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Bang Theory (The Bangover #2)
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Advice from my Future Self: Don’t Ask Your Best Guy Friend to Give you Nookie Lessons.
Oops. Too late.
And sweet, strong, always-has-my-back Shep already let me down easy, proving I have zero game, even with people who profess to care about me.
Now, I’ll never live down my embarrassment or figure out why I’m a failure with the opposite sex.
Or so I assume…until Shep changes his mind, agreeing to three weeks of red hot study buddy time before he goes on tour and we part ways as friends.
Shep swears he can’t give me what I need in a real relationship, but the more time we spend together, the more certain I am he’s the only one who can. And I’m going to pull out all the stops to convince my uber-protective tutor that I can handle anything life–or love–throws our way.
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There ain’t no party like a dildo party because a dildo party don’t stop…
It’s never going to stop.
I’m never going to get out of here.
I’m going to spend the rest of my life blushing furiously in sex-party limbo, fading slowly from the memories of my family and friends. Until someday, centuries from now, scientists will discover my shriveled, mummified corpse tucked between the couch cushions next to the pretzel sticks I dropped when Collette pulled out a giant veiny purple dildo as long as my forearm.
I can imagine the scene now, the way the scientists’ brows will furrow as they analyze the mortification particles lingering in my bone marrow, wondering why I didn’t get out before it was too late.
I’m wondering the same thing myself—and considering a trip to the bathroom that ends with sneaking down the fire escape of Colette’s third floor apartment to the sweet freedom of the sex-toy-free autumn day outside—when my best friend slaps me in the face with a penis.
Right in the kisser.
Unsuspecting mouth? Meet giant purple schlong. You may call him Barney, the unfriendly dinosaur-sized dildo.
“Oh my God, Bridge, I’m so sorry!” Theodora—Theo to those in her inner circle—laughs in embarrassment while the rest of the party erupts in tipsy giggles. She reaches for my face, her fingers gently probing my upper lip. “Are you okay, babe? You were so quiet I didn’t realize you were still sitting there. I thought you’d gone to the bathroom again.”
“Nope. Still here.” I force my bruised mouth into a smile and shoo her well-meaning fingers away. “I’m fine. It didn’t hurt.”
“But your face is bright red,” Theo insists, tucking my hair behind my ear. “Do you think you’re having an allergic reaction to the latex? Some people do, you know. Latex allergies can be as deadly as food allergies. I had a woman in the restaurant the other day who, believe it or not, was allergic to marshmallows. Said they made her throat close up like a vise.” Theo makes a slurping sound and balls her hand into a fist. “Just like that. Even worse than when my mom eats a strawberry.” Her dark eyebrows furrow into a more fretful squiggle. “But your face is way pinker than a strawberry, baby.”
“Some might say she’s gone cherry red,” Wicked Willa, my high school nemesis, mutters beneath her breath, inspiring another drunken giggle from Nasty Nancy, her little sister and lifelong evil sidekick.
“Or pomegranate,” Theo muses, missing the dig, as usual.
Theo is a sweetheart and therefore expects only sweetness from others. She has no idea that Willa’s been teasing me about being the world’s oldest virgin since I was sixteen, and I’m not about to fill her in. Theo would rush to my defense and inevitably end up making things worse.
Theo is a lovely human, but she never knows when to keep quiet and leave well enough alone. Give her ten minutes and Willa and Nancy will know my entire sexual history, from Nathan, my first live-in boyfriend, to Nathan my last live-in boyfriend. And I’m savvy enough to know that having slept with only one guy at the ripe old age of twenty-six is almost as mock-worthy as being the proud owner of Hidden Kill Bay’s oldest hymen.
So I promise, “I’m good. Just a little warm,” and smile harder, while Colette shoots me an apologetic look across the snack-and-dildo-littered coffee table.
As the most gorgeous woman in Maine, and perhaps the universe, Colette has likely never seen this side of Willa before. The Wretched Wright sisters are like vultures. They only pick on the wounded or socially dead, leaving the healthy, beautiful creatures to enjoy their lives in peace.
They’d certainly never mess with a unicorn like Colette, with her lavender-streaked, white-blond hair and dazzling eyes—one blue and one a deliciously murky green. And she’s just as sparkly and magical on the inside, which she proves by diverting the conversation to safer ground.
“But it’s like I was telling Matteo the other day—size truly doesn’t matter all that much.” Colette lifts a tiny white dildo the size of a small egg, her lips curving into a wicked grin. “This little darling gets all the jobs done, and it’s small enough to fit in your makeup case when you travel.”
Abby, the daughter of my hospitality director and the fifth and final member of the party, who thankfully doesn’t seem traumatized by this insane dildo-fest I suggested she attend, giggles as she plucks the toy from Colette’s hand. “Come on. You can’t expect us to believe that Matteo has a tiny peen. Your man is built like a brick house, lady. Like Thor, but real, with longer, browner, glossier hair.”
“He’s so pretty,” Nancy agrees, before quickly backtracking. “I mean handsome. He’s super handsome. And that body.” She sighs her way into a snort-giggle. “Just to die for. I wouldn’t know what to do with myself if I got to touch that every night.”