I know my limit, and doing shots with Justin is a hard line I shouldn’t have crossed. I know I should see him as nothing more than a disgusting manwhore, or see him as a second brother to me—but I’ve never felt anything remotely familial about Justin Brady like I should. First there’s my traitorous body—which reacts to his in a very non-sisterly way. So much so, my lady parts are tingling and I’m pretty sure there’s a tiny damp spot in my panties from when he smiled and pushed my hair behind my shoulder as he watched me drain my shot glass for the umpteenth time and suck on the lemon slice
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