The TikTok sensation Addicted to You , now in a print edition with special bonus material!   She's addicted to sex. He's addicted to booze...the only way out is rock bottom. Fall in love with Lily and Lo in this edgy new adult romance set in a world of lust, fame, swoon-worthy men, and friendships that run deeper than blood in this special edition with bonus materials—in print only! No one would suspect shy Lily Calloway's biggest secret. While everyone is dancing at college bars, Lily stays in the bathroom. To get laid. Her compulsion leads her to one-night stands, steamy hookups and events she shamefully regrets. The only person who knows her secret happens to have one of his own. Loren Hale's best friend is his bottle of bourbon. Lily comes at a close second. For three years, they've pretended to be in a real relationship, hiding their addictions from their families. They've mastered the art of concealing flasks and random guys that filter in and out of their apartment. But as they sink beneath the weight of their addictions, they cling harder to their destructive relationship and wonder if a life together, for real, is better than a lie. Strangers and family begin to infiltrate their guarded lives, and with new challenges, they realize they may not just be addicted to alcohol and sex. Their real vice may be each other. ​​Krista and Becca Ritchie are New York Times and USA Today bestselling authors and identical twins—one a science nerd, the other a comic book geek—but with their shared passion for writing, they combined their mental powers as kids and have never stopped telling stories. They love superheroes, flawed characters, and soul mate love. One   I wake up. My shirt crumpled on a fuzzy carpet. My shorts astray on a dresser. And I think my underwear is lost for good. Somewhere between the folds of the sheets or maybe hidden by the doorway. I can't remember when I took them off or if that was even my doing. Maybe he undressed me.   My neck heats as I take a quick peek at the sleeping beauty, some guy with golden hair and a scar along his hipbone. He turns a fraction, facing me, and I freeze. His eyes stay shut, and he groggily clings to his pillow, practically kissing the white fabric. As he lets out breathy snores, his mouth open, the strong scent of alcohol and pepperoni pizza wafts right towards me.   I sure know how to choose 'em.   I masterfully slip from the bed and tiptoe around his apartment, yanking on my black shorts-sans panties, another pair gone to a nameless guy. As I pick up my ripped gray tee, tattered and practically in shreds, the foggy image of last night clears. I stepped through the threshold of his room and literally tore my clothes off like the raging Hulk. Was that even sexy? I cringe. Must have been sexy enough to sleep with me.   Desperate, I find a discolored muscle tee on his floor and manage to tug it over my shoulder-length brown hair, the straight strands tangled and greasy. That's when I find my woolen hat. Bingo. I smack that baby on and hightail it out of his bedroom.   Empty beer cans scatter the narrow hallway, and I stumble over a bottle of Jack Daniel's, filled with black spittle and what looks like a Jolly Rancher. A photo collage of inebriated college girls decorates the door to my left-thankfully not the room I exited. Somehow I was able to dodge that Kappa Phi Delta horn dog and find a guy that doesn't advertise his conquests.   I should know better. I swore off frat houses after my last encounter at Alpha Omega Zeta. The night I arrived at fraternity row, AOZ was hosting a theme party. Unaware, I stepped through the four-story building's archway to be met with buckets of water and guys chanting for me to rip off my bra. It was like Spring Break gone awry. Not that I have much in the upstairs department to show off. Before I convulsed in embarrassment, I ducked underneath arms, wedged between torsos and found pleasure at other places and with other people.   Ones that didn't make me feel like a cow being appraised.   Last night I broke a rule. Why? I have a problem. Well, I have many problems. But saying no happens to be one of them. When Kappa Phi Delta announced that Skrillex would be playing in their basement, I thought the crowd would be a mixture of sorority girls and regular college folk. Maybe I'd be able to land a normal guy who likes house music. Turns out, the demographic centered on frat guys. Lots of them. Preying on anyone with two boobs and a vagina.   And Skrillex never showed. It was just a lame DJ and a few amps. Go figure.   Deep, male voices echo off the marble balusters on the balcony and staircase, and my feet cement by the wall. People are awake? Downstairs? Oh no.   The walk of shame is a venture I plan to avoid all four years of collegiate society. For one, I blush. Like intense tomato-red. No cute flushed cheeks. Just rash-like patches that dot my neck and arms as if I'm allergic to embarrassment.   The male laughter