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My Bad Ex-Boyfriend
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Dane Cooper is gorgeous, thick-headed, and dangerously hot. He’s an ex-cop with an attitude – and my bad ex-boyfriend.
And you thought you were having a bad day.
Can I keep from being seduced by his devilish charm?
“My Bad Ex-Boyfriend” is a hot and hilarious second-chance M/M romance from Daryl Banner, author of the Amazon top-selling Bromosexual, Hard For My Boss, and Football Sundae.
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Evan’s bad ex-boyfriend.
Check your perfect part of russet hair a seventh time in the rearview. It’s fine. Stop fussing.
Notice those strands that keep falling by your ear. Fix them with an agitated sigh, because you’re always overly critical of yourself and it’s your mother’s fault.
Did you put on enough deodorant?
Deep breath again.
You can do this. You can totally do this. You got this. He’s just your ex. You have a few, right?
But Dane Cooper is not just any ex. He’s your bad ex. He’s the one you swore you’d never talk to again. He’s the one who made you swear off boys for good. The only ones that’ll satisfy you now are in your imagination late at night when you slip a hand down your pants and rock your eyes back.
Realize how pathetic that sounds. But also applaud yourself for your honesty and keeping it real. Then sigh and convince yourself you’re better than this.
I’m better than this.
You wonder what he’s been up to all these years. Is he a completely different person now? He didn’t sound too strange on the phone, other than his initial surprise at your calling him at all, as well as your own surprise (and slight relief) that he has the same number.
You wonder if he is curious about who you are now. Will he be impressed with all your accomplishments, or think you’ve become a totally self-inflated tart?
Maybe driving out all this way was a mistake. You could be home binging the rest of that crime show with that one hot actor whose name you keep forgetting.
Maybe the name starts with a D. Derek. Davy. Don.
Close your eyes and—despite everything good and holy—remember vividly the last time you saw your ex’s ripped body, so muscled it looked like he eats gyms for a living. Go ahead and think of the way your own body reacted every time he touched you, turning your helpless limbs into silk and your heart into a drum. Imagine his brawny, handsome face, his sharp, strong jawline, how manly the stubble on his cheeks was, the pinched look in his eyes that was so intense, you felt like he knew your every dirty thought when he looked your way.
Ignore that boner swelling between your thighs right now.
And you absolutely must envision the unexpectedly slinky way his body moved when he crawled over you atop a bed, then dove with his lips for that place between your ear and your neck he knows makes you squirm.
Then snap the fuck out of it.
Remember why you’re here.
Step out of the car. Slam shut the door too hard on accident, causing you to jump. Fumble with your keys until they’re shoved away into a pocket somewhere.
Pause just outside the door of this out-in-the-middle-of-nowhere Texas country bar you’d never in a million years deign to catch yourself in, yet you’re standing there about to cross the threshold of noise and jeering and smoke and beer, and damn it, you hate beer, you hate beer so much, but this is where he said to meet up, and here your gay ass is, nearly an hour away from home.
Maybe five years ago when you were with Dane, you might’ve come to a bar like this, and it would’ve been an adventure. Back then, you were a different person. You were impulsive, and his bad boy antics excited you.
It’s one of the reasons you’re terrible for each other.
But you’ve since reinvented yourself. You’re such a hot shot now. You live on a street called Figaro Lane in the middle of a safe, prestigious community, and you got there by your own hard work. You’ve earned those specialty brew lattés you grab hurriedly on the way to your posh salon every morning where you work. You’ve earned picking the more expensive entrée on the menu when you go to a restaurant with your friends. This is who you are now: crisp designer shirts and hair styling paste that costs more per jar than your electric bill.
Don’t let him get to you. Be strong. Be smart.
But most importantly: Be sexy as hell—because what’s the harm in showing him what he’s missing out on?
Another deep breath. Close your eyes.
Then push through the door.
I open my eyes and stand there scanning the room of bikers and leather-clad men.
Okay, it might be my imagination, but I feel several eyes on me and my mauve button-up at once, the sleeves folded precisely two cuffs, worn just half a size too small because how else do I show off my three days a week at the gym? (Not that it does anything to my skinny shape except give me a pair of modest pecs and a couple laughable bumps for biceps.) I decided to dress down today with a pair of brown boots and jeans, as opposed to my usual fitted pair of butt-hugging skinny-leg dress pants and designer shoes. Somehow, it still doesn’t seem I dressed down enough.