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Praise for New York Times and #1 international bestselling author Christina Lauren
Sweet FILTHY BOY
THE ROMANTIC TIMES
2014 BOOK OF THE YEAR
“A sexy, sweet treasure of a story. I loved every word.”
—Sylvia Day, #1 New York Times bestselling author of the Crossfire series
“A crazy, hilarious, and surprisingly realistic and touching adventure. . . . One of the freshest, funniest, and most emotionally authentic erotic romances.”
—Romantic Times Book Reviews
“No one is doing hot contemporary romance like Christina Lauren. Sweet Filthy Boy is beyond swoon-worthy.”
—Bookalicious
“Funny and adorably charming. . . . Tender, hot, and even heartbreaking at times, but so worth it.”
—Heroes and Heartbreakers
“Had my heart pounding from cover to cover. . . . A must-read!”
—Fangirlish
“A deliciously filthy romp that you’re going to love!”
—Martini Times Romance
“Sweet Filthy Boy has everything necessary for a great romance read. Love, passion, heat, turmoil, and humor are all perfectly combined. Add in the stellar writing and there is nothing more I could ask for.”
—Bookish Temptations
“Christina Lauren are my go-to gals for when I’m in the mood for a laugh-out-loud, sizzling, sexy romance.”
—Flirty and Dirty Book Blog
Dirty ROWDY THING
“Lauren has mastered writing delectable heroes and strong-willed heroines to match, and the contrast between rough-edged Finn and polished Harlow makes for a passionate romance.”
—Romantic Times Book Reviews
“Most of the time when I read contemporary romance, I find myself suffering the lead girl for the sake of the story. Maybe I just don’t identify with her, or I can’t imagine myself being friends with her. With Harlow, I don’t find myself just wanting to know her, I want to be her. She’s not afraid to say what she thinks, but she’s compassionate and thoughtful. . . . In a lot of ways, the most interesting female protagonist I’ve read in a long time.”
—That’s Normal
“Once again Christina Lauren have created a book boyfriend that will probably end up on every blogger’s top ten.”
—The Sub Club
“[A] smoking-hot story. The modern tone . . . felt of the moment.”
—Dear Author
Dark WILD NIGHT
“Full of expertly drawn characters who will grab your heart and never let go, humor that will have you howling, and off-the-charts, toe-curling chemistry, Dark Wild Night is absolutely unforgettable. This is contemporary romance at its best!”
—Sarah J. Maas, New York Times bestselling author of Throne of Glass
“Comic book nerds can be sexy too. . . . Dark Wild Night won’t disappoint.”
—Hypable
The Beautiful series
“Hot . . . if you like your hookups early and plentiful. . . .”
—EW on Beautiful Stranger
“A devilishly depraved cross between a hardcore porn and a very special episode of The Office.”
—Perez Hilton on Beautiful Bastard
“A beautiful read, an astonishing love story, a couple whose journey I understood and felt from beginning to end—this is a book I would recommend with all my heart.”
—Natasha Is a Book Junkie on Beautiful Secret
“The perfect blend of sex, sass, and heart, Beautiful Bastard is a steamy battle of wills that will get your blood pumping!”
—S. C. Stephens, #1 New York Times bestselling author of Thoughtless
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For our Captain Hookers, Alice & Nina. There it is.
Chapter ONE
London
THERE ARE A number of things that happen when you haven’t had sex in a while: You inadvertently emit a sound during the kissing scenes in romantic movies—a noise that falls somewhere between a snort and an audible eye roll and which almost always elicits a pillow being lobbed at you from the other end of the couch. You can name at least three online adult toy stores from memory, accurately quoting their shipping rates, reliability, and speed. At least two of these stores auto-fill after only a single letter is typed into the URL bar, and you are always the roommate expected to replace the batteries on the remote control, hand vacuum, and flashlights.
Which is ridiculous when you think about it because everyone knows the best sex toys are corded or rechargeable. Amateurs.
You become good at masturbating, too. Like, really good, Olympic sport good. And by that point, having sex with yourself is the only option because how can any man possibly hope to compete with your own hand or a vibrator with 120 volts and seventeen variable speed settings?
The side effects of a less-than-social vagina are particularly noticeable when you’re constantly surrounded by three of the most disgustingly happy couples around. My roommate, Lola, and her two best friends, Harlow and Mia, met their significant others in a totally insane, it-never-happens-in-real-life weekend of debauchery in Las Vegas. Mia and Ansel are married and barely come up for air. Harlow and Finn seem to have mastered sex via eye contact. And Lola and her boyfriend, Oliver, are at that stage in a new relationship where touching is constant and sex seems to happen almost spontaneously. Cooking turns into sex. Watching The Walking Dead? Obviously arousing. Time for sex. Sometimes they’ll just walk in the door, chatting casually, and then stop, look at each other, and here we go again.
TMI alert? Oliver is loud, and I had no idea the c-word was used quite so readily in Australia. It’s a good thing I love them both so much.
And Lord, I do. I met Lola in the art program at UCSD, and although we didn’t really start hanging out regularly until she moved in as my roommate last summer, I feel like I’ve known her my entire life.
