Sweet Filthy Boy by Christina Lauren Read Free Book Online

about? I can barely remember how to walk, let alone figure out how to deal with the thought that I might be legally married to a guy who loves everything about life, including Bronies.
    With a nervous flip in my stomach I slip between two tables and walk over to the booth where Ansel is smiling up at me. In however many minutes we’ve been apart—or however many I’ve been unconscious—I’d forgotten the effect of him up close. Nerve endings seem to rise to the surface of my skin, anticipating his hands.
    “Good morning,” he says. His voice is hoarse and slow. He has dark circles beneath his eyes and his skin looks a little pale. Given that he’s clearly been up longer than I have, looking at him doesn’t make me especially confident I’ll feel better in a couple of hours.
    “Good morning.” I hover at the edge of the table, not sure I’m ready to sit down. “What was Finn talking about?”
    He waves his hand, already dismissing it. “I saw you coming and ordered you some orange juice and what you Americans like to call coffee.”
    “Thanks.” When I sit, I suck in a breath at the throbbing ache between my legs, and the reality of our night of wild—and maybe a little rough—sex is like a third person at the table. I wince, a full-body wince, and Ansel notices. It sets off a comical chain reaction: he blushes and his eyes drop to the marks he’s left all over my neck and chest. I try to cover my throat with shaking hands, wishing I’d brought a scarf to the desert, in the summer—which is ridiculous—and he bursts out laughing. I drop my head onto my crossed arms on the table and groan. I’m never drinking again.
    “About the bite marks . . .” he begins.
    “About that.”
    “You kept asking me to bite you.”
    “I did?”
    “You were very specific,” he says with a grin. “And being the gentleman that I am, I happily obliged.”
    “Oh.”
    “Apparently we had a wild night.”
    I lift my head, thanking the waitress when she puts a carafe of coffee in front of me. “The details are slowly returning.”
    And they are, finally: the way we crashed into the hotel room, laughing and falling onto the travertine floor just inside the entryway. He rolled me over to playfully check for scrapes, kissing along my neck, my back, the backs of my thighs. He undressed me with fingers and teeth and words kissed into my skin. Far less artfully I undressed him, impatient and practically ripping the shirt from his body.
    When I look up and meet his eyes, he rubs the back of his neck, smiling apologetically at me. “If what I feel today is any indication, we, ah . . . took a long time.”
    I feel my face heat at the same time my stomach drops. This isn’t the first time I’ve heard this particular bit of feedback. “I’m sorry my body is sort of . . . hard to please. Luke used to work forever to get me there and when we were first together sometimes I would even just pretend to come so he wouldn’t feel like he failed.”
    Oh my God did I actually just say all that out loud?
    Ansel scrunches his nose in an expression I haven’t seen on him yet and it’s the portrait of adorable confusion. “What? You aren’t a robot, sometimes it takes time. I quite enjoyed figuring out how to give you pleasure.” He winces then, looking even more apologetic. “I’m afraid the one taking forever was me. I had a lot to drink. Besides . . . we both wanted more after each time . . . I feel like I did about a million crunches.”
    And as soon as he says it, I know he’s right. Even now my body feels like an instrument that had been perfectly played for hours the night before, and I seem to have gotten my wish: last night I did have a different life. I had the life of a woman with a wild, attentive lover. Beneath the haze of my hangover, I feel stretched and worked, the kind of satisfied that seems to reach the middle of my bones and the deepest part of my brain.
    I remember being carried to the couch in the living