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Dirty, by Megan Hart
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I met him at the candy store. He turned around and smiled at me and I was surprised enough to smile back. This was not a children's candy store, mind you—this was the kind of place you went to buy expensive imported chocolate truffles for your boss's wife because you felt guilty for having sex with him when you were both at a conference in Milwaukee. Hypothetically speaking, of course.
I've been hit on plenty of times, mostly by men with little finesse who thought what was between their legs made up for what they lacked between their ears. Sometimes I went home with them anyway, just because it felt good to want and be wanted, even if it was mostly fake.
The problem with wanting is that it's like pouring water into a vase full of stones. It fills you up before you know it, leaving no room for anything else. I don't apologize for who I am or what I've done in—or out—of bed. I have my job, my house and my life, and for a long time I haven't wanted anything else.
Until Dan. Until now.
- Sales Rank: #442557 in Books
- Published on: 2012-09-04
- Released on: 2012-09-04
- Original language: English
- Number of items: 1
- Dimensions: 8.25" h x 1.15" w x 5.38" l, .70 pounds
- Binding: Paperback
- 432 pages
Review
"Definitely a five-star read . . ." -- Romance at Heart on An Exaltation of Larks
"Ms. Hart is a master of all genres. Her stories grip you from the onset." -- Romance Junkies
About the Author
Megan Hart is the award-winning and multi-published author of more than thirty novels, novellas and short stories. Her work has been published in almost every genre, including contemporary women’s fiction, historical romance, romantic suspense and erotica. Megan lives in the deep, dark woods of Pennsylvania with her husband and children, and is currently working on her next novel for MIRA Books. You can contact Megan through her website at www.MeganHart.com.
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
This is what happened.
I met him at the candy store. He turned around and smiled at me. I was surprised enough to smile back.
This was not a children's candy store. This was Sweet Heaven, an upscale, gourmet candy store. No cheap lollipops or chalky chocolate kisses, but the kind of place you went to buy expensive, imported truffles for your boss's wife because you felt guilty for fucking him when you were both at a conference in Milwaukee.
He was buying jellybeans, black only. He looked at the bag in my hand, candy-coated chocolate. Also in one color.
"You know what they say about the green ones." The rakish tilt of his lips tried to charm me, and I resisted.
"St. Patrick's Day?" Which was why I was buying them.
He shook his head. "No. The green ones make you horny."
I'd been hit on plenty of times, mostly by men with little finesse who thought what was between their legs made up for what they lacked between their ears. Sometimes I went home with one of them anyway, just because it felt good to want and be wanted, even if it was mostly fake and they usually disappointed.
"That's an urban legend made up by adolescent boys with wishfulfillment issues."
His lips tilted further. His smile was his best asset, brilliant and shining in a face made up of otherwise regular features. He had hair the color of wet sand and cloudy blue-green eyes; both attractive, but when paired with the smile…breathtaking.
"Very good answer," he said.
He held out his hand. When I took it, he pulled me closer, step by hesitant step, until he could lean close and whisper in my ear. His hot breath gusted along my skin, and I shivered. "Do you like licorice?"
I did, and I do, and he tugged me around the corner to reach inside a bin filled with small black rectangles. It had a label with a picture of a kangaroo on the front.
"Try this." He lifted a piece to my lips and I opened for him although the sign clearly said No Samples. "It's from Australia."
The licorice smoothed on my tongue. Soft, fragrant, sticky in a way that made me run my tongue along my teeth. I tasted his fingers from where they'd brushed my lips. He smiled.
"I know a little place," he said, and I let him take me there.
The Slaughtered Lamb. A gruesome name for a nice little faux-British pub tucked down an alley in the center of downtown Harrisburg. Compared to the trendy dance clubs and upscale restaurants that had revitalized the area, the Lamb seemed out of place and all the more delightful for it.
He sat us at the bar, away from the college students singing karaoke in the corner. The stools wobbled, and I had to hold tight to the bar. I ordered a margarita.
"No." The shake of his head had me raising a brow. "You want whiskey."
"I've never had whiskey."
