The V Card Read online

  The V Card

  Lauren Blakely & Lili Valente

  Lauren Blakely & Lili Valente

  Contents

  Copyright

  The V Card

  Also By Lauren Blakely

  Also by Lili Valente

  About

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Epilogue

  Another Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  Other Books By the Authors

  Contact

  Copyright

  The V Card

  Copyright © 2017 by Lauren Blakely and Lili Valente

  Cover Design by Helen Williams. Photography by Paul Van Der Linde

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book. This contemporary romance is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners. This eBook is licensed for your personal use only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with, especially if you enjoy sexy, hilarious romance novels with alpha males. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return it and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author’s work.

  The V Card

  By Lauren Blakely

  and Lili Valente

  Once upon a time, a few years ago, two writer friends created an erotic, romantic suspense serial under the pen name Sophie Holloway. At its heart, that serial was the story of a woman asking her deceased brother’s best friend to give her lessons in seduction. Recently, those same two writers started from scratch with that romantic concept and wrote an entirely new take on it as a fun, fresh, sexy romantic comedy. The V Card is that story, and it has been completely rewritten, from chapter one all the way through to the epilogue, as a brand-new lessons in seduction romance. Sophie’s erotic serial is no longer available.

  Also By Lauren Blakely

  The Big Rock Series

  Big Rock

  Mister O

  Well Hung

  Full Package

  Joy Ride

  Hard Wood

  One Love Series dual-POV Standalones

  The Sexy One

  The Only One

  The Hot One

  Standalones

  The Knocked Up Plan

  Most Valuable Playboy

  Stud Finder

  Most Likely to Score

  Wanderlust (February 2018)

  Come As You Are (April 2018)

  Part-Time Lover (June 2018)

  The Real Deal (Summer 2018)

  Far Too Tempting

  21 Stolen Kisses

  Playing With Her Heart

  Out of Bounds

  The Caught Up in Love Series

  Caught Up In Us

  Pretending He’s Mine

  Trophy Husband

  Stars in Their Eyes

  The No Regrets Series

  The Thrill of It

  The Start of Us

  Every Second With You

  The Seductive Nights Series

  First Night (Julia and Clay, prequel novella)

  Night After Night (Julia and Clay, book one)

  After This Night (Julia and Clay, book two)

  One More Night (Julia and Clay, book three)

  A Wildly Seductive Night (Julia and Clay novella, book 3.5)

  Nights With Him (A standalone novel about Michelle and Jack)

  Forbidden Nights (A standalone novel about Nate and Casey)

  The Sinful Nights Series

  Sweet Sinful Nights

  Sinful Desire

  Sinful Longing

  Sinful Love

  The Fighting Fire Series

  Burn For Me (Smith and Jamie)

  Melt for Him (Megan and Becker)

  Consumed By You (Travis and Cara)

  The Jewel Series

  A two-book sexy contemporary romance series

  The Sapphire Affair

  The Sapphire Heist

  Also by Lili Valente

  Standalones

  The Baby Maker (February 2018)

  The Bad Motherpuckers Series (Standalones)

  Hot as Puck

  Sexy Motherpucker

  Puck-Aholic

  Puck me Baby

  Sexy Flirty Dirty Romantic Comedies (Standalones)

  Magnificent Bastard

  Spectacular Rascal

  Incredible You

  Meant for You

  The Master Me Series

  (Red HOT erotic Standalone novellas)

  Snowbound with the Billionaire

  Snowed in with the Boss

  Masquerade with the Master

  Bought by the Billionaire Series

  (HOT novellas, must be read in order)

  Dark Domination

  Deep Domination

  Desperate Domination

  Divine Domination

  Kidnapped by the Billionaire Series

  (HOT novellas, must be read in order)

  Filthy Wicked Love

  Crazy Beautiful Love

  One More Shameless Night

  Under His Command Series

  (HOT novellas, must be read in order)

  Controlling her Pleasure

  Commanding her Trust

  Claiming her Heart

  To the Bone Series

  (Sexy Romantic Suspense, must be read in order)

  A Love so Dangerous

  A Love so Deadly

  A Love so Deep

  Run with Me Series

  (Emotional New Adult Romantic Suspense.

  Must be read in order.)

