The Virgin Rule Book, page 12
He laughs, then flips me the bird. “Fuck off.”
“Fuck off to you too.”
“Hey! You want to babysit again?”
“Anytime. You let me know.”
“Thanks, man.”
I turn to Holden. “Over and out for you?” I ask as he tugs on his LA Bandits sweatshirt, his former team.
“I am. Logged my four miles already this morning. So this was just extra.”
“Show-off.”
“You could work harder too. Might make your stats better,” he says, an evil glint in his eyes.
“My stats destroy your stats.”
He scoffs, then laughs. “You wish. Ready for some grub?”
“You sure you can fit it in your schedule? You probably have a one o’clock session with a sandwich, then a two o’clock to do your laundry.”
“You’re right. I’ll dine alone.”
I clap his shoulder. “Let’s go. Lunch with you will kill an hour.”
He rolls his eyes. “Thanks. Glad I’m a way for you to pass the time.”
“That is indeed one of your benefits. Along with the occasional display of friendship and support,” I say with an I’m a smart-ass wink. I gesture to his sweatshirt. “Any word from your agent or from the team about whether the Dragons have a new manager yet?”
He shakes his head, sighing heavily. Holden joined the Dragons after a recent trade. Once the city’s vaunted baseball franchise, the longtime team is now the scourge of Major League Baseball after a sign-stealing scandal that would put a certain Texas team to shame. Our fans call The Dragons our mortal enemies, saying the city isn’t big enough for two teams, when one’s best known for cheating. The cheating ran up and down the lineup, with the manager enlisting players, pitchers, pinch hitters, bat boys, camera operators, field crew, and more in an elaborate ruse to steal opposing teams’ catcher signs to rack up ill-gotten wins. So many wins and so many sign thefts that the team won two World Series in a row.
Two tainted championships one right after the other.
When an enterprising sports reporter broke news of the scandal, the Dragons owner was an apoplectic-level of livid. He cleaned house like a biohazard crew on steroids, gutting the organization with a stem to stern roster shake-up.
Every player on the cheating lineup got the hook. Every coach too, from manager down to first base, third base, pitching, and so on. The owner brought in new talent, like Holden.
But one of the last pieces to fall into place is a new skipper.
“No idea when that’s going to come. It’d be nice to know who’s going to be determining the batting lineup,” Holden says as we head up Fillmore.
“What’s the vibe like so far with the new players? Any idea yet from talking to the guys?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “I’ve only met a handful. They seem decent and as disgusted with the sign-stealing as they should be.”
“Hell yeah. If I were the baseball commissioner, I’d ban the entire former team for life.”
“Ban them right now. Right the hell now.” He shakes his head in obvious disgust. “Consider yourself lucky that you’re on the team in the city with a squeaky-clean image.”
We stop at the light. “I definitely consider myself lucky for that. In fact, I might have to get a new pair of lucky socks just to celebrate being on a fine-ass team.”
On that note we pop into Gabriel’s Tuxedos on the next block. “I need a new pair for tonight. Every event needs its own inaugural socks,” I say, heading for a display of the sartorial item in question. Flicking through pairs, I find one that suits my fancy. Fox socks. “I deem these my new lucky socks.”
I hold the pair above my head, Simba-style.
“Those are ugly as sin, so they’re perfect for you,” Holden says.
“Or maybe I’m just a fox and they match me.”
“Keep telling yourself that.”
At the register, Gabe says hello then shoots me a give me news stare. “How’s it going with the plan?”
“Yes, inquiring minds want to know,” Holden adds with avid eyes of his own. The man knows my temptation. My particular one.
But I haven’t fallen too far off the wagon. I’m holding on to the wheels. I give them two thumbs up. “I am all good.”
“You’re being a good boy?” Gabe asks, wanting to be sure.
“So good.”
That feels true enough for now.
We take off with my socks in hand, heading to my favorite salad-and-grain-bowl spot for lunch. As we eat, Holden and I chat more about his season ahead, and what he wants to do differently to distance himself from the old guard.
“I feel for you, man. It can’t be easy. But I have faith that you’re going to do a great job. You just have to work on your media persona,” I say, since he’s not known for being a smiley-faced favorite among reporters.
He sneers, then narrows his eyes. “That’s going to be one tough task. Last time I sat down with a local sports reporter in Seattle it didn’t go so well.”
“Did he burn you?”
“More like stabbed me in the back, made shit up and totally invaded my family’s privacy.”
“Ah, so that did it. That’s why you don’t like talking to the media?”
“I don’t have many warm fuzzies for the press.”
“I hear ya. It’s a balance, man. It’s part of the job though. Helps with sponsorships.”
“True. And my agent says the same. So I’m sure I need to work on it. Someday.” As he takes a bite of his lunch, his brow furrows. “Hey, if you said at the wedding that nothing was happening with Nadia, then why the hell are you counting down the time until the awards ceremony tonight?” He strokes his chin, like a detective cracking the case. “I sense a plot twist, Watson.”
