Jun 23, 2016

Excerpt Reveal -- Filthy English by Ilsa Madden-Mills








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.

*A modern love story inspired by Romeo and Juliet*

**no one dies in the writing of this novel**






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







The British are HERE! 
Are you ready for Filthy English?
Add to your TBR for a July 11th release here: http://bit.ly/28MpTlk






About the Author




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.


SOCIAL MEDIA LINKS:

You can stalk her on her website as well as get signed books: http://www.ilsamaddenmills.com

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/authorilsamaddenmills?pnref=lhc

IG: https://instagram.com/ilsamaddenmills/

Twitter: @ilsamaddenmills


Ilsa Madden-Mills’ other books:

VERY BAD THINGS

VERY WICKED BEGINNINGS
Amazon: http://amzn.to/1K5NvX8

VERY WICKED THINGS
VERY TWISTED THINGS













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