We does one begin with this book?! Let me just say that it definitely took me by surprise and not for the reasons you may think given the title. I am still deciding weither to love Hart’s Dirty or to hate it. That’s the emotional turmoil that I am facing after reading this book.
Granted Hart is an exceptional writer who is able to create in depth characters that has the potential to make you feel things for them in a primal way but after completing the book my overall emotions were utter and complete sadness.
The heroine Elle in Dirty is dealing with such darkness that it shaped her into this promiscuous creature that is struggling with self acceptance, self esteem issues and an innate ability to distort her reality of love. Hart has some serious skills in capturing her characters soul and bringing it across to her readers, its truly amazing to be able to see and feel that deep psychological rawness and Dan, bless his heart came dropped into the emotional tornado that is Elle’s baggage.
I felt the mood of the book is just sad, sad, sad. I could not get past that feeling even to see their relationship evolving from a no strings attached, to love because Hart did such a good job of creating a messed up past for Elle. Even with the introduction of Dan, their sex scenes, he can’t quite excercise her demons. The books ending was the only reprise in a change of mood and I feel that, that is very taxing on Hart’s readers.
“Who are you?” He asked me. “Some kind of angel? Or a devil, maybe…?”
I turned my head to bring my mouth close to his ear. “I don’t believe in angels or devils.”
I stroked him slowly, infinitesimally, a gentle curve and straightening of my fingertips undetectable to anyone watching. He got harder. Hotter. I traced the line of his cock, then lower, my hand cradling the softer bulge below.
His hand tightened on my neck. “You look like a goddess when you come, did you know that?”
Sex makes bumble-tongued fools even out of the most eloquent, but the beauty of it is that it also tunes our ears to hear the meaning of words that, spoken under other circumstances, would make us laugh or cry or frown.
“I’m not a goddess.”
“Not a goddess. Not an angel. Not a devil.” His breath, whiskey-scented, washed over me. The wetness of his tongue caressed my earlobe, making me shiver again. “Are you a ghost? Because you can’t be real.”
In reply, I took his hand and put it on my chest, over the place my heart had begun its triple-thumping once more. “I’m real.”
His thumb passed over my nipple, which tightened. His hand covered my breast, but he didn’t fondle me
His thumb passed over my nipple, which tightened. His hand covered my breast, but he didn’t fondle me. He held it against me, and I knew he could feel the beat of my heart.
Then he took his hand away and took mine from its place on his crotch. He moved back in his seat a little. His hair had fallen tousled over his forehead. His face was somber, eyes bright with reflected neon.
He reached into the pocket of his shirt and pulled out a business card. He put it on the table between us, then pushed it in front of me.
“The next time I watch you come,” he said, “I want to be inside you.”
Then he got up from the table and left me there, alone.