Clearly, Sean hadn’t sobered up nearly enough. Evie’s almost manic happiness made no sense to him. Shouldn’t she be angry, upset, hurt, crying? Instead she was rubbing up against him like a cat, and if there was a man alive who could resist that…well, it wasn’t Sean.
He walked backwards toward her couch, which looked as if a bomb had gone off in the middle of her laundry pile. Clothes everywhere. Not that he minded standing-up s*x. Pinning Evie against the wall worked for him too. But he’d had just enough tequila that he didn’t want to risk either or both of them hitting the floor mid-o****m.
The back of his legs hit the couch and he fell into the cushions, his arms filled with warm, passionate woman. And a pink fleece robe with little fluffy sheep.
“I know, it’s not exactly sexy,” she
