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The worst part about catching your boyfriend cheating isn't the betrayal. It's realizing you're wet while watching him get railed.

I was wearing La Perla. The good stuff. Black lace that cost me three paychecks from my barista job and made my tits look incredible. Matching thong that barely counted as underwear. I'd shaved everything—and I mean everything—that morning. Moisturized. Did my hair in those loose waves that Tyler said he liked. Wore the red dress that showed just enough cleavage to make his eyes go dark.

Tonight was the night.

After six months of dating, six months of heavy petting and dry humping and him whining about blue...