I am rarely surprised by a book, but Sweet Filthy Boy blew. me. away. From impeccable character development, to a truly stimulating storyline, from sizzling sex scenes that had my skin-tingling and my pulse racing, to an engaging writing style that left me craving for more from this talented writing duo—this was a book I could not put down and even before I finished it, I knew it would forever remain one of my favourite reading escapes. And now I get to share with you a delicious little excerpt from Harlow and Finn’s book, Dirty Rowdy Thing…
He looks down the hall and then back at me, gaze moving from my face down to my feet. “You go get a big glass of water, a piece of toast, and a couple of ibuprofen or something. I’m not going to f*ck you until you’re steady.”
He turns without waiting for my reaction to his bossy tone, walking down the hall and ducking his head into the bathroom before slipping fully inside, closing the door behind him with a quiet click.
Because it’s a good idea and not because Finn told me to—a fact I have to restrain myself from shouting over my shoulder—I go to the kitchen for water, food, and two ibuprofen.
I hear the faucet turn on, the bathroom door open, and then he calls from the hallway, “Where do you keep your sports and surfing shit?”
“My what?” I ask around a mouthful of toast.
“I don’t mean your board.” I hear him open the hall closet and mumble an “Ah. Got it.”
I chug my water and watch him emerge from the hallway. My heart trips. His shoulders fill the doorway and I feel oddly intimidated. It’s only odd because I like it. I like the idea of him being a little scary, a little out of control. I like the idea of him crashing into my life and pushing everything else out of frame.
He’s got a spool of bungee cord in his hand.
“How did I know you were looking for something like that?” I ask.
“It could be the subtle way I asked you about the rope, earlier.” He wraps his hand around my upper arm and leads me to the living room.
I weave a little on my feet and he studies me, pushing his hat off his head and mussing his hair with one hand. “You gonna remember this?”
It’s troubling how his voice affects me. It’s raspy, and reminds me of a good rich whiskey, the scratch of it in my throat, its warmth in my blood. I don’t think I can pretend anymore that I’m not completely obsessed with Finn Roberts.
“Probably,” I whisper, stretching to kiss his jawline
“I can’t wait for you to beg me to come.” He lifts his chin the tiniest bit, running his tongue over his bottom lip. “And I can’t wait for you to beg me to let you stop.”
I have the sense of sobering up just so I can get high off the feeling of him inside.
Nodding at my clothes, he murmurs, “Take them off.”
I pull my T-shirt off, slip out of my shoes and jeans. He watches every move, absently unwrapping the new roll of bungee cord. I bought it a few weeks ago to transport my surfboard after my last cord started to fray, but hell. This works, too.
“This won’t be as soft,” he says, motioning to the cord, but I sort of hope he’s also talking about how he’s going to f*ck me.