Filthy English
Ilsa Madden-MIlls
Release Date July 11, 2016
The British are HERE!
Are you ready for Filthy English?
*A modern love story inspired by Romeo and Juliet*
**no one dies in the writing of this novel**
Add to your TBR
Blurb
A smokin’ hot British player…
A jilted girl…
One night of mistaken identity…
Two weeks before her wedding, Remi Montague’s fiancé drops
her faster than a drunken sorority girl in stilettos. Armed with her best
friend and a bottle of tequila, she hops a plane to London to drown her sorrows
before fall semester begins at Whitman University.
She didn't plan on attending a masquerade party.
She sure didn’t plan on waking up next to the British bad
boy who broke her heart three years ago—the devastatingly handsome and naked
Dax Blay. Furthermore, she has no clue how they acquired matching tattoos.
Once back at Whitman together, they endeavor to pretend they
never had their night of unbridled passion in London.
But that’s damn hard to do when you live in the same house…
One night. Two damaged hearts. The passion of a lifetime.
Excerpt
Chapter 1
Remi
Plain and simple, this night sucked.
Sadly, it was my honeymoon.
I sighed heavily and gazed around Masquerade, an intimately
lit London nightclub where everyone wore black domino masks, some elaborate and
some plain, to hide their identity. A few die-hards even sported dark clothing
with long, loose cloaks. Not me though. I’d gone modern with a slinky little
number and three-inch heels, putting my height at nearly six feet. Yep, I’m the
giant in the blue dress, towering over every girl and some guys at the bar.
My top teeth dug into my bottom lip as I gazed around the
smoky club, my eyes bouncing off random faces. Even in a room full of party
people, music, and strobe lights, I was lonely.
My groom was missing.
That’s right. Hartford Wilcox, Jr., aka Mr. Nice Guy at
Whitman University in North Carolina, had jilted me two weeks before the big
wedding day as we had dinner at our favorite Italian restaurant, Mario’s.
And now here I was—on my honeymoon and getting trashed with
my best friend Lulu who’d decided to skip her beach vacation and come with me
at the last minute.
She poked me with her finger as we sat in front of the heavy
wooden bar of the club. “Hey, Earth to Remi, get that glazed look out of your
eyes and order a drink already. I’m thirsty.” She fluffed her pixie-cut pink
hair and straightened her black tutu, eyes scoping out the club. “Dang, the men
in here are hotter than a billy goat with a blow torch,” she said in her
honeyed southern drawl.
I half-heartedly agreed, not really caring, more intent on
scanning the bottles behind the bar. “I want tequila,” I murmured. “A whole
bottle.”
Her face snapped back to me and her green eyes widened.
“Uh-uh. No way. I know what happens when you drink that crap. You either eat a
ton of tacos and puke, or you wrap yourself around some cocky bastard with a
well-developed tush.”
True. I did love a tight muscular ass.
But I wouldn’t get one tonight.
A short laugh burst out of me, one of those
I’m-miserable-but-pretending-to- be-okay-laughs that I’d been doing a lot of
lately. For the past two weeks, I’d vacillated between a sobbing mess and an
angry woman who became so incensed that “fuck” was the only word that seemed
appropriate in any given situation. Going to the post office to mail he dumped
me, but thank you anyway cards. Fuck. Going to the wedding venue and not
getting the ten thousand dollar deposit back. Fuck. Realizing I was homeless
fall semester—which was in two weeks—fuck. Listening to my mother tell me it
was my fault. Fuck, fuck, fuck.
The bartender delivered my bottle and poured me a shot. I
sucked the tequila down while Lulu watched me warily. It tasted like bad
decisions and gasoline, but tonight was about forgetting. The sooner the
better.
A few minutes later, Lulu went out to dance with a British
guy she’d been making eyes at. I sat glumly at the bar, fiddling with my
diamond tennis bracelet, rubbing it like rosary beads. I needed to forget
Hartford, and according to Lulu, that meant hooking up with someone.
Was she right?
Fate answered in the form of a beautiful man—and by
beautiful I mean drop-dead sexy with a backside so delectable and muscular my
mouth plopped open.