Hearing her feet dragging down the hall, I smile. She emerges, hair a mess and face still flushed.
“Oliver just left,” I tell her around a spoonful of Raisin Bran. He’d stumbled out less than ten minutes ago, sporting a dazed grin and a similar level of dishevelment. “I gave him a high five and a bottle of Gatorade for the road because he has to be dehydrated after all that. Seriously, Lola, I’m impressed.”
I wouldn’t have thought it possible for Lola’s cheeks to get any pinker. I would have lost that bet.
“Sorry,” she says, offering me a sheepish smile from behind the cupboard door. “You’ve got to be sick to death of us, but I’m about to leave for L.A. and—”
“You are not apologizing because you’ve got a gorgeous, sweet Australian guy banging you senseless,” I tell her, and stand to rinse out my bowl. “I’d give you more shit if you weren’t hitting that daily.”
“Sometimes it feels like driving all the way to his place takes forever.” Lola closes the cupboard door and stares off, contemplating. “That is insane. We are insane.”
“I tried to convince him to stay,” I tell her. “I’m leaving for the day and have work tonight. You two could have had the place to yourselves.”
“You’re working again tonight?” Lola fills her glass and props a hip against the counter. “You’ve closed every night this week.”
I shrug. “Fred needed someone and the extra hours don’t hurt.” I dry my bowl and reach to put it
away. “Don’t you have panels to finish, anyway?”
“I do, but I’d love to hang out . . . You’re always at the beach or working a—”
“And you’ve got a fuckhot boyfriend and a blazing career,” I say. Lola is probably the busiest person I know. When she isn’t editing her new graphic novel, Junebug, or visiting the set for the film adaptation of her first book, Razor Fish, she’s jetting off to L.A. or New York or wherever the studio and her publisher want her. “I knew you were working today and would probably spend the night with Oliver.” Squeezing her shoulder, I add, “Besides, what else is there to do on a beautiful day like this but surf?”
She grins at me over the rim of her cup. “I don’t know . . . maybe go out on a date?”
I snort as I shut the cupboard door. “You’re cute.”
“London,” she says, pinning me with a serious expression.
“Lola,” I volley back.
“Oliver mentioned he has a friend coming in from home, maybe we could all get together.” She looks down, feigning fascination with something on her fingernail. “See a movie or something?”
“No setups,” I say. “My darling of darlings, we’ve had this conversation at least ten times.”
Lola smiles sheepishly again and I laugh, turning to walk out of the kitchen. But she’s there, hot on my heels.
“You can’t fault me for worrying about you a little,” she says. “You’re alone all the time and—”
I wave a flippant hand. “Alone is not the same as lonely.” Because as appealing as the idea of sex with an actual person is, the drama that inevitably comes along with it is not. I’ve got enough on my social plate trying to keep up with Lola and her tight-knit and ever-expanding group of friends and their significant others. I’m barely past the Learning Their Last Names stage. “Stop channeling Harlow.”
Lola frowns as I lean forward to kiss her cheek.
“You don’t have to worry about me,” I tell her, then check the time. “Gotta go, mid-tide in twenty.”
* * *
AFTER A LONG day on the water, I step behind the counter of Fred’s—the place nearly everyone lovingly calls “the Regal Beagle” due to the name of its owner, Fred Furley—and tie an apron around my waist.
The tip jar is just over half-full, which means it’s been pretty steady, but not so crazy that Fred will have to call in an extra hand. There’s a couple talking quietly at one end of the bar, half-empty wineglasses in front of them. They’re deep in conversation and barely look up when I step into view; they won’t need much. Four older women sit at the other end. Nice clothes, I notice, even nicer handbags. They’re laughing and possibly here to celebrate something, which means they’ll probably be entertaining and great tippers. I make a mental note to check on them in a few minutes.
Raucous laughter and the sound of cheering draw my attention toward the back, and I spot Fred delivering beers to a group of guys circled around the pool table. Satisfied he’s got them covered, I begin checking inventory.
I’ve only been at Fred’s about a month, but it’s a bar like any other and the routine has been easy enough to pick up. It has stained glass lights, warm wood, and round leather booths, and is a lot less seedy than the dance club where I worked my last two years of college. Still, it has its share of creeps, an inevitable drawback to this kind of job. It’s not that I’m particularly attractive, or even the best-looking woman in the place, but there’s something about seeing a female on this side of the counter that sometimes leads even the most well-intentioned men to forget their manners. With no barback here, I have to do a lot of the running and prep myself, but Fred is a great boss and fun to joke around with. He’s also better at spotting the creeps than I am.
Which is why he’s dealing with the guys in the back, and I am not.
I’m pretty particular when it comes to setup, and start my shift by arranging everything behind the bar exactly the way I like: ticket spike, knife, peeler, muddler, juice press, Y peeler, channel knife, julep strainer, bar spoons, mixing glass. Mise en place—everything in its place.
I’m about to start cutting fruit when a customer leans over the counter and asks for two White Russians, one with ice, one without. I nod, lifting two clean glasses from the rack, when Fred steps behind me.
