POV’s Philip
I shut the door to my room behind me, trying to forget about the girl currently lying in my bed. Tonight felt like a fever dream, and I was not nearly drunk enough to handle it.
I ran a hand through my hair, trying to forget about what I had just seen. Tate hadn’t even bothered to give me a warning before she’d practically ripped her shirt off earlier, so it really wasn’t my fault that I’d taken notice of the lacy, purple bra she was wearing. I’d nearly broken my neck from the speed at which I’d turned away. When she’d finally gotten dressed, I’d thought I was safe.
Then, she’d jumped onto my bed, lying back. Her shirt–my shirt–had lifted just enough to give me a glimpse of the matching underwear peeking out from my low-hanging sweats.
Why the hell was she wearing a match
