Hard Pass (Trophy Boyfriends 1)

And when it comes to Noah—I know. I just do. He’s a great, caring guy, and no matter what he wants to believe, he gives me flutters and butterflies—a few key ingredients in the early stages of puppy love.

I’ve never been in it before.

“You feel no pressure to meet someone?” he asks me after a moment of silence.

“Not really. Do you?” I glance up and over at him, cross-legged on my living room floor and smile.

The shake of his head is terse, definitive. “No.”

“When was your last relationship?” It’s a fair question, although to be honest, I once read an article saying it was against the rules to ask this on a first date, dismissing it as completely irrelevant.

But I disagree. His relationship history has everything to do with me. It can tell a lot about a person—if they’re a stayer or a goer.

“I’ve never had one.”

“Never had a relationship?”

“No.” He lets the answer linger before asking me the same question. “What about you?”

I lift a shoulder. “Eh. Briefly, in college. Not anyone I brought home to meet my parents. Just a guy who was fun to hang around with.” My friends hated him, so there was that. Newsflash: when Claire or Emily or any of my other friends didn’t like a guy, didn’t approve of him, or thought he was a douche? It became impossible to date him, like him, or bang him.

Bye-bye Brad.

Hello single life.

Claire introduced me to my first vibrator our junior year of college and I haven’t worried about dicks since. I miss dicks, but I didn’t sleep my way through my graduating class to satisfy my lust for one.

Noah clears his throat as if he can see my inner thoughts, including the dicks now on my brain, even though I spent the last few seconds convincing myself I couldn’t care less about them.

He knows.

And now I know he knows and both our faces are bright red, leaving me no choice but to reach over and trace my hand over his strong jawline—the one dominated by dirty blond stubble—letting my thumb brush beneath his bottom lip.

His body goes still. Rigid almost. And for a second my heart stops beating, afraid I’ve done something wrong—like that night at Rent when he bolted and didn’t come back to me.

Don’t leave, Noah. “I’m sorry, I…”

He repositions himself, sitting up again, fingers reaching out to circle my wrist, gently.

Pulls me closer.

When our lips meet, I’m not surprised—we have chemistry and have been wanting to kiss since the minute he picked me up for our date tonight.

My body sags with relief and a bit of shock, honestly.

He actually did it. He made the first move!

Hallelujah! I was worried he had no interest in jumping my bones, which is something my grandmother used to say, and now I feel old.

Ugh.

I have just enough time to put my own dinner container on the carpet as he hauls me into his lap with seemingly little effort. I’m not tiny by any means, but I feel dainty as he hefts me over.

For a kiss.

Swoon! I have died and gone to heaven…

I’m in his lap when our mouths meet again, everything I just ate forgotten, inhibitions gone. His lips are warm, but not tentative. Full.

He’s holding me—cradling me, almost—bowing his head to seal the deal, and I let my arms rise so I can curl my hands behind his head, fingers grazing his hair at the nape of his neck.

He could probably use a haircut, but he smells fantastic, the pheromones working their magic on my lady parts.

His broad chest feels good. Warm. His hands on my back, supporting me? Better. The mouth fused against mine? Delicious.

I cannot get enough of Noah Harding the sweet, sweet man child.

I cradle his face as I sit in his lap, legs hanging over his crossed ones, our tongues finally getting acquainted.

There is nothing timid about the way he’s kissing me, no hesitations like there are when he speaks. No shyness. No embarrassment.

I feel my panties dampen.

He moves me then, just out of the way of the bags and containers scattered on the floor, laying me down and rolling to hover over me, large hand cupping my cheek the way I cupped his. Staring down at me, memorizing the contours of my face with his eyes and hands.

I don’t dare move. Or talk.

Or breathe.

I do not want it to end.

“You’re beautiful,” he murmurs, more to himself than to me. “Smart.” The tip of his finger runs along the Cupid’s bow of my upper lip. “Funny.” It trails up the bridge of my nose. Along my eyebrow. “Sexy.” Me, sexy? Do go on. “Cute.” No, not that! “Brave.”

“How am I brave?” I whisper, not wanting to break the spell, but curious.

“Because,” he whispers back, “you’re 22 and you’re starting your own business. That takes guts.”