"A virgin." On another man the comment would have come off smarmy, earned a roll of the eyes and an automatic addition to the "not with James Dean's prick" file.
On him, it worked.
"A virgin," I agreed, the word tasting unfamiliar on my tongue as though I hadn't used it in a very long time.
He ordered us both shots of Jameson Irish Whiskey, and he drank his back as one should do with shots, in one gulp. I am no stranger to drinking, even if I'd never had whiskey, and I matched him without a grimace. There's a reason it's also known as firewater, but after the initial burn the taste of it spread across my tongue and reminded me of the smell of burning leaves. Cozy. Warm. A little romantic, even.
His gaze brightened. "I like the way you put that down the back of your throat."
I was instantly, immediately, insanely aroused.
"Another?" said the 'tender.
"Another," my companion agreed. To me he said, "Very good."
The compliment pleased me, and I wasn't sure why impressing him had become so important.
We drank there for a while, and the whiskey hit me harder than I thought it would. Or perhaps the company made me giddy enough to giggle at his subtle but charming observations about the people around us.
The woman in the business suit in the corner was an off-duty call girl. The man in the leather jacket, a mortician. My companion wove stories about everyone around us including our good-natured bartender, whom he said had the look of a retired gumdrop farmer.
"Gumdrops don't come from farms." I leaned forward to touch his tie, which featured a pattern that upon first glance appeared to be the normal sort of dots and crosses many men wore. I, however, had noticed the dots and crosses were tiny skulls and crossbones.
"No?" He seemed disappointed I wouldn't play along.
"No." I tugged his tie and looked up into the blue-green eyes that had begun vying with his smile for best feature. "They're harvested in the wild."
He guffawed, tilting his head back with the force of it. I envied him the free and easy way he gave in to the impulse to laugh. I'd have been afraid people would stare.
"And you," he said at last. His gaze pinned me, held me in place. "What are you?"
"Gumdrop poacher," I whispered through whiskey-numb lips.
He reached to twirl a strand of hair that had fallen free from my long French braid. "You don't look that dangerous, to me."
We looked at each other, two strangers, and shared a smile, and I thought how long it had been since I'd done that. "Want to walk me home?"
He did.
He didn't attempt to make love to me that night, which didn't surprise me. He didn't try to fuck me, either, which did. He didn't even kiss me, though I hesitated before putting my keys in the door and smiled and chatted with him before saying good-night.
He hadn't asked for my name. Not even my number. Just left me buzzing from whiskey on my doorstep. I watched him walk down the street, jingling the change in his pocket. He faded into the darkness between the streetlamps, and then I went inside.
I thought about him the next morning in the shower while I washed the scent of smoke from my hair. I thought about him while I shaved my legs, my pits, the curling dark hair between my legs. When I brushed my teeth I caught sight of my face in the mirror and tried to imagine seeing my eyes as he had.
Blue with flecks of white and gold visible upon closer observation. A feature many men praised, perhaps because telling a woman she has pretty eyes is a safe way of judging whether they can next move on to putting a hand on her thigh. He hadn't mentioned them. He hadn't, actually, complimented me on anything other than the way I'd drunk the whiskey.
I thought about him as I dressed for work. Plain white panties, comfortable in cut and fabric. Matching bra, a hint of lace, enough to make it pretty but designed to support my breasts rather than flaunt them. A black skirt cut just above the knee. A white blouse with buttons. Black and white, as always, to make the choices easier and because something about the pure simplicity of black and white soothes me.
I thought about him on the ride to work, my headphones tucked inside my ears to discourage random conversation from strangers. The shield of modern times. The ride was no longer than it ever had been, nor shorter, and I counted the stops the way I always did and gave the bus driver the same smile.
"Have a good day, Miss Kavanagh."
"Thanks, Bill."
I thought of him, too, as I climbed the cement steps to my office and pushed through the doors precisely five minutes before I was due in my office.
"You're late today," said Harvey Willard, the security guard. "An entire minute."
"Blame the bus," I told him with a grin I knew would make him blush, though the blame was not upon the bus but upon my distracted gait that had made me slow.