“No twist. The answer is as simple as the evidence in front of you.”
“What evidence?”
I lean in closer, adopting a satisfied smile. “She’s prettier to look at than you.”
He lifts a forkful of his chicken salad. “No argument there. She’s gorgeous.”
I bristle, but don’t disagree.
Facts are facts.
Six hours later, I’m in my black tux. I pull on my new lucky socks, adjust my bow tie, and grab the corsage and boutonniere from the fridge.
I frown at the plastic container in my hand. This is cheesy, right?
Like extra-slices-melting-down-the-burger-patty levels of cheese.
Does she really want this for each event?
It’s kind of . . . teenager-y. It was kind of funny when it was required at the wedding.
But tonight? For a gala?
We don’t need to walk down Prom Memory Lane.
Fuck these flowers. Nadia is a sexy, sophisticated woman. I’m going to get her something to match her mystique.
I check the time on my phone then open the picture she sent me of her dress fabric, and then hightail it out of my house, googling the nearest stores as I go.
Bounding down the front steps, I reach the limo door just as the driver steps out.
“Good evening, Mr. Cash.”
“Hey, Jasper,” I say. “Can you take me to that store on Fillmore that sells those things women wear around their shoulders?”
“Wraps, sir?”
I snap my fingers. “Yep. Those.”
He doesn’t even blink—probably not even close to the strangest request he’s gotten. “Right away.”
My phone buzzes in my pocket as I slide into the back of the limo. When I click on the text from my cousin, attached is a photo of a cute blonde with a heart-shaped face.
* * *
Rachel: How about Caitlin? She teaches preschool! And fosters kittens! She’s soooooo good.
* * *
Crosby: Rach, I love you, but I’m not interested. Plus, I’m taking my old friend Nadia to the Sports Network Awards tonight.
* * *
Rachel: OMG!
* * *
Crosby: It’s nothing. I swear it’s nothing.
* * *
Rachel: Squee! I want a report!
* * *
Crosby: I will give you no such thing. But hey, maybe I should find a guy for you. Payback, cousin!
* * *
Rachel: You say that like it’s a bad thing, you setting me up with someone. I’m pretty sure you know some fabulous men. Ideally, I’d like a man who loves his job, likes to unwind with something quirky and creative, and would be passionately, madly devoted to me, talking and trying to make the best of a life together.
* * *
Crosby: I’m on it.
* * *
I tuck the phone into my pocket when we reach the store I passed the other week, the one with scarves and shit in the window.
“Be right back,” I tell Jasper, and race in. I show the dress fabric to a sales associate, and three minutes later, I walk out with a gift for my . . . old friend Nadia.
Hardly seems like the way to describe her though.
I’m back in the limo when Rachel replies with another message.
* * *
Rachel: But back to you and Nadia. All I will say is I’m so excited for you, but please be careful. You let people in too soon.
* * *
Crosby: Funny. Grant said that too the other day. I promise I’ll be careful.
* * *
But at Nadia’s door a few minutes later, I don’t know that I feel careful.
Hungry—that’s what I feel when she opens the door.
A dress the color of a rich merlot hugs her curves and shows off her fantastic breasts, which are dusted with some sort of shimmery powder. All that glimmering skin makes me want to haul her against me, bury my face in the valley of her breasts, and kiss her every-fucking-where, starting with those lips, all sensual, pink, and glossy.
Her chestnut hair falls loose over her shoulders in thick waves I want to run my hands through. And her face. Those cheekbones. That mouth. Those big brown eyes.
My brain kicks into an overdrive of desire. My breath catches, and lust hums in my bones.
“Nadia Harlowe,” I say, “there is nothing accidental about how sexy you look, or how much I want to kiss you right now.”
Her lips part, her tongue flicking across her bottom lip, and she shudders. “Kiss me,” she whispers.
I set the gift bag on the entryway table.
This time, I’m careful about one thing only. Don’t mess up her hair.
I step inside, kick the door closed, and cup her cheeks. I haul her close. With a groan already rumbling up my throat, I cover her lips with mine and kiss her so goddamn deliberately.
The opposite of our first kiss.
A kiss stoked from fire.
One forged from the flames of lust licking between us, fanned by nights of flirty, dirty texts.
Or maybe, just maybe, from years of latent feelings.
Whatever it is, I need to touch her, consume her, taste those lips crushed against mine. Her tropical island scent dances in my head, making me dizzy, buzzed on her.
I kiss her like I can’t get enough of her. Like we’re both pouring years of longing into this moment. Like our kiss is fueled by bone-deep need to surrender to this desire.
To this kiss.
To this connection.
I run my thumb along her jaw as I kiss her rougher, more passionately, my tongue exploring her mouth, my lips brushing over hers, our breaths mingling.
She sighs and murmurs, kissing me back just as fiercely, her hands traveling up my chest, spreading over my pecs like she wants to own my body.
Hell yes.
Have at it.
