Sweet Filthy Boy by Christina Lauren Page B

intense sex of my life. And see? There are still details you don’t remember.”
    I might not remember every touch, but my body certainly does. I can feel his fingertips tattooed all over my skin. They’re in the bruises I can see and they’re invisible, too: the echo of his fingers in my mouth, dragging along my legs, pumping inside me.
    But as intoxicating as the memories are, none of this is what I really want to talk about. I want to know what he remembers from before the wedding, before the sex, when I dropped my life in his lap. Having sex with a virtual stranger is weird for me, but it’s not unheard of. What’s monumental is for me to have opened up so much. I never even talked to Luke about some of these things.
    “Apparently I said a lot to you yesterday,” I say, before sucking on my bottom lip and working it with my teeth. It still feels bruised and I get tiny, teasing flashes of his teeth and tongue and fingers pinching my mouth.
    He doesn’t say anything, but his eyes move over my face as if he’s waiting for me to reach some understanding he reached hours ago.
    “I told you about Luke? And my family?”
    He nods.
    “And I told you about my leg?”
    “I saw your leg,” he reminds me quietly.
    Of course he did. He would have seen the scar extending from hip to knee and the tiny ant trail of staple marks along the long, silvery gash.
    “Is that what has you shaking?” he asks. “That I saw your naked leg? That I touched it?”
    He knows it isn’t. The smile pulling at his mouth tells me he knows my secret, and he’s gloating. He remembers everything, including his unique achievement: a babbling Mia.
    “It was probably the gin,” I say.
    “I think it was me.”
    “I was really drunk. I think I just forgot to be nervous.”
    His lips are so close I can feel their shadow on my jaw. “It was me, Cerise . You still haven’t stuttered this morning.”
    I press back into the wall, needing space. It isn’t just that I’m surprised to find I’m so fluent with him. It’s the intoxicating weight of his attention, the need I have to feel his hands and mouth on me. It’s the headache that lingers and the reality that I’m married. No matter what happens, I have to deal with this and all I want is to climb back into bed.
    “I feel weird that I told you everything and I don’t know anything about you.”
    “We have plenty of time,” he says, tongue slipping out to wet his lips. “Till death do us part, in fact.”
    He must be kidding. I laugh, relieved that finally we can be playful. “I can’t stay married to you, Ansel.”
    “But in fact,” he whispers, “you can.” His mouth presses carefully to the corner of mine, tongue peeking out to taste my lip.
    My heart seizes and I freeze. “What?”
    “‘I want to love all of my life as much as I love this night,’” he quotes.
    My heart dips and spills into my stomach.
    “I realize how this sounds,” he says immediately, “and I’m not insane. But you made me swear I wouldn’t let you freak out.” He shakes his head slowly. “And, because I promised, I can’t give you an annulment. At least not until you start school in the fall. I promised, Mia.”
    I pull back and meet his eyes just before he leans back in, opening his mouth to mine. I sense that I should be more wary of this entire situation but his effect on me hasn’t diminished even with the hangover and the alarming reality of what we’ve done.
    He sucks at my lips, pulling them in turn into his mouth before he gives me his tongue, tasting of orange juice and water and grapes. His hands brace on my hips, and he bends lower, kissing me deeper, teasing me with a rumbling moan. “Let’s go back upstairs,” he says. “Let me feel you again.”
    “Mia!” Harlow’s voice cuts down the hall through the stale smell of cigarettes. “Holy shit, we’ve been looking for you all morning! I was starting to worry you might be in a gutter or something.”
    Lorelei and Harlow jog