Hard Fall (Trophy Boyfriends 2)

I hold up two fingers. “Scout’s honor. Never fails to horrify or delight. There isn’t an in-between.” And if I had a cigar, I’d light it up and take a puff from it right now. Ahhh, the satisfaction from the look on his face.

Intrigue?

Admiration?

“You shouldn’t have fun at the expense of gullible young men,” he says with a laugh.

“I don’t want to date those men anyway, so good riddance. They don’t have balls big enough.”

“Whoa, Hollis!” Buzz laughs again, a booming one that has him reaching for me. “You’re kind of a monster—who knew?”

I knew.

I’ve always known I was a bit…sassy. Smartassy. Problem is, I have never met someone I could be myself with. It’s always been suppressed humor, and suppressed jokes, and suppressed sex drive.

What is it about him that makes me feel so…myself? Him of all the people on this earth?

Buzz—Trace, as I’d prefer to call him when we’re being intimate—gently caresses the curve of my hip with his palm. I can feel the callouses on the pads of his fingers, a reminder of his hard work. The nature of his job. How he uses his body to succeed.

I watch his biceps flex; they’re tan and toned and mouthwatering. It’s illustrative of another difference between the two of us: I don’t work out. Or go to the gym. I barely bent down to pick up dog shit off the sidewalk when I had a dog.

Walking is my cardio, but barely. Sometimes, I take the stairs instead of an elevator, but rarely.

Trace’s muscles have me leaning forward again, breathlessly tracing one of his veins with the tip of my forefinger. Exploring his warm skin the way he explores mine.

He lets me, lying still, and I can see the hitch in his breath when he holds it, the second my fingers run along his collarbone, down his clavicle, reaching his belly button.

Lord, his body is a temple. I haven’t worshipped at one for a long, long time and hardly know what to do with it. I’m not the kind of woman men throw themselves at. I’m relatively bad at blow jobs, and I am intimidated by hand jobs.

Call it lack of experience. Call it intimidating.

Dicks scare me—there, I said it.

Cocks and balls and the entire business freak me out.

Trace doesn’t move an inch. Watches my hand, eyes skimming the front of my torso every so often, drinking in the sight of my naked body.

It emboldens me when I catch him, his eyes looking glazed over and mesmerized. By me. By my body.

I scoot into him so my breasts brush against his chest. Tip my head so he can shift his head and kiss my neck.

“Mmm.” My favorite spot. If he blows on me soft enough, I’ll come. Ha ha.

“Do you like that?” He blows again.

“Mmmhmm. I do.” Yes. So don’t stop.

Meanwhile, I allow myself to continue exploring, my hand reaching around and trailing to his back. Runs up his rib cage, smooth and hard and stiff. His body is built like a top performance machine.

My father’s voice echoes in my ears. “He is the best closer we’ve had in years…he doesn’t need the distraction…the best we’ve had in years…doesn’t need the distraction…”

It’s not Dad’s decision; it’s ours. Trace’s. Mine.

Of all the places in the world he could be, Trace Wallace chose to be here, with me.

I like everything he does lately.

My hands get greedy, discovering they love touching his shoulders. Big, broad, wide. Delicious enough to kiss.

My lips touch his skin and he too tips his neck so I can kiss him there, the tender flesh getting more and more flushed the longer I pepper it with affection. He’s blushing.

My mouth finds the space below his Adam’s apple. Kiss.

Collarbone. Kiss.

Between his pecs. Kiss.

His hips begin to slowly thrust, the dick between his thick thighs growing harder with each and every second I tease his body with my touch. Eyes drift shut. Lips part.

Every so often, he presses those lips together.

Nostrils flare.

So hot.

His hand is between my legs and I spread them a little, aching to feel his fingers inside my—

“God you’re so tight,” he murmurs, the deep voice in my ear giving me the shivers. “You’re so sexy, Hollis.”

You’re so sexy, Hollis.

Hollis.

My name, whispered like that?

An aphrodisiac so alluring I want to hear him say it over and over and over again. It would never be enough.

His hand is large enough to span my pelvis, and he spreads his fingers over my lower belly, one finger in my slit, other hand dragging its way up my body, cupping my breast.

“Your tits are perfect.” He moans as if they are in fact the most perfect tits in all the land. Ordinarily I’d correct him to say, No pair of tits are perfect, Buzz, but to him, maybe they are. I am learning that about him; he says what he means and means what he says, even when it’s nonsense. “You’re so beautiful.”