I may be angry at him, but I am drunk, and he is fucking hot, and damn, was he good in bed. I follow them up the sidewalk, trying to pep-talk myself on the way to the front of the house. This is how bad things start: You go home with a guy, he says it’s just friendly, and the next thing you know you’re bowed over the bed fisting his sheets while staring at his damn cat. A few tequila shots are not an excuse to fuck your ex. My gaze lands on his ass. But really, it’s not like I would be adding any numbers to my list. It would be kind of like it never even happened. Oh, for fuck’s sake, Jemma.
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