“Of course you’re sore,” he shot back. “You’re not giving your body time to repair itself, you never bloody rest, and you haven’t had pussy in months.” Winking, he added, “It’s time to take your balls off ice and put your shifting jacket on.” “My shifting jacket?” A smile cracked through my bad mood. “What are we, thirteen again and heading to the underage disco?” “I’m wearing my shifting T-shirt,” he replied proudly, flexing his biceps for emphasis. “It has a one-hundred-percent success rate.”
Lmaooooo