I drop one hand from her face, sliding it down over the curve of her breast. She trembles as my fingers roam around her and down her spine till my palm curls over her ass, and I jerk her against me so she can feel the outline of my cock.
“Oh!” she gasps.
It’s so goddamn sexy, that one syllable and the way she says it, tinged with desperation.
I break the kiss, panting hard.
“I think I need a moment,” I say, echoing her line from the other night.
“I think I need a moment too,” she says.
We both grin like we share a secret, and we do—the truth of how we feel for each other.
But there’s no time to explore these feelings now.
She glances at her watch and shoots me a rueful smile. “I think we better go. I do have to present an award,” she says, her breath still uneven, laced with desire.
“Me too.” Gently, I run my fingers along a soft curl of her hair. “But know this—I’d love nothing more than to play hooky, unzip your dress, strip you down to nothing, and kiss every inch of your naked body.” I meet her gaze again, locking eyes with her so she can see in mine how much I want her. Reaching for her wrist, I run my thumb over it and feel her shudder under my touch. “I’d love nothing more than to kiss you, touch you, fuck you.”
She shivers, her eyes fluttering closed for a second. “I want that too,” she whispers, and I don’t know how I’m going to make it through the next few hours.
“We better go,” I growl. “Or I’m going to take you right now.”
“Can’t have that,” she says, sexy and teasing.
Somehow we separate for real this time.
No touching.
She grabs her purse, lifting a brow as she checks its contents. “I don’t need my Leatherman, but I do need these two necessities.” She takes out a tissue to wipe away her smeared gloss, then leans into me and dabs my lips too, a delighted grin on her gorgeous face. “There. Now you don’t quite look like you were kissed six ways to Sunday.”
“But I was. I definitely was.”
She tosses the tissue into the trash can, snags her lipstick, and reapplies it.
I raise a hand. “Um, back up a sec though. Leatherman?”
“Every woman should carry one. How else would I remove a porcupine quill if I’m out hiking?”
“There you go.”
She snags her keys and drops them into her purse. “Let me grab a wrap.”
I grin. “Let me.”
She shoots me a curious look as I reach behind her for the small shopping bag.
“I ditched the corsage. Tonight isn’t the prom. It’s a gala, and this seemed more fitting.” I hand her the bag, anticipation skating over my skin, along with the hope that she’ll like it.
Pulling out the tissue paper, she dips her hand inside and tugs a length of wine-colored fabric from the bag. “It’s one of those wrap thingamajigs,” I say. It comes out gravelly and a little awkward.
A smile lights up her face. “You can just call it a wrap,” she says, then runs her hand over the soft fabric. “It’s silky and gorgeous.”
My heart thumps at the compliment. “Glad you like it.”
She tosses it around her shoulders and hugs it across her breasts. I breathe out hard, groaning my appreciation for how goddamn good she looks in everything—especially in something I got her.
“Gorgeous. Like you.”
“Thank you,” she says, all whispery and sexy, and I am dying with desire for her.
We step out into the hall, and she shuts the door behind us. In the elevator, she turns to me, her expression pensive but determined.
She steps closer, fiddles with my tie, then meets my eyes. “Before we do any of those things you said, there’s something I want you to know.”
16
Nadia
Funny, I don’t normally tell a guy the status of my V card on a second date.
Not on a third or fourth date either.
For the longest time, I thought my virginity was a whispery secret, a closely guarded little nugget of privacy. Right now, right here, I’m seeing it for what it is—not a secret, but a fact.
Having sex or not having sex says nothing about who I am, what I want as a woman, or what I want in bed.
I flash back to my choices with other men.
By the time I was ready to have sex, the men I dated were uninspiring. In college, I never dated anyone long enough to want to give him the keys. Then, in my master’s program, I liked a guy well enough, but when my pants were off for the first time, he groped me like I was a Thanksgiving turkey.
Kind of a turnoff.
I didn’t want any more with him or the others.
So I never told them I was a virgin.
No one has earned need-to-know status yet, because I’ve never met anyone I wanted to sleep with.
Until now.
I want the man standing across from me in a tux.
My friend.
My friend with benefits.
My brother’s best friend.
I want him, unequivocally, passionately, and so damned soon.
This awareness dawns on me all at once, like the lights turned on in a house that’s been dark.
Switch.
Every room illuminated.
And I know beyond a shadow of a doubt that I want to have sex with him.
And so, I’m not confessing my virginity. I’m sharing it.
As the elevator doors whisk shut, I meet Crosby’s gaze. “So, everything you just said to me—take me, have me, have sex with me?”
His eyes widen, sparkling with the desire I’ve seen in him since he showed up at my door tonight. “Yes?” His voice is full of anticipation.
I draw a breath but find it’s remarkably easy to tell him. Maybe because we’ve known each other for years, or because we’re friends.
Or maybe because we’ve been up-front about what we are.
Friends with benefits.
I finish the thought. “I want that. I’d really like to have sex for the first time ever. And to have it with you.”
That was easy.
