Earlier this week, Tori told me that I really needed to read Sweet Filthy Boy by Christina Lauren. I had never read this author and something as silly as the cover kind of put me off. But when Tori singles out a book for me to read, I always listen – and she was right of course.

This book features things that normally don’t work for me – it’s a New Adult – when the book opens the heroine is graduating from college. There is a drunken, spur of the moment wedding in Vegas. There is no immediate annulment. But none of this drove me nuts! And it’s not overly emotional or angsty. Mia is a heroine who is looking to find herself. She has plans to go to Boston for graduate business school, but is only doing it because that is what her father expects. When she gets married to Ansel in Vegas, a man she has only met that day, for as silly as it sounds, her life changes. She starts taking chances and trying new things – things that make her happy. Ansel is French and for who starts as a dude who looks really good in his underwear, he has some surprises in store for the reader. He is sweet and filthy (the title doesn’t lie y’all) but there is more to him. He works really hard, he struggles with this new relationship, he is genuine yet flawed with impulsiveness.

Bottom line is that this book really worked for me. It’s romantic and once you get a bit into it, verra dirty. Mia’s girlfriends, Lola and Harlow made me laugh out loud several times.

“What the hell happened last night?” I ask. “How did no one say, ‘Wow, we probably shouldn’t all get married’?”

“Ugh,” Harlow says. “I knew we should have been classier.”

“I’m going to blame the seven hundred shots we had,” Lola says.

“I’m going to blame Finn’s impressive cock.” Harlow takes a sip from a bottle of water as Lola and I groan. “No, I’m serious,” Harlow says. “And son is into some stuff, let me tell you. He’s a bossy little shit.”

“Annulment,” Lola reminds her. “You can still bang him when you’re single.”

Harlow rubs her face. “Right.”

“What happened with Ansel?” Lola asks.

“Apparently a lot.” Instinctively, I rub my finger over my bottom lip. “I’m not sure we actually slept. I’m disappointed I don’t remember it all, but I’m pretty sure we did everything.”

“Anal?” Harlow asks in a reverent whisper.

“No! God. Put ten dollars in the Whore Jar,” I tell her. “You’re such a troll.”

“I bet the French guy could get it,” Harlow says. “You look like you were pounded.”

(Harlow and Finn’s book is out next and I’m excited) And I love how it ended, even the conflict/twist at the end. Thanks for the rec Tori! And now onto some smex….

He releases a husky feral sound before pulling back, wrapping a fist around his cock. “Undress.”

I stand on shaky legs, peeling the stockings off, removing the skirt, the bustier, and finally, the frilly underwear. He watches me, eyes dark and impatient, and growls, “Allonge-toi.” He lifts his chin, repeating quietly in English, “Lie back.”

I scoot farther up on the bed, eyes wide and pinned to him as I lie down and spread my legs. I want to feel him. Just him. Right now—I can see it in his eyes—he knows I’ll give him anything, give him everything. He lurches forward, bracing a hand on my spread inner thigh and entering me in a single, long push.

All the air leaves me and for a few overwhelmed seconds, I can’t get it back. I try to remember how to inhale then exhale, try to remind myself that his cock isn’t actually pushing all of the air out of me, it only feels that way. I’d forgotten what it feels like to have him inside me like this: confident, commanding. But the feel of his warmth, nothing between us . . . it steals my air, my thoughts, my clarity.

He doesn’t move for an eternity, just stares down, eyes moving over every inch of me he can see from his vantage. He’s so hard it has to be edging discomfort for him, and I can feel the shake of his hand gripping the sheet near my head.

“You need to be reminded?” he whispers.

I nod frantically, hands grasping his sides as my hips move off the bed, hungry. He pulls back so slowly I feel my nails digging into the skin of his sides before I even realize what I’m doing. He hisses, stabbing back into me with a low groan.

And then he snaps back again, and then forward, hard and tormenting, his pace nearly punishing. Punishing me for the handprint, punishing us both for the distance that got between us. Punishing me for forgetting sex with us is like this, and nothing is better. He leans over me, his skin rubbing mine where I need him, sweat dampening his brow and the smooth expanse of his chest. I curl into him, licking his collarbone, his neck, pulling his head to mine to feel the deep rumble of his pleasure against my teeth, my lips, my tongue.

My thighs shake at his sides, pleasure climbing, and I need harder and more of him, my fingers are desperately pulling at his hips, my words begging and unintelligible. I feel my release twisting in me, tighter and tighter until it snaps, bursting wide open in a jerking, clutching lash of sensation and I’m arching from the bed, crying his name over and over.

He pushes up on his hands, watching me come apart under him, and through the fog of my orgasm, I watch him climb. His strokes are long and hard, our skin slapping together in a crude sound that makes me wilder, makes me wonder if I really am on the verge of coming again so soon.

“Aah,” I cry out. “I’m . . .”

“Show me,” he growls, dropping a hand between us, petting my clit in tiny, perfect circles.

 

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