Up the elevator, down the hall, through my door, to my desk. Not one thing was different, but everything had changed. Not even the columns of numbers in front of me could wrest my mind from the puzzle he'd presented.
I didn't know his name. Hadn't given him mine. I'd thought it would be easy, two strangers looking to fill a mutual need. A standard seduction. One that didn't need names to complicate it.
I didn't like men knowing my name, anyway. It gave them a sense of power over me they didn't deserve, as if by gasping out my name when they jerked and spasmed they could cement the moment in place and time. If I had to give a name, I gave them a false one, and when they shouted it out in come-hoarse voices it never failed to make me smile.
I wasn't smiling today. I was distracted, disgruntled, discombobulated…I'd have been disenchanted if I'd ever been enchanted to begin with.
I worked the problem in my mind like I'd figure a calculation. Separate the equations, decipher the individual components, add the pieces that made sense and divide them by the parts that didn't. By lunchtime I still hadn't been able to relegate him to a memory.
"Hot date last night?" Marcy Peters, she of the big hair and tiny skirts, asked. Marcy is the sort of woman who will always refer to herself as a girl, who wears white pumps with too-tight jeans, whose blouses always show a little too much cleavage.
She poured herself another cup of coffee. I had tea. We sat at the small lunchroom table and peeled open sandwiches delivered from the deli, hers tuna and mine, as usual, turkey on wheat.
"As always" came my reply, and we laughed, two women bound in friendship not from qualities in common or mutual interests but because our alliance forms the cage that protects us from the sharks with whom we work.
Marcy fends off the sharks with a blunt and unassuming, forthright presentation of her femininity. Of herself as woman all-powerful, all-intriguing, allencompassing. She is blond and buxom and not above using her attributes to get what she wants.
I prefer a more discreet approach.
Marcy laughed at my response because the Elle Kavanagh she knows does not go on dates, hot or otherwise. The Elle Kavanagh of her acquaintance, junior vice president of corporate accounting, makes the cliche of the lady-librarian-with-spectacles-and-bun look like Lady Godiva.
Marcy doesn't know anything about me, or my life outside the walls of Triple Smith and Brown.
"You hear the news about the Flynn account?" This was Marcy's idea of lunchtime conversation. Gossip about other employees.
"No," I said to appease her and because she always did manage to dig up the best stories.
"Mr. Flynn's secretary sent the wrong files over to Bob, who's handling the account, right?"
"All right."
Glee danced in Marcy's eyes. "Apparently, she e-mailed Mr. Flynn's private expense account, not the corporate one."
"It has to get better."
"Apparently, Mr. Flynn likes to keep track of how many hundred-dollar hookers and bootleg cigars he buys!" She wriggled in her seat.
"Bad news for Mr. Flynn's secretary, I guess."
Marcy grinned. "She's been blowing Bob on the side. He didn't tell Mr. Flynn."
"Bob Hoover?" That was unexpected news.
"Yeah. Can you believe it?"
"I guess I can believe anything of anybody," I told her honestly. "Most people are far less discriminating about who they take to bed than you'd think."
"Oh, really?" She gave me a ferrety look of interest. "And you'd know this because.?"
"Pure conjecture." I pushed away from the table and threw away my trash.
Marcy didn't look disappointed, only more intrigued.
"Uh-huh."
I gave her a sweet and bland smile, and left her alone to meditate on my mysterious sex life.
The fact is, people are far less discriminating in who they fuck than anyone wants to admit. Appearance, intelligence, a sense of humor, wealth, power…not everyone has these qualities, and fewer have more than one. But here's the truth. Fat, ugly and stupid people get laid, too, the media just doesn't report on it like they do when the lovers are gorgeous film stars. Men don't need to be clobbered over the head with the sight of your tits to know you're looking for action. Even pent-up librarian types can get fucked with their panties around their ankles and a brick wall scraping bloody welts on their backs.
At least, this one can.
Or at least I'd been able to three years ago, which was the last time I'd gone out looking. I hadn't been looking for action at Sweet Heaven, merely jonesing for chocolate. So why, then, had I let him take me away? Why had I asked him to walk me home and been so disappointed when he left me on the doorstep with nothing but a wave?
