Hard Fall (Trophy Boyfriends 2)

There. Better.

“I’m glad you came over.” I mean—Madison is fine and all, but there’s nothing like the comfort of a big, brawny man to make me feel hot and warm on the inside.

“Me too.” His fingers still grip mine. “I wasn’t sure if I should—didn’t know if you’d actually agree to see me when your friend opened the door. She’s scary as fuck.”

That she is. “She means well. She’s protective of me.” Mostly.

Sort of.

“It’s good having loyal friends.”

“Like Noah?”

“Exactly.” Buzz is quiet for a time. “He and I have had our ups and downs, mostly because he resists my advances, but over the past few weeks, he’s really come around.”

Resisted his advances? Uh… “Do the two of you…um, are you sleeping together?”

“Noah and me?” He glances over at me, surprised. “No—I just meant the friendship thing.” His laugh is deep and sexy. Masculine and amused. “I know he never wanted me around, but I kept showing up and eating his food.” Pause. “And swimming in his pool and eating his food. And sleeping in his guest room and—”

“Eating his food?”

He shrugs. “I get hungry.”

“And now he’s cool with it?”

“Yeah, he gave me the garage code.”

“Did he?”

“Granted, it was after I stole one of the remotes for the security gate, but progress is progress.”

I stare, mouth gaping. I can never tell when he’s being serious or kidding around. Stifle my laughter. He is really something else entirely.

I find it…adorable. Cute. Refreshing. All words I would never have associated with Buzz Wallace. Not at a first glance, or a second or third. I was too busy stereotyping him.

Shame on me.

The cool sheets brush my skin when I roll to face him, reminding me that I’m entirely naked. Reminding me that he’s just in boxers and hasn’t been pleasured yet. Pleased? Pleasured… Uh, yeah. He hasn’t had an orgasm, and he’s given me two: the dry humping on the floor at his parents’ house, and the oral in my living room.

Selfish, selfish, selfish.

And it’s been so long since I’ve had a dick inside me.

My legs rub together of their own accord, anxious. Excited.

“What’s that look?” Buzz raises a brow.

I raise mine. “What look?”

His hands come out from under the covers to point. “That one.”

I shrug and the covers drop from my chest, exposing my breasts. “I have a look? Huh.”

He visibly swallows.

Is he nervous?

Are my boobs his sexual kryptonite?

He can’t take his eyes off them, and I feel empowered, feminine.

I see if I can distract him. “Have you ever been on any dating apps?”

Buzz moves his eyes from my chest to my face. “Actually, I have.”

“Really!” Why does that surprise me? I expected him to say no. “Which ones?”

“TheBuzz, StupidCupid, and Hinder.”

He doesn’t elaborate, and I lean closer, wanting more information. “And?”

His head bobbles. “Andddd, I got reported for being a fake account so often I completely gave up.”

I can see that happening—makes sense. “Aren’t there apps out there for famous people?”

Buzz nods, reaching for my hip under the covers. “Yes, but I don’t want to date someone famous. Or a wannabe. Or a starlet, or a pop singer, or or or. I want to date someone normal.”

Does that mean he thinks I’m normal? ‘Cause I’m far from it; in fact, sometimes I feel as if I have more issues than a lifetime subscription to Cosmo.

“What about you?” His finger trails along my skin. “Are you on any dating apps?”

“A few, now and again. The problem is, I say some off-the-wall shit and scare lots of men away—but it’s my way of separating the men from the boys.”

“Off the wall? How?”

“Well.” I’m smiling. Clear my throat. “For example, if a guy’s profile has pictures of him both with a beard and without a beard, he might say, ‘I shaved my beard recently,’ to which I might reply, ‘Yeah, me too.’” I glance up at Buzz for his reaction. “They don’t always like that answer. It confuses them.”

He laughs.

“Oh!” I go on. “Once, a guy said he wanted to meet me right away and I agreed. It’s better to get it over and done with and out of the way than drag it out, because waiting just makes the disappointment worse if there is no chemistry in person.”

Buzz nods along with my story.

“So I say things like, ‘Here I am kicking stones down the sidewalk when it doesn’t work out, dragging my limp, red balloon.’” Buzz doesn’t think that is quite as funny. “The last guy to ask me out wanted to know if five o’clock was good for drinks, and I asked if we could make it later. ‘The later the better,’ I said. ‘The darker it gets, the better I look. Way cuter in dim lighting, unless you bring a paper bag to put over my head.’”

His eyes bug out of his skull. “You do not talk like that.”