I snapped my lips shut and adjusted my velvet half-mask—the
annoying feathery plumes on the sides kept sticking to my red lipstick—and
turned ever so slightly to check him out, not wanting to appear obvious. He
slid into the seat next to me, tall and broad with rippling shoulders and a
massive frame.
I checked my appearance in a mirror behind the bar, mentally
analyzing the odds of a girl like me snagging a hottie like him.
Although no one had ever called me beautiful, I did have
two—okay, maybe three—things going for me in the looks department. My shiny,
golden-brown hair that hung down in waves to my shoulders, my fluffy “pillow
lips” as Lulu described them, and lastly, I had an itsy bitsy space between my
two front teeth which were otherwise white and perfect. Lulu claimed the gap
lent me an exotic look, like Madonna or Sookie Stackhouse. Whatever. I was a
True Blood fan. I went with it.
He shifted on the stool, leaning closer to me. His cologne
swirled in the air, the smell of expensive Scotch and musk mingling together to
create a heady, slightly dangerous scent. I paused, goosebumps rising on my
bare arms. The spicy whiff triggered a distant memory just out of reach.
As slyly as I could, I studied his profile from top to
bottom. Like me he wore a black mask, although his was more masculine, not
hiding his chiseled, movie star jawline. His lips were carnal and luscious, the
bottom more plump than the top with a slight indentation in the middle. As I
watched, his tongue swept out and caressed it, his top teeth biting it as if he
were deep in thought. He raked a hand through his dark, longish messy hair,
held it suspended above his head for a few seconds and then released it,
letting it swish back into its tousled yet perfect place.
I tore my eyes away.
Something about him sent loud warning bells ringing in every
atom of my body.
Danger, danger. Don’t touch that.
But my gaze would not be denied as I took in the tight black
shirt and sculpted chest that was obviously used to the inside of a gym, right
down to an arm that looked like it could snap a board in half—or me.
Nice biceps, Mr. Beautiful.
The pièce de résistance was the vivid blue and orange
dragonfly tattoo displayed on his left arm. It was larger than my hand and took
up most of his bicep. My eyes traced the contours of the design from the papery
wings to the multi-faceted eyes. A bold black color outlined the insect, giving
it a masculine feel.
Gorgeous.
True Religion jeans stretched down long legs and ended in a
pair of black Converse without socks, giving him a boyish quality that was in
direct contrast to the crazy-sexy-bad-boy vibe he had going on.
Him tonight?
Maybe. He was the polar opposite of Hartford who was blond,
lean, and tattoo-free.
I nibbled on my fingernail. How do I get him to notice
little ol' me?
Just then a redhead with fluffy Farrah Fawcett hair strode
up to his stool, bold as brass, wearing a tight, white mini-skirt that barely
covered her booty. She brought with her the smell of sweet, cloying perfume,
the kind I always got spritzed with at the mall.
She flicked her hair over her shoulder, casually rubbed her
finger down his arm and struck up a conversation. Her fake, black lashes—which
she’d somehow managed to get outside the eyeholes of her mask—batted. She
puffed out her well-developed chest.
He smiled back at her with a wicked grin, his relaxed body
language telling me he was confident when it came to women. She whispered in
his ear, boobs right in his face, but whatever he said back wasn’t what she
wanted to hear because a few ticks later, she crossed her arms, glared at me,
and stalked away.
I blinked. What had I done?
Then he turned and pointed his devastating smile at me.
Shit, he’d made eye contact—as much as you could with a
claustrophobic mask on.
But wait…
Was he crazy?
Because if he’d turned down her flirtation, I didn’t have a
shot.
I didn’t know how to do the fingers-tip-toeing-up-his-arm-thing
and sexy hair flicking. I didn’t know a thing about applying fake eyelashes. I
didn’t know how to make my breasts sit up that high. I looked away from him and
took another shot, feeling anxious and strangely off-kilter.
Mr. Beautiful ordered a drink from the bartender, his
British accent smooth as silk as it washed over me. I froze. I almost knew that
voice—deep with soft rounded vowels that made you tingle in your lady parts.
