Isn't It Bromantic (Bromance Book Club #4) by Lyssa Kay Adams

                mack: Liv says to put the food in the fridge if you didn’t eat it. She worked hard on that meal.

                malcolm: Why aren’t you in bed with her?

                vlad: Because I’m freaking out.

                malcolm: Where are you?

                vlad: In the bathroom.

                mack: NOOOOO

                colton: JFC, dude. Light a match.

                noah: She can’t hear you, can she?

                del: Seriously. Nothing kills the mood like a fart.

                mack: Maybe he should try to squeeze one out just in case, you guys.

                colton: No fucking way, Mack. That could go very badly. I’ve made that mistake before. I was at a girl’s apartment and thought it was a fart but it wasn’t and that got awkward.

                vlad: I have medicine now!

                malcolm: Ignore them, Vlad. You’ve got this. You love this woman. Just remember that.

                vlad: But what if she’s disappointed?

                colton: You’re asking the wrong guy.

                mack: Shut the fuck up, Colton. Vlad needs our help.

                malcolm: She won’t be disappointed. Just show her how you feel and remember what you’ve learned in the manuals.

                colton: And if you think you have to fart—



            Vlad closed out his text messages and stood.

            He stared in the mirror. Ran a hand down his face. A face he’d looked at a million times but now seemed different. Because he was seeing it through her eyes all of a sudden. She’d called him beautiful. And she wanted him.

            And he was hiding in the goddamned bathroom.

            He threw open the door and crutched as fast as he could up the stairs. When he entered his bedroom, she shot to her feet from where she’d been waiting on the edge of the bed. “I was afraid you’d changed your mind.”

            “Never.”

            He advanced toward her in quick, long strides on his crutches before tossing them to the floor. Standing on both feet, he hauled her against him and lowered his mouth to hers. The frantic kissing began again. With thick, clumsy fingers, he found the zipper at the back of her dress and tugged it down. As the dress pooled at their feet, every careful plan to go slowly, to cherish every second, evaporated in a haze of need. Patience was a virtue he no longer possessed, replaced by a hunger he couldn’t control. And his one fleeting coherent thought was to at least recognize her own ravenous response. She clung to him, and he clung to her.

            Beneath his hands, the skin of her back was hot and smooth, soft where he was rough. When he slid his hands up her spine, he brushed the clasp of her bra. Panting, he whispered, “Can I?”

            “Yes,” was her breathless answer.

            Like a bumbling teen, he fumbled with the hook until it finally gave way, and he had just enough functioning brain power left to laugh at the absurdity of fact that he’d just unclasped his first bra. But that, too, evaporated the instant she stepped back from him and the straps of her bra fell down her shoulders. The curves of her breasts kept the lace in place, the cups molded around each soft mound of flesh. As he watched, she shimmied once, and the lace dislodged. The bra fell to the floor, leaving her bare to his gaze. And only then did time finally screech to a halt. How long had he imagined this moment? Dreamed of it? So many years of longing, but now that she finally stood before him, he froze with indecision. His hands twitched with a need to feel that soft flesh beneath his palms, to thumb her taut nipples. Did he . . . could he just reach out and touch her?

            “Vlad,” she whispered. As she spoke, she placed her hands atop his, which had somehow come to rest uselessly at her hips.

            He tightened his fingers. “I’m so nervous.”

            “So am I.”