ASSHOLE: I’ll be home all night if you change your mind about . . . coming.
I grimace. That was terrible, even for him. Which makes the little flicker of warmth in my gut all the more infuriating. Sleeping with Ezra Hart had been a bad idea the first time it happened, something I blame on temporary insanity and thinking with my vagina—and the next seven times definitely didn’t help things.
If only he wasn’t so good at it. Bastard.
I tap out a quick response, shoving down the urges that bubble up in spite of his stupid fucking text.
ME: Sorry. Better things to do.
I feel smug for about three seconds before my phone pings again.
ASSHOLE: I highly doubt there’s better than me, but keep telling yourself that.
I scowl, shoving my phone in my pocket.
Fucking Ezra Hart.
About the Author
Lana Ferguson is a sex-positive nerd whose works never shy from spice or sass. A faded Fabio cover found its way into her hands at fifteen, and she’s never been the same since. When she isn’t writing, you can find her randomly singing show tunes, arguing over which Batman is superior, and subjecting her friends to the extended editions of The Lord of the Rings. Lana lives mostly in her own head but can sometimes be found chasing her corgi through the coppice of the great American outdoors.