Lovely.

He’s right, I could have lived without the gory details.

Before he’s even stopped speaking, I’m feeling nauseated. My stomach twists at the thought of Conor hearing them say all that shit about me.

“I’m still twenty pounds from my goal porn star weight,” I joke at my own expense.

Most of the time, if you make fun of yourself first, it takes all the wind out of the fat-shaming sails. Showing people you’re self-aware softens their aversion to having a chubby friend. Because it’s important to everyone that we know our place.

“Don’t do that.” Conor sits up to level me with narrowed eyes. “There’s nothing wrong with the way you look.”

“It’s okay. You don’t need to make me feel better. I have no delusions about how people see me.” The jabs land every time, but by now the nerve endings are mostly dead. At least, that’s what I tell myself. “I was a chubby kid. I was a chubby teenager.” I shrug. “I’ve struggled with weight my whole life. This is what I am, and I’ve accepted that.”

“No, you don’t get it, Taylor.” Frustration crosses his expression. “Your body isn’t something you have to make excuses for. I know I’ve said this before, and I guess I’ll keep saying it until you believe me, but you’re smoking hot. I’d do you right now, in a heartbeat, six different ways if you’d let me.”

“Shut up your whole face.” I laugh.

He doesn’t laugh with me. Rather, he gets off the bed and turns his back to me.

Oh crap. Is he mad that I told him to shut up? I thought we were kidding around. That’s our thing, right? Wait. Do we know each other well enough to have a thing? Fuck.

“Con—”

Before I can fix whatever I’ve broken, Conor starts unbuttoning his shirt, then peels it off his shoulders.

Stunned, I sit in admiration of his bare back. Tan skin over long, lean muscles. God, I want to press my mouth against that spot between his shoulder blades and explore it with my tongue. The notion sends a shiver running through me. I bite my lip just to keep from making a totally unbecoming noise.

He throws the shirt across the room, then undoes his trousers. They hit the hardwood, and now he’s left in nothing but black socks and boxer-briefs that cling to the tightest butt I’ve ever seen.

“What are you doing?” My voice comes out breathier than I intend.

“Take your clothes off.” He turns around and stalks back to the bed with fierce determination.

“Excuse me?” I scurry on my knees to the far edge of the mattress.

“Get naked,” Conor orders.

“I certainly will not.”

“Listen, Taylor. We’re going to settle this and then there’ll be no more arguments.”

“Settle what, exactly?”

“I’m going fuck your brains out and prove my dick is totally into you.”

Excuse me?

Even as I gape at him, my gaze unwittingly drops to his crotch. I can’t tell if the bulge beneath that stretchy black fabric is a hard-on or just his normal old package. Either way, Conor’s declaration is so preposterous it summons a loud, hysterical bark of laughter from deep in my gut.

Then another.

And another.

Soon I can’t breathe, doubled over in a painful fit. It just won’t stop. Every time I look at his face, a new wave of laughter overtakes me, and tears spill down my cheeks. He’s too fucking much.

“Taylor.” Conor rakes both hands through his hair. “Taylor, stop laughing at me.”

“I can’t!”

“You’re doing irreparable harm to my ego here.”

Gasping, I take deep breaths. Eventually, the laughter subsides to giggles. “Thank you,” I manage to croak out. “I needed that.”

“You know what?” he growls, a cranky scowl on his face. “I take it all back. You’re dick kryptonite.”

“Aww. Come here.” I climb back on the bed and pet the spot beside me.

Instead of being a normal person, he takes it upon himself to lie down and drop his head and shoulders across my lap.

It doesn’t escape me that I now have a sexy man in his boxers draped over me. And it’s difficult to focus with him looking so, well, like that. This isn’t the first time I’ve seen Conor half-naked, and yet the effect is no less impressive. He’s what guys picture in the mirror when they’re lifting weights and mugging for gym selfies. Every douchebag in a tank top thinks he’s Conor Fucking Edwards.

“I can’t believe you didn’t get naked,” he grumbles in accusation.

“I’m sorry. That was a very sweet invitation, but I respectfully decline.”

“Well, that makes you my first.”

Conor stares up at me with those gorgeous gray eyes, and for one fleeting moment an image flashes through my mind. Me, leaning down. Him, cupping the side of my face. Our lips meeting in the space between us…

Do not kiss him, Taylor!

My inner alarm system kicks in, causing my silly schoolgirl kissing fantasy to dissolve just as quickly as it appeared.

“I’m your first what?” I ask, trying to remember what we’re talking about. Conor Edwards is in my lap and it’s really quite distracting.

“First girl to ever reject my cock.”

“Not for the first time, either,” I remind him.

“Yes, thank you, Taylor. You find me unfuckable. I get it.” Conor flicks up an eyebrow. “It’d be a shame, though.”

His hair begs for fingers. To drag them through the soft strands. To touch. My hand itches with the urge to fulfill that wish. “What’s a shame?”

“Don’t stop.” It isn’t until he speaks that I realize my fingers have run off on their own accord. “That feels good.”

So I continue, combing my fingers through his hair. Softly pulling my nails across his scalp. “What’s a shame?”

“Well, we’ve laid such great groundwork already. Spent a night of mind-blowing sex together. Everyone thinks you’ve got me pussy-tranced into falling in love with you. Seems unfortunate to let that all go to waste?”

I eye him suspiciously. “What do you propose?”

“Let’s ride it out.”

“Ride it out.” I play with the idea in my head, turning it over. It is, of course, a terribly dishonest and immature suggestion. So, naturally, I’m intrigued. “To what end?”

“Marriage, death, or graduation,” he says. “Whichever comes first.”

“Okay. But why? What’s in it for you?”

“A cure for my boredom.” He grins up at me. “I like games, T. This feels like it’ll be a fun one.”

“Uh-huh. But what if my perfect man comes along to sweep me off my feet but he gets scared away by Conor Fucking Edwards sniffing around my petticoats?”

“First, yes, keep calling me that. Second, if he can’t take a little healthy competition, he isn’t your perfect man. Trust me on that, babe.”

Every time he calls me babe a stab of electricity shoots through my chest. I wonder if he feels my pulse spike. Or maybe he knows all too well he has that effect on every girl and I am but a toy doll off the assembly line. Lot 251 per one billion. Wind me up and watch me go.