That I hadn't been looking to find someone that day only exacerbated my private torture. If I'd found him in a bar instead of Sweet Heaven, if my hair had been loose about my shoulders, if my blouse had been unbuttoned, would he have asked to come inside my door? Come inside my body? Would he have kissed me on the stoop, his hands slipping around my waist and pulling me against him tight? I would never know.
I thought of him all that day and all the next, and the wanting of him grew and grew in my mind like pouring water into a vase filled with stones. Thinking of him consumed my waking moments and seeped into my dreams, leading to sweaty nights amongst tangled sheets.
I studied my face incessantly, wondering what he had seen that day to take me from the candy store and to the pub, but not to bed. Had I failed somehow? Had I said some wrong thing, revealed some flaw, laughed too loudly or not quickly enough at his humor?
I knew I was obsessing. That's what I did. Turned things over and over in my brain to pick them apart from every angle. Analyzed and calculated and pondered.
I could not forget the way his breath smelled when he leaned over to whisper in my ear, "Do you like licorice?"
I could not forget the warmth of his hand on mine when he congratulated me for downing that first shot of whiskey.
I could not forget the flash of his blue-green eyes or the small but perfect cleft in his chin or the faint freckles on the bridge of his nose and forehead or his voice and laugh, the slow deep honey of it that had made me want to lean against him and rub myself on him the way cats do, purring.
The last time I picked up a man in a bar and let him take me home, he'd ejaculated all over my skirt and cried beer-scented tears all over my face. Then he'd called me names and demanded I pay him back for the drinks he'd bought me. It had been one last bad encounter in a string of them. Boys who didn't know what to do with their pricks, older men who thought two seconds of fingering counted as foreplay, sweet-faced lads who turned into abusive bastards the moment the doors locked behind them.
Celibacy had become the better option. A challenge I set myself that became habit. The day I'd met him in Sweet Heaven it had been three years, two months, a week and three days since I'd had sex.
Now, with thoughts of him on my mind, that nameless stranger, I couldn't stop thinking of sex. A man I passed on the street could catch my gaze and my cunt would clench like fingers closing on a flower. My nipples rubbed with constant friction against my bras. My panties tugged incessantly at my clit, urging me to stroke that small button over and over, no matter the place or the time or the circumstance.
I was horny.
Most helpful customer reviews
109 of 116 people found the following review helpful.
Erotica with a plot - what a concept
By Tracy Vest
Accountant Elle prefers to engage in anonymous sex and one night stands. It's been over three years since she has slept with a man, and finds herself intrigued with lawyer Dan Stewart, whom she met at a candy store and thought would accompany her home, but merely received a chaste kiss. But when they meet again, she doesn't leave anything to chance. She gets more than he bargained for with Dan, as he agrees to her no dating policy (they have "appointments" instead) and claims that he won't get serious. But soon the relationship is appearing to be pretty exclusive.
But Elle is scarred from a childhood rife with guilt, pain and grief, and a family that doesn't know how to connect anymore. With a mother who could apparently not love more than one child, and an openly gay brother who is shunned from the family, it is no wonder Elle harbors resentment at her mother's constant requests to meet. Can a woman so damaged open her very closed off heart to a man who appears to have staying power?
Hart has done an incredible job of crafting an erotic story with an actual storyline, rather than lots of "wham, bam, thank you man" sex. There is plenty of sex, including a threesome, and most of it graphically realistic (no flowery euphemisms here). A recommended read for those looking for something sensual yet deeper.
52 of 55 people found the following review helpful.
Well written novel with a dark edge ...
By Zeek
I know that Hart's second book is titled Broken. To be honest, it would be an equally apropos title for this one as Elle, the protag, was just that- a broken woman.
Written in first person, Dirty follows a short section of Elle's life starting with an encounter with a man she met at an upscale chocolate store. She's instantly attracted to Dan and, though she's just met him, she agrees to go with him to a local bar.
