I Pucking Love You (The Copper Valley Thrusters #5) - Pippa Grant Page 0,15

I put on every game day. “Of course it was. It was very good. The best I’d ever had.”

Fucking fucknuggets.

It wasn’t good for her.

“We’re doing it again.” Jesus. Where did that come from? I can’t do it again. I can’t even get it up. “This time I’m eating your pussy. All of it. Like seven times.”

“That’s a very kind offer, but no, thank you.”

“That’s a very kind offer? Are you serious? I offer to go down on you, and you come back with that’s a very kind offer?” Holy shit. “You faked it.”

She cringes like it’s her fault, and I want to hit something.

“You did. You faked it.” I look down at my dick and silently ask him if he knew.

Can’t see him through my pants, but I think he rolled his eyes and asked me how long it was going to take me to catch up.

And now I’m wondering how many women have faked it.

How many of them have I left unsatisfied, thinking I was master of the female body when really, I was a notch on a bedpost, and not one worth the time it would take to scratch that notch in?

Shit.

My dick knows we suck, and he’s given up on life. No more nookie for us. He’s done. Called it quits. Told me to go do other things that I do well, and leave the orgasm-making to dudes who know how to actually play a woman’s body.

Wait.

That can’t be right.

I’m fucking awesome.

“Have you ever…you know…with another guy?” Maybe it’s not me.

Maybe it’s her?

But if it’s all her, why do I feel like I’m going to throw up all my cheese?

Her face contorts and the maroon stain spreads down her neck. “And this conversation is officially over. Goodbye, Tyler.”

“Hold up. I think I deserve an answer here.”

Sugarbear moos at me, which sends the chickens squawking all over again, and then the dogs—the actual dogs—come running over while Muffy tries to step around all of us. “Um, no, actually, as my therapist constantly reminds me, the only person I owe anything to is myself.”

My sister Allie uses her therapist’s wisdom all the time too. If Muffy thinks she can my therapist her way out of this conversation, she’s wrong. “Then could you do me the honor of telling me if I need to work on my game, or if this is maybe not all my fault?”

“That’s a conversation for you and your own therapist. And possibly your former conquests.”

Dammit. Allie hasn’t used that one on me before. “Why do you need a date to this thing so badly that you’d ask to borrow Nick in disguise?”

“I appreciate what you’re trying to do, but I need to get home and change before I’m late to my next appointment.”

“Cod Pieces?”

“Client. My job at Cod Pieces is complicated, and I’m not explaining it to you. I’m a matchmaker. I match muffs. And I need to get back to it.”

“Great. You’re hired.” What the hell am I doing?

“I choose my clients. I don’t pick you.”

“Why not?”

“You don’t fit what my clientele is looking for.”

“What are they looking for?”

“Matches to their misfitness.” She finally turns to face me again, and she gestures up and down my body. “You’re a highly-paid, naturally-gifted, attractive professional athlete who can carry on conversations about solar panels, DNA, and Shakespeare. You play Pokémon and watch Dr. Who, which puts you on the geeky side of a sliding scale of personality types, but considering your profession, it adds depth to your character rather than pigeonholing you. Also, you could probably make three phone calls and get a chance to hang out on the set of Dr. Who if you wanted to, which means you operate on a completely different plane of existence than my clients who might still live with their parents, have a stutter, lack fashion sense, or miss social cues. You don’t think the ideal woman exists because you don’t want to settle down, and if you did think the ideal woman existed, she’d probably be a size two, love to run through the mountains with you on a spring morning, spend the afternoon drinking kombucha at a coffee shop while you debate if Wayne Gretzky or Stan Lee would be a better dream dinner companion, and then go to a baseball game in the evening as much to be seen and support fellow professional athletes as because you want to actually watch the game. Also, she’d give the best blow jobs, she wouldn’t mind trying butt stuff,