“Let me know if those kids give you any trouble,” he says, and nods to the pool table group, which is currently whooping about something boy-related in the back.
They seem pretty typical for the UCSD guys who come in here: tall, fit, tan. A few are wearing graphic tees and others wear collared shirts. I study them in tiny flickers of attention as I mix the drinks, taking an educated guess from their height, physique, and tans that they’re water polo players.
One of them, with dark hair and a jaw you could probably have sex with, looks up just as I do, and our eyes snag. He’s good-looking—though to be fair, they’re all pretty good-looking—but there’s something about this guy that makes me do a double take and hold his gaze for the space of a breath, not quite ready to let it go. Unfortunately, he’s gorgeous in that unattainable, brooding douchebag sort of way.
With that reminder of the past, I immediately disengage.
I turn back to Fred and pull a second glass jar labeled CAR FUND from under the counter and place it in front of him. “I think we both know you don’t have to worry about me,” I say, and he smiles, shaking his head at the jar as he finishes his pours. “So is it just the two of us tonight?”
“Think so,” he says, and slides the beers onto the bar. “There aren’t any big games this weekend. Expect it’ll be steady, but slow. Maybe we’ll have a chance to get through some inventory.”
I nod as I finish the drinks and ring them up before washing my hands and checking my station for anything else I’ll need. A throat clears behind me and I turn, finding myself now only a foot away from the eyes that were all the way across the room only seconds before.
“What can I get you?” I ask, and it’s polite enough, delivered with what I know to be a friendly-but-professional smile. His eyes narrow and even though I don’t track them moving down my body in any perceptible way, I get the feeling he’s already checked me out, made up his mind, and filed me away in the same way all men categorize women: fuckable, or not. From my experience, there isn’t a whole lot of in-between.
“Can I get another round, please?” he says, and motions vaguely over his shoulder. His phone vibrates in his hand and he glances down at it, tapping out a quick message before returning his attention to me.
I pull out a tray. I don’t know what they’d ordered since Fred brought them their first round, but I can easily guess.
“Heineken?” I ask.
His eyes narrow in playful insult, and it makes me laugh.
“Okay, not Heineken,” I say, holding up my hands in apology. “What were you drinking?”
Now that I really look, he’s even prettier up close: brown eyes framed with the kind of lashes mascara companies charge a fortune for and dark hair that looks so soft and thick I just know it would feel amazing to dig my fingers—
But I assume he knows this, and the confidence I noticed from across the room practically saturates the air. His phone buzzes again, but he gives it only the briefest glance down and silences it. “Why would you assume Heineken?” he asks.
I stack a handful of coasters on the tray and shrug again, trying to nip the conversation in the bud. “No reason.”
He’s not buying it. The corner of his mouth turns up a little and he says, “Come on, Dimples.”
At almost the same time, I hear Fred’s “Goddammit” and hold out my hand, ready when he slaps a crisp dollar bill into it. I smugly tuck it into the jar.
The guy follows my movement and blinks back up at me. “ ‘Car Fund’?” he asks, reading the label. “What’s that about?”
“It’s nothing,” I tell him, and then wave to the line of draft beers. “What were you guys drinking?”
“You just made a buc
k off of something I said and you’re not even going to tell me what it was?”
I tuck a loose strand of hair behind my ear and give in when I realize he isn’t going to order until I’ve answered him. “It’s just something I hear a lot,” I say. In fact, it’s probably something I’ve heard more than my own name. Deep dimples dent each of my cheeks, and I’d be lying if I didn’t say they’re both my most and least favorite feature. Couple that with sun-streaked—often wind-blown—hair and a smattering of freckles, and I’m about as Girl Next Door as they come.
“Fred didn’t believe it happens as often as I said,” I continue, jerking my thumb over my shoulder. “So we made a little bet: a dollar every time someone calls me Dimples, or references said dimples. I’m going to buy a car.”
“Next week at this rate,” Fred complains from somewhere behind me.
Dudebro’s phone chirps again, but this time he doesn’t check it, doesn’t even look down. Instead, he tucks it into the back pocket of his jeans, glances from Fred to me again, and grins.
And I might actually need a moment.
If I thought this guy was pretty before, it has nothing on the way his entire face changes when he smiles. A light has been switched on behind his eyes, and every trace of arrogance seems to just . . . evaporate. His skin is clear and tan—it practically glows with a warmth that seems to radiate out, coloring his cheeks. The sharpness of his features soften; his eyes crinkle a little at the corners. I know it’s just a smile but it’s like I can’t decide which part I like more: the full lips; white, perfect teeth; or how one side of his mouth lifts just a fraction higher than the other. He makes me want to smile back.
He spins a coaster on the bar top in front of him and continues to grin up at me. “So you’re calling me unoriginal,” he says.
“I’m not calling you anything,” I tell him, matching his grin. “But I appreciate that it seems to be true, because I am raking in the cash.”
He considers my cheeks for a moment. “They are pretty great dimples. I can imagine a lot of worse things to be known for. Nobody’s calling you Peg Leg or the Bearded Lady.”