What was it about this guy that had me all jacked up and hot
for him?
Hello, tequila, my inner voice said. But it was more than
that.
Getting brave, I pivoted on my barstool, and found Mr.
Beautiful’s eyes on me once more, searching my face. As if he too recognized
the pull between us.
My heart played hopscotch, jumping against my chest. My skin
prickled. I shivered.
Did I know him?
It clicked.
Dax Blay?
It was his voice, the same deep quality, the kind of voice
that made you want to hop into his bed and ride him like a cowgirl.
My breath hitched, and I swallowed down the emotion that
zipped up my spine whenever I thought of him. He was my one mistake, the time
I’d tossed inhibitions and carefully laid plans aside and went with my
instincts, only to have them tossed back in my face.
But the man next to me wasn’t Dax. Thank God.
Last spring at the campus-wide end of the year fraternity
party with Hartford, I’d seen Dax, and he’d had shorter hair, like always, and
zero tattoos. Yeah. No way.
Plus, last I heard, he was in Raleigh where his father
lived.
Yet…
Dax was British. He could have family here. Maybe he got a
tattoo?
Nah. I mean, what were the odds of us both being at the same
club on the same night in a country where neither of us lived?
I tore my eyes off Mr. Beautiful and waved at a bartender
for more limes, but somehow my tennis bracelet snagged on the bodice of my
dress, leaving my wrist dangling like a wet dishrag in a most inappropriate
place.
I wiggled my arm.
Jiggled it.
Even went so far as to jerk, but it wouldn’t separate.
Sweat popped out on my forehead. Holding my breath, I
twisted and tugged the bracelet, forcing the delicate material in my bodice to
stretch beyond normal limits.
“Well, hell,” I breathed, pausing to assess.
Skin-tight with a plunging neckline, the dress was mostly a
stretchy fabric held together by sequined straps and a zipper on the side.
Slated as part of my honeymoon wardrobe, it was a Tory Burch and had cost four
hundred dollars, the most I’d ever paid for a fun outfit, and no way did I want
to damage it. I might have to return it to rent an apartment at Whitman.
Lulu. I needed Lulu. She was a whiz with wardrobe
malfunctions.
I spun around on the barstool and used my free hand to wave
at her, but she was slinging herself around dancing, having a great time and
completely oblivious. I resorted to flapping both hands at her, one high and
one low. Several people waved back with baffled expressions, but Lulu didn’t
notice. Dammit.
I groaned and slumped down in my seat, ready to scream. Now
what? Go to the bathroom and repair it there? Good plan.
But the club tilted when I stood, the strobe lights making
me squint as they flashed in my face. I wobbled in my leopard print heels—that
Lulu had insisted I wear—and grabbed the stool to keep my balance. `
I sucked in a breath to gather myself, but I couldn’t think
straight. The room spun, and I was suddenly queasy, and why did I slam all that
tequila, and oh my god, my wrist is currently attached to my tit like a T. rex
arm.
I had to get out of here before someone noticed what an
idiot I was.
Trying to be stealth like, I reached across the bar to get
my beaded clutch, but because it was my left hand and not my right that I used
most of the time, I got off balance and stumbled—and my ankle folded in on
itself. I yelped as my shoe catapulted off my foot and vaulted off toward the
dance floor, while I fell forward, straight into Mr. Beautiful’s lap.
Filthy English (unedited excerpt)
Copyright Ilsa Madden-Mills
About Ilsa Madden-Mills
New York Times and USA Today best-selling author Ilsa
Madden-Mills writes about strong heroines and sexy alpha males that sometimes
you just want to slap.
She's addicted to all things fantasy, including unicorns and
sword-wielding heroes in books. Other fascinations include frothy coffee
beverages, dark chocolate, Instagram, Ian Somerhalder (seriously hot),
astronomy (she's a Gemini), Sephora make-up, and tattoos.
She has a degree in English and a Master's in Education.
When she's not pecking away on her computer, she shops for
cool magnets, paints old furniture, and eats her weight in sushi.
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