Hard Fall (Trophy Boyfriends 2)

“You could be wearing thermal underwear and I would be turned on right now.” I lean forward, pressing my mouth to her core. Kiss her stomach, inching my way down. Warm between the apex of her spread legs, blowing hot air right where she aches.

Hollis’s fingers clench the seat cushions.

“Everything you do is sexy, Hollis.”

She moans at that, opening her eyes to gaze down at me, pupils already dilating. Traps her lower lip between her teeth.

I put my mouth back on her, wetting her white granny panties with my tongue. Sucking and sucking and sucking, soaking them through.

“Oh my god, I’m wearing hip-hugger briefs,” she complains.

I laugh into the cotton panties, enjoying her embarrassment, enjoying the flush on her face and the labor of her breath, the smooth, silky skin of her thighs.

“I’ll buy you all the sexy underwear you want.”

I press my fingers into her flesh, flexing them, completely turned on and lost in the moment. I’m lost in discovering her body, granny panties and all.

She’s so fucking cute I could eat her up.

So I do.

17

Hollis

Is there a sight more intoxicating than that of a man with his head between your legs?

I plow my fingers through Trace’s hair, the thick, dark strands sifting through like sand, velvety and smooth. Smooth like the tongue lapping at my heat, slowly but firmly. Fast. Slow. In and out.

He sucks, using his teeth a little—not to the point of hurting, but just enough that I can feel it, the friction doing the craziest shit to my ovaries.

They quiver inside me.

I shiver.

His hands are on my thighs to hold them apart—yet another thing that drives me wild looking at it. Primal.

I’m not normally a visual person—I don’t watch porn and I don’t have to imagine anything when I close my eyes to masturbate—but this? This sight of him is making me wild. Gets me so hot.

My breath quickens and a moan escapes my lips, one that’s pouty and a bit whiny. I want to come—but I don’t. I want his finger inside me—but it isn’t. I want to have sex with him—but we won’t.

Make up your mind, Hollis.

Speak now or forever hold your—

“Ohhh…” I moan, grateful I live alone. Grateful for having shaved my legs this morning before I left the house. Grateful I had my pussy waxed last week—and my ass, ha ha.

Grateful for Trace and his skilled fingers…

He seems to sense I need more, and he complies.

One finger confidently goes inside me. Then two. Usually, I’m not a fan. I’ve yet to have sex or foreplay with a man who knew what the fuck he was doing with his fingers. But he…does.

I don’t have to direct him, or tell him to be gentle, or to ease up.

His thumb settles into a rhythm on my clit. His tongue lingers below it.

The entire thing makes me go, “Mmm.” Then, “Yes…”

Yes, more.

Yes, Buzz.

Yes, right there.

Oh.

It’s on the tip of my tongue to call him Daddy, then—ew. No.

But kind of.

But I don’t.

I feel how flushed my chest is and want to tear my shirt off. I want to get so nakedy naked and have him lick me all over, but we’re not there yet.

We’re here.

Him pleasing me because I had a bad day.

The worst day, I remember now.

Poor me.

I look down at him again, a slow grin spreading on my face as I grip his head. Prop my toes on his shoulders, tipping my head back.

Let him pleasure me while I watch, desire swallowing me whole.

It feels euphoric when I come.

“Oh god…”

I needed that. Needed it good and hard—and it was fast. Almost embarrassingly quick, but right now I don’t even care.

Buzz rests back on his haunches, regarding me, glistening lips twisted with his own pleasure—with the knowledge that I just had a loud, aching ’gasm and he’s the one who gave it to me.

Those giant hands slide up my bare legs. Over my thighs and hips. He leans forward and kisses my knees. Glides his palms under my ass and hefts me up. Scoops me up like a baby, cradling me.

“Where’s your bedroom?”

I nod toward the stairs against the wall on the east side of this level.

Up we go.

When he finds my room, pushing the door open with his toe like he did earlier, he sets me on the edge of the bed. Removes my remaining clothes.

I scoot to the center.

Watch as he undresses himself down to his boxers, pulls the covers back, and slides in after me. Lays his head down on one of my five hundred pillows and stares up at the ceiling.

“I’m sorry you had a shitty day.” He searches and finds my hand under the covers, gives it a squeeze.

My heart constricts.

“I’m feeling a lot better now, thank you.” It’s supposed to come out flippant, like a joke, but sounds more serious than I intended it. “Thanks to you.”