Elle has no qualms about one night stands- she's had plenty. The sexual tension with Dan leads her to allow him to follow her home. But he leaves her at the door with a brief kiss and no promises for more. Of course she can't get him off her mind and when she chances upon him again, they pick up where they left off. But this time he leaves her with a bit more- a very public, but well hidden, sexual encounter ... and a business card.
Elle wants to keep her distance emotionally, after all- sex is just sex in the end. But Dan won't have it. He's no steam rolling Alpha and though he comes off as dominant in the bedroom- it's only because he knows she wants it. Still, he gently leads her down the path of getting exactly what he wants and, in the meantime, leads her to wellness.
Dirty is not a light read. It has depth to it and it retains a very erotic edge. (Imagine that!)
Elle is seriously screwed up from a gravely dysfunctional childhood and some of her choices really bugged me. I honestly didn't like her ... in the beginning. Oh, I knew early on she had some issues and why she had them, though it wasn't truly revealed until the end, and normally I can empathize. But for some reason she really got under my skin. I think it's because Hart did such a good job of making her seem- cold. Broken people who hate what they do to numb the pain and can't seem to stop, melt my heart. Broken people who show no sign of wanting to change make me want to scream in frustration.
However, later in the story I found an edge of compassion for her because she found hers.
This book won't be for everyone. And honestly, if I was in the mood for a darker read I might have liked it more.
Still, I'm giving it a 4.5 because it truly is a well written novel.
39 of 41 people found the following review helpful.
Good book undone by unsympathetic main character
By TinaW
In various places I've seen this book listed as Erotica or as Erotic romance. Interestingly, I have found it neither erotic nor romantic.
The basic storyline is very simple. Elle Kavanaugh is an accountant with a very simple lifestyle. She lives alone, has no friends, has an extremely dysfunctional family and, when she does have sex, it is usually with men she picks up to have one night encounters with. She doesn't like intimacy and doesn't date. The reasons for Elle's very stark existence and refusal to allow herself to connect on a romantic level is pretty obvious even from the beginning of the book.
Then one day she meets Dan in a candy store and he intrigues her. A lot. The two begin a --- I don't want to call it a relationship because that involves a level of engagement that is absent here --- series of encounters. Elle likes to have sex with Dan but pulls away from him when he tries to make it more than the simple "appointments" as they euphemistically call them. In the end, Elle manages to confront her demons and she and Dan get together in a real relationship.
The only reason I gave this book even 3 stars is because the level of the writing was very high. It wasn't a slam-bam erotic novel all sex and no plot. There were some heavy issues in the story that were handled quite realistically. The level of self awareness of the main character was also a strong point in the book. It was written in first person and the "voice" of the character was very vivid and alive and unremittingly cynical.
I feel like I should have liked this book more than I did. It took me a bit to process and I think I am not glowing with praise as much as I should because I simply could not like Elle. Now, I am a cynic myself. I can do 'Bitch, Please..." like nobody's business. And I don't believe that main female protagonists in supposedly romantic novels needs to be Mary Sunshines (I actually prefer them not to be). But I still need to find a kernel of something that makes them likable to me. I didn't find that in Elle.
I could admire her self awareness. I could admire the way she chose to survive her circumstances. I could even admire her unapologetic way she went about her life. But I still couldn't like her. I actually think this is where the first person narration is a big disadvantage. The entire time you're in the head and in the viewpoint of a person who is really in the throes of some major self loathing. How could that loathing not affect you?
The first person narrative also had the effect of making the other characters kinda blind to me. I would have loved to have been inside Dan's or Marcie's (Elle's co-worker and friend from her office)heads to figure out what they saw in Elle that made them think she was worthy of their attention and consideration. It just seemed so one-sided with Dan and Marcie always reaching out, always giving and Elle always taking never reaching back. Even in the end after Elle faces her demons she still can't be the one to take the first step to reach out to Dan. He is the one who comes to her. It was just the final straw for me with this character. I just found her very selfish and couldn't forgive it on the basis of her issues.
I do recommend the book, though, because I do think the writing was very strong. I just couldn't stand the main character
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