful. Not even a little. “Yes, I’m married.”

“And where is your wife right now while I’m sitting on your nak*d lap, wearing this tiny scrap of lingerie?”

“She’s not here,” he whispers conspiratorially.

“Do you make a habit of this?” I ask, wearing a teasing smile. I want to lift the serious cloud that’s descending. “Letting in women while your wife is gone? It’s good you brought her up, since infidelity is next on my list.”

His face drops and oh shit. I’ve hit a nerve. I close my eyes, remembering what he told me about his father, how he was never faithful to Ansel’s mother, how the parade of women through the house was finally enough to drive his mother to the States when Ansel was only a teenager.

I start to apologize but his words come out faster than mine. “I have been unfaithful.”

An enormous black hole opens up inside me, swallowing my organs in the most painful order: lungs, then heart, and then, when I’m sure I’m suffocating, my stomach drops out.

“Never to my wife,” he says slowly and after a long pause, apparently oblivious to my panic. I close my eyes, dizzy with relief. Still, my heart feels like it returns to my body slightly withered, beating weakly at the realization that he’s more like his father than his mother when it comes to cheating. “I’m trying to do better this time.”

It’s several long seconds before I can speak, but when I do, my words come out reedy, a little breathless. “Well, this certainly tilts the negotiation in my favor.”

“I’m sure it does,” he whispers.

My voice wobbles a little. “I’ll need the details, of course.”

Finally, a tiny, unsure smile pulls at one corner of his mouth. “Of course.” He leans his head back against the couch, watching me with wary eyes. “I met a woman from here,” he says, adding, “or, rather, near here. From Orléans.” He takes a small break, closing his eyes. I can see the way his pulse is fluttering in his throat. Even though his explanation is so factual, so detached, he seems amped up.

Is it just that I’m wearing lingerie and he’s completely nak*d? 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 nak*d, 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 h*ps 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 c**k 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 f**k 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.