Christina Lauren Gives VH1 A Sweet Filthy Boy Exclusive: Read Ansel’s POV!

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Sweet Filthy Boy is the latest novel from Christina Lauren, the pen-name of writing duo Christina Hobbs and Lauren Billings. In just over a year they’ve published seven New York Times bestsellers (yes, you read that right) and their first novel Beautiful Bastard has been optioned for a movie. Sweet Filthy Boy is yet another huge success for the pair and marks the debut of their newest series, Wild Seasons. And boy, do we have a treat for you!

You’ve seen Mia’s side of the story when she wakes up in Sweet Filthy Boy after a Vegas all-nighter with a sexy, fun, Frenchman. But for the first time ever, see what transpired the morning after from Ansel’s point of view! Once you’ve finished, check out our interview with the lovely authors, who spill on everything from crafting the perfect book boyfriend to where we can find Ansel and Mia next. And remember: Book One of the Wild Seasons series, Sweet Filthy Boy, is on-sale now, and Book Two, Dirty Rowdy Thing, comes out November 4!

(Please note: some language below is slightly NSFW)

Sweet Filthy Morning After

Copyright © 2014 Christina Hobbs and Lauren Billings

When I finally come to, my whole body feels slow and sticky. Sleep burns behind my eyelids and the effort it takes to roll from my stomach to my back would be comical if I were watching it happen to someone else. Maybe also if the ceiling weren’t spinning above me.

The hotel room is cool and dark, but it’s the artificial kind of darkness where the sun is choked off by heavy, insulated drapes and it’s impossible to tell what time of day it is. Even without looking around, I can tell the bed I’m in is not only in someone else’s hotel room, but it’s massive. At six foot two, I’ve spent the better part of my adult life wishing all beds were twice as large. During Bike and Build, I shared a tent with three other people, and slept on a cot where my feet hung over the edge every night for an entire year. Here, my legs are fully extended and yet I can’t feel the footboard, and there’s plenty of room on either side. I could probably stretch and starfish all over the mattress if I wanted to. But with the ceiling still blooming in and out of focus, the very idea of moving even an inch from this spot makes me want to sew my mouth shut so I can never, ever, ever drink again.

An air conditioner kicks on somewhere nearby, and floods the space with crisp, industrial air. There’s a hint of cigarette smoke, the unmistakable trace of perfume. The odor of a lot of alcohol. I wrinkle my nose; I’m fairly certain that last one is me. It feels like someone is trying to pry my scalp from my skull, and when I manage to reach down and pull something—a sock, I think—out from under my leg, I realize that I’m also very, very naked. A tiny cough sounds from somewhere to my left . . . so I’m also not alone.

It’s startling how fast something like that can sober a person up.

I bolt to my feet and regret it almost immediately. I groan, knees buckling. I squeeze my eyes shut, bracing myself against the mattress until the world rights itself again. The other side of the bed but has clearly been . . . used. The sheets are pulled loose, the comforter missing, and another sound—a soft murmuring—rises from the floor below.

I peer over the edge and the shape of a naked, sleeping woman swims in front of me.

She’s curled on her side facing me and I’m immediately overwhelmed by miles of creamy skin and legs and God, the swell of what looks like the most perfect breast I’ve ever seen. I straighten and a hand against my temple brings with it another wave of nausea. The slight pressure is enough to make me want to throw up all over the tangled white sheets and the girl who, somehow, has managed not to wake during any of this.

The muscles in my abdomen, legs and shoulders are sore from exertion and from the way every inch of my skin aches—especially in some rather delicate places—I know a lot of sex happened last night. I feel like I ran a marathon.

I force myself to lean over the bed again and focus, to take in the glossy dark hair and red lips, the long, graceful neck covered in a roadmap of what I can only guess are hickeys I gave her. She shifts in her sleep, brings an arm up and over her head and I freeze, seeing the simple glint of gold on her finger.

I freeze, panicking. Did I fool around with a married woman? I run my hand down my face, groaning at the horror of this and pause at the feel of the cool metal on my cheek. My heart practically comes to a stop when I see a matching gold band on my hand.

Oh.

Oh.

I can’t believe that for even a heartbeat I forgot what happened with Mia.

#

The first thing I’d noticed was her mouth. Full and round, lips the color of cherries and so red it was almost obscene. It sounds cliché that my first reaction was to think of sex, but, Jesus—it’s all that came to mind, looking at those lips. Sure, I had imagined them in the most predictable, visual man-ways possible—around my cock, dragging along every other inch of my body—but I also wanted to know if they tasted like cherries, too.

There were three women settled into a booth on the other side of the dance floor. The tall redhead was telling some story, clearly trying to shout above the music and gesticulating wildly with her hands. The brunette next to her was laughing like it was the funniest thing she’d ever seen, but the one with the darkest hair and the mouth was just sitting there smiling, grinning like watching her friend laugh was the highlight of her entire night. And that was infectious.

Je n’ai jamais vu quelque chose d’aussi beau.

I realized I was staring and tried to look away. Several times. Finn and Oliver were pointing out some girl dancing on a table across the bar, but I’d tuned them out long ago, unable to hear a word they were saying anyway. Music poured through the club with a beat that swallowed every conversation until the only way to communicate was with hips and hands and sneaky or downright overt glances. Which is exactly what I was doing, my eyes crossing the room to settle on her over and over.

Up until this point she hadn’t noticed. I wordlessly accepted Oliver’s offer of another drink and searched through the sea of undulating bodies, debating whether I should cross the dance floor to get her name. She lifted her chin just as the crowd moved, and her table came into view again.

Green eyes met mine and there wasn’t a chance in hell I was going to be able to pull my feet from where they seemed to be bolted to the floor, let alone remember my own name. I’d seen a hundred girls look at me like that from across a room, but it had never felt like that, like the air had ignited in the space between us and the breath had been knocked from my lungs. I didn’t blink, didn’t breathe, didn’t hear a decibel of the pounding bass or the drunken shouts of the people around me. I’d been reduced to butterflies in my stomach and the growing weight of my own smile as it stretched across my face.

She didn’t look away, just continued to hold my gaze until her tongue peeked out to lick her bottom lip and she mouthed the word “Hi.”

I was obliterated by a single syllable.

I returned it and couldn’t help but look away, downing the rest of my drink in a single shot.

“You okay, mate?” Oliver shouted, concerned. Blood pumped through my veins and my cheeks were hot. I felt a lot like I did at the start of a bike ride, that quick burst of adrenaline as you look down the road and have no idea what’s at the end.

“Je . . . j’ai vu . . .”

He laughed. “In English, Ansel.”

I nodded numbly, tracing the rim of my empty glass and saying, “I saw . . .” before turning back to her.

They were gone.