  Run with Me

  Fight for You

  The Bad Boy’s Temptation Series

  (Must be read in order)

  The Bad Boy’s Temptation

  The Bad Boy’s Seduction

  The Bad Boy’s Redemption

  The Lonesome Point Series

  (Sexy Cowboys written with Jessie Evans)

  Leather and Lace

  Saddles and Sin

  Diamonds and Dust

  12 Dates of Christmas

  Glitter and Grit

  Sunny with a Cha
nce of True Love

  Chaps and Chance

  Ropes and Revenge

  8 Second Angel

  About

  When you think about how easy it is to lose keys, phones, sunglasses, and your dignity on social media, you might figure it'd be a cinch for me to ditch my V Card.

  You'd be wrong.

  At 25, I run a successful business, live in a fantastic apartment, and have fabulous friends to go out with any night of the week. And yet I'm still a card-carrying member of a club I don't want to belong to anymore. Good thing I know just the man for the deflowering job—my brother’s business partner and best friend.

  Graham Campbell is charming, smart, and, I’m told, oh-so-skilled in the sack. As long as I keep my eyes on the prize, there’s no way this pluck-the-flower project could possibly complicate matters.

  Work and pleasure. As the CEO of a fast-growing company, I've been enjoying both to the fullest. What do I do when the board throws me for an unexpected loop so I can keep my business in my hands? I enlist the help of my best friend's little sister since she holds a big stake in the company. But then I learn there's another big stake she wants.

  The one between my legs.

  I can do this. Seven nights to teach her everything I know in the bedroom. There's no way I'll fall for her, even though she’s earning top grades in every single sinfully sexy lesson. And turns out I’m learning something too. The trouble is I don’t have the answer key to what to do when I fall hard for her.

  And that throws a whole new hitch in my plans.

  Chapter One

  Graham

  Julie Andrews twirls in a field of flowers, her arms spread wide like she’s going to hug the world, while the Alps rise majestically behind her.

  “That’s the one.” I point to the light-blue T-shirt with the caption—Look at all the fucks I give!—scrawled in cursive above the famous image from The Sound of Music.

  It’s the perfect T-shirt for CJ.

  One, she loves musicals.

  Two, I’m always telling her she needs to give far fewer fucks. Shake off the little things. Don’t sweat the small stuff.

  Hell, look at me. I give so few fucks I’m practically a Zen master.

  Although, for the record, the fucks I do give result in pure pleasure for the giver and the receiver.

  “Would you like me to model that for you?”

  I blink up at the unexpected offer. The curvy saleswoman bats her eyelashes suggestively. “It looks like it might be just my size,” she says, those baby blues drifting down to where she wants me to look.

  Holy hell. That’s an eyeful. But of course, I’m only noticing her impressive rack because I want to get a look at her name tag. Ahem . . .

  Olive.

  I scrub a hand across my jaw. Damn, this shirt would look excellent on Olive.

  Just have her try it on, the naughty devil on my shoulder whispers, determined to knock me off the wagon.

  But that’s not happening. Not today, or any day in the near future.

  I fish a fifty from my wallet and set it on the counter, calling on my best Bruce Willis in Die Hard 2. Just the fax, ma’am. Damn, he was cool in that film. In every film.

  “Just the shirt, ma’am,” I say, flashing her a lopsided grin that has, admittedly, been known to melt panties.

  “Ma’am?” She giggles. “You’re making me feel old.”

  I swallow the teasing response on the tip of my tongue and slam on the charm brakes. Must. Stop. Flirting. I’m on the straight and narrow now. No distractions. Just laser-focus, like Bruce Willis disarming terrorists and saving Christmas.

  “And can you wrap it up, please?” I ask, since CJ deserves the best. I can’t just waltz into brunch, ask her to pretty please with sugar on top help me save my company, and hand her a T-shirt in a plastic bag. Pfft.

  The least I can do is gift wrap my request. Besides, I pride myself on excellence in gift-giving.

  I check the scores for the Portland Badgers, my favorite hockey team, as busty Olive who I’m not going to hit on—not going to hit on, not going to hit on—wraps soft pink paper around the shirt, tying it with a silky white bow before slipping it into a pink gift bag. Perfect for a woman like CJ. Pink is her color.

  I thank Olive and head out of the boutique, the midmorning sun of a gorgeous spring day in Manhattan shining brightly above.

  My driver, Gary, waits for me at the curb of this cobbled street in the Village, and I remind myself to give him an even bigger tip, since he never idles. The dude always turns off the engine while he waits for me, treating the earth right.

  That’s worth every penny of a tip.

  Another thing worth every penny is having a town car at my disposal.

