The Virgin Rule Book (Rules of Love 1) Page 11

  She lifts her face, sporting a smile she can’t contain. “I have a dinner date this weekend in Napa.”

  “With who?” I ask, desperately needing the answer.

  “Crosby’s mom is setting me up with a man she knows,” she says, borderline giggling. It’s the most adorable thing I’ve ever seen.

  “Who is he? Is he an upstanding citizen? Does he recycle? Does he have a decent job? Did he go to college?” I ask, peppering her with the same sort of questions she’d pepper me with. “And, most important, does he like dogs?”

  I fasten the strap of the shoes as I wait for her answers.

  “He’s originally from Sydney. He owns a couple of vineyards.”

  I smile. “Great. So he likes wine. Point in his favor.”

  “He donates to a local animal shelter. In fact, he’s one of the biggest donors.”

  Nice, I mouth approvingly.

  “He came here for college. Went to UCSF. He recycles and composts.”

  I sigh dreamily. “And I bet he has a dog.”

  She holds up two fingers. “Both rescue mutts. And he likes live music.”

  I glance at the ceiling, hands up, like angels have sent this man from on high. “Let me guess. James Taylor, Melissa Etheridge, and Jackson Browne. Am I right?”

  She smacks my leg. “I’m not that old.”

  “You’re right. Melissa Etheridge is not quite as old as those guys.”

  “Did you think someone my age would prefer Katy Perry?”

  “No. You’re so not a Katy Perry person. But you are so a Jackson Browne person.” I raise a finger to make a point. “And therefore you are exactly that old.”

  She rolls her eyes. “Fine, fine. I love Jackson Browne. My ’70s heart is pitter-pattering. I can’t help myself.”

  “Is he taking you to that Jackson Browne concert this weekend? I heard there’s one in downtown Napa.”

  She shoots me an I’m so impressed look. “Yes, that’s where our date is. You know everything.”

  “Hey, it’s my job to be knowledgeable about all things Bay Area. Also, I’m talking to a number of people for the GM job and one of the people I interviewed this week lives there, and he mentioned that he’s going to it too.”

  “How is the quest for a GM going?”

  As I try on the shoes, I tell her about the candidates I’ve met so far this week and the others to come in the weeks ahead. “I want to find someone who can negotiate the trades and the personnel changes I need to make a big splash. Someone who knows exactly how to bring the Lombardi Trophy back to the Hawks. I want to live up to Dad’s reputation.”

  She pats my leg, flashing me a warm smile. “He would be proud of you, holding your own in the job. You’ve done a great job the last few years, and you’ll keep doing it.”

  A lump forms in my throat. “Thanks, Mom. I needed to hear that. Some days are hard and busy.” I gesture to the shoes. “But shoes make hard days easier. You need to buy those shoes. Actually, I’m going to get them for you as a gift for your date.”

  She smiles. “Thank you. That’s very sweet of you.” Then her expression falters, her smile fading away. “Nadia, do you think it’s terrible that I’m dating again? Would he be upset?”

  I squeeze her shoulder, shaking my head adamantly. “He loved you so. He’d want you to be happy. Don’t forget that note he wrote.”

  She brings her hand to her mouth. A tear slides down her cheek.

  Tears well in my eyes too as a memory flickers before me. My father’s decline was fast and furious. In some ways that was for the best. He didn’t have to suffer for long. When I was at the hospital with him, he asked me to help him write a note for his wife.

  He wanted her to be happy again. He wanted her to go out and find love. The kind that they’d had.

  “Don’t let your mother mourn me for too long. She’s young and vibrant. She’ll want to love again. And you need to keep reminding her that that’s what I would want for her,” he told me.

  We wrote a brief instructional manual for me to give any man dating her after he passed. Though, not on a first date.

  Instructions for dating my wife: You must keep up with her, like puzzles, enjoy gardening, recycle as much of everything as possible, be able to banter about the news, cook a meal now and then, but also take her out to the best restaurants in the city, as well as a dive bar occasionally because she loves those. It helps, too, if you can bake, because she has quite a sweet tooth. Most importantly, she has the biggest heart in the world, and if you break it, I will haunt you forever.

  I memorized every beautiful word. Replaying them in my head brings a surge of emotion to my heart. A lump to my throat.

  “He doesn’t want to have to haunt this guy,” I whisper, fishing in my purse for my handy tissues to dab the threat of tears. “So yes, Mom, he’d be very happy.”

  She nods a few times, a small smile playing across her lips, rearranging her frown. “I think he would too.” She takes a beat to compose herself. “What about you and Crosby? You seemed to enjoy each other at the wedding.”

  Enjoy is putting it mildly.

  I savored it.

  I fantasized about it.

  I’ve gotten off to it.

  But I’m not telling that to my mom.

  I zoom in on the practical matters of Crosby and me. “We’re going to the Sports Network Awards later this week. I’m looking forward to it,” I say, trying desperately to maintain a straight face even though I’m giddy with excitement about seeing him in less than forty-eight hours.

  She arches a wry brow. “Are you dating him?”

  I kind of wish I were.

  But there’s no space in my life for it. It’s for the best that he’s already erected walls. “He’s taking a break from dating. I’m focused on work. Truly, I’m just going as his friend.” Friends with benefits perhaps, I add silently, reminding my lips not to curve into a naughty grin as I imagine some of the benefits.

  More kisses?

  More than kisses?

  Kisses all over?

  A shiver runs through me . . .

  Pressing her palms together, my mom gazes ceilingward. “Someday you might date him.”

  I swat her playfully. “Don’t be silly. I just said neither one of us is in the market for a relationship. I’m busy with the team. He has spring training and then, you know, the regular season. Which lasts for six long months.”

  “To that I say—blah, blah, blah.”

  I laugh. “Glad you have your own opinion.”

  “I do indeed. And I’ve been rooting for you two ever since he looked at you the night you went to prom.”

  I jerk my head back. “What? How did he look at me?”

  “Like he wished he were Charlie Duncan.” She shrugs, a little devilishly. “I saw something in his eyes then.”

  I’m still for a moment, flashing back not to eight years ago, but to a few nights ago. At Eric’s wedding, Crosby mentioned Charlie and his broken heart. Is my mother right? Did Crosby look at me like he wished he’d taken me to prom eight years ago?

  Just as quickly as it arrived, I wave off the galloping-away thought.

  That was the past.

  But in the present, is he wanting more than our plus-one?

  We did leave the door open.

  Does he want to kick it all the way open?

  Do I want to?

  My stomach flips as I imagine his hand on my face again, his lips sweeping over mine, our breath mingling.

  And more. So much more.

  I return to the moment. “And I saw something in your eyes when you gazed at these shoes.” I point at the red pumps. “Let’s go buy them.”

  A few hours later, I take a sip of chardonnay, enjoying how it warms me.

  How it fuels thoughts of benefits.

  What type of benefits are on the table?

  Sinking onto my plush duvet, my mind indulges in a meander down friends-with-benefits lane, checking out the scenery. Right there are
the words Crosby said to me the other night. We’re absolutely friends, even though I would very much like to kiss you deliberately again.

  I wander around the bend to check out his text from the next morning. In fact, I think last night was full of all sorts of terrific accidents that should be repeated.

  What comes around the next curve in the lane?

  What do I want to come next?

  I’m not entirely sure, but I know this much—I want more.

  As I scroll through our recent texts, I land on one where he invited me to send him a pic of what I’m wearing to this weekend’s event.

  Why not?

  I set down the wine, slide on the shoes, and arrange myself on the bed.

  This will be fun. Just more of plus-oneing with the best man.

  I send him a picture.

  Me in bed, wearing these shoes, my feet crossed at the ankles.

  Along with a few words.

  Nadia: I bought these for our event, my plus-one.

  His reply arrives lightning fast.

  Crosby: I didn’t have a foot fetish, but now I do. I really fucking do.

  Nadia: I like this fetish of yours.

  Crosby: And I would like to kiss your ankles very much.

  I tremble, picturing his lips on my ankles, him brushing his mouth along my skin. It’s not a plus-one type of response from him. It’s so much better.

  Nadia: I think I’d like that.

  Crosby: You know what I’d like?

  Nadia: What would you like?

  As I wait for his reply, I savor the sensations floating through me, the shivers running up and down my body, the tingle in my chest. It feels so good to flirt. So good to kick us up beyond plus-one.

  Crosby: I would like to slowly, deliciously unbuckle them, take them off you, and kiss my way up to your knees.

  Fire flickers through me, scorching my veins. My God, did it get red-hot in here all of a sudden? Yes, it did.

  Nadia: I bet that would feel so damn good.

  I’m no expert at flirting, and I hope I’m doing this right. But the speed of his reply tells me that I’m doing it exactly as we both want.

  Crosby: Kiss you behind your knee, lick you along your thighs, press my lips to your legs.

  Nadia: I’m . . .

  Crosby: You’re what?

  I draw a deep breath.

  Am I doing this?

  Smashing past this friendship wall? Knocking it down? Sending this banter into officially naughty terrain?

  I squirm, my body hot, my center pulsing.

  Yes. Yes, I am doing this.

  I type out my greatest wish right now. I feel daring and bold as I write it, no matter how risky this might be. We’ve sped up to sixty miles per hour in the span of one hot picture of my feet in heels.

  But maybe that was all we needed, a match to our kindling.

  Nadia: I’m wanting you to kiss me all over.

  Crosby: Fuck, Nadia. I’d love to. You’re going to look so damn good in those shoes. And I bet you taste so good everywhere. Every inch of you.

  I wave a hand in front of my face, as if that will lower my temperature. But my skin is flushed, hot with lust and need. I’m dangerously wet and wickedly turned on.

  There’s only one solution.

  Nadia: On that note, I need a moment. Be right back.

  Letting go of the phone, I slide down my panties, kicking them to the floor. Opening the nightstand drawer, I grab my most favorite rabbit. Turning it on, I lift up my knees, then let them fall apart as I close my eyes.

  The rabbit’s ears buzz, tantalizing my wet clit.

  A gasp falls from my lips, hungry and wild.

  I glide the rabbit’s head through my hot center. It moves easily. I’m that slick, that aroused.

  That ready for Crosby.

  My skin tingles all over, cells bursting with electricity, sparking with pleasure as I rub.

  My legs part farther, and I hike up the speed, seeking friction, sweet friction, as I chase relief. I breathe harder, rocking my hips, abandoning myself to the feelings igniting in me.

  To the tendrils of desire curling in my toes, coiling in my stomach, pulsing in my aching center.

  As I imagine Crosby.

  His face. His mouth. His lips. I breathe his name on a harsh pant.

  “Crosby.”

  Then I say it again, loving how it feels on my tongue in the heat of the moment, what it does to my body, the way it makes me ravenous with lust everywhere. How I’m hot with the prospect of bliss. I punch up my hips, pushing the rabbit into me.

  I moan, letting my legs fall open wider as the silicone shaft sinks deeper and I imagine it’s Crosby.

  Pushing, sinking, thrusting, until he fills me all the way and I gasp.

  Crosby.

  Oh God.

  Please.

  Yes. More.

  Like that, fucking myself with the rabbit, its ears wildly caressing my clit at rocket speed, I moan and groan. I writhe and melt.

  I picture. I imagine.

  My mind plays dirty image after dirtier image, switching ruthlessly between him licking me, eating me, then fucking me.

  The thing I’ve never had. The thing I want desperately now.

  Sex, gorgeous, beautiful, hot, hard sex.

  I want him inside me.

  Taking me, having me, fucking me.

  I detonate, coming hard and fierce as I call out his name.

  It sounds so incredibly right. I picture him leaning over me, braced on strong arms, dipping his head, brushing a soft, gentle kiss to my lips.

  Telling me how incredible that was for him too.

  All of that. I want all of that. I want more than plus-oneing with the best man.

  After the rabbit’s gone back into its burrow, I pick up my phone. Read a new message.

  Crosby: What kind of moment did you need? Everything okay? Did I cross a line?

  I reply, as more than a friend.

  Nadia: I needed a moment . . . to cross all sorts of lines myself.

  Crosby: Are you saying what I think you’re saying?

  Nadia: I’m saying I’m feeling very