  New York can suck it without a driver.

  I can’t believe there was a day when I didn’t have this. Growing up with jack shit, my shoes held together by duct tape, I was lucky to have bus fare. I won’t ever forget how lucky I am to have all this now, and to take care of my family, too, so their shoes are whatever kind they want.

  I slide onto the cool leather seat, and my phone dings with a note from my good friend Luna, thanking me for recommending she see the newest Zach Galifianakis flick. Apparently, she laughed all the way through. I’m sending a quick you’re always welcome, when another text lands. This one is from Lucy.

  My shoulders tense, and I tell Gary to head to Ruby’s Kitchen on the Upper West Side, a farm-to-table place that has the best eggs in the city.

  “Of course, Graham. Did you find what you were looking for?”

  “I did. A perfect gift for CJ.” A smile crosses my lips as I think of CJ and her nerdy addiction to novelty T-shirts, but the grin erases itself when I glance back down at my phone.

  Lucy. Lush, but loony Lucy.

  I really should block her number.

  But if I did that, she would show up on my doorstep, crazy leaking out of every pore, and I would need a damned crowbar to pry her off of me. Briefly, I wonder what Bruce’s John McClane would do in a situation like this, but then decide he wouldn’t let it happen in the first place.

  Just the fax, ma’am, and yippee-ki-yay-motherfucker.

  Lucy: Hey there, G-Man. What are you up to?

  I roll my eyes at the nickname I can’t stomach then fire off a quick reply.

  Busy.

  Nothing shuts down a textual flirt attempt like a one-word reply. I’ll just keep Die Harding it through the day, like John McClane would if he were the badass CEO of a sexy-as-sin lingerie company.

  I delete the text and shove the phone into the pocket of my jeans.

  Ex-girlfriends have a way of coming out of the woodwork at the least opportune times, proving my long-standing belief that any relationship that lasts for more than a few weeks is a Big Mistake. Gigantic with a capital G.

  Lucy, for all her sexy curves, filthy mouth, and willingness to tackle any challenge in the book on exotic sex positions, is proving to be the biggest mistake of them all.

  The trouble is, I’ve always been a sucker for the crazy ones. They’re just really good in bed.

  Okay, fine, that’s a lie.

  I’m a sucker for all the ladies. Blond, brunette, redhead. Crazy, sane, smart. I love women. We’ve had a solid mutual appreciation society going on for years.

  Until Lucy came along, and the focus-sucking vortex of her growing obsession with me served as a stark reminder that I don’t have time for distractions in any shape or form. I don’t have a minute to spare on a romantic relationship. Not with my business at stake. My industry is in a massive state of flux, and I need to concentrate on keeping the company train rattling along at full speed.

  That’s why I’m seeing CJ.

  She’s my secret weapon, the key to making sure Adored moves in the right direction, despite the suitors waiting in the wings for my baby, doing their best to tempt my shareholders.

  Absently, I run my hand over the silky bow, frowning as my fingers slide across a card. Plucking
it from the bag, I turn it over—In case you change your mind about wanting more than the shirt.

  I smirk. So Olive found a way to get her number into my hands after all.

  But I'm a good boy and have been since things ended with Lucy a few months ago.

  A very good boy, who has no use for a beautiful woman’s phone number.

  Though a quickie would take my mind off of this upcoming board meeting, and Olive did seem like the kind of woman who would be fine with a one-night stand—flirty, but not raring to sink her claws into me . . .

  I grab my phone again and tap out a message to Olive.

  Graham: Anything in particular you think would change my mind?

  Almost immediately, my phone pings again.

  My eyes practically pop out of my head when I open the multimedia message. Olive is one bold woman. One bold, busty woman.

  I blow out a long stream of air, reminding myself I need to stay strong.

  I type out a reply.

  Graham: Sorry, Olive. I sent that message as a mistake.

  Before I can hit send, though, she replies again.

  With a dozen smiley panda emoticons.

  I groan, sliding a hand over my face.

  Emoticons. Why did it have to be emoticons? Is it possible for anyone these days to communicate without a stupid smiley face?

  My phone dings once more.

  A winking emoticon.

  Then a red-thong-wearing emoticon.

  And finally, a unicorn jumping over an eggplant.

  Fuck. This is what happens when I let myself even think about stepping off the straight, narrow, and celibate path.

  Graham: Sorry, Olive. I’m not the eggplant you’re looking for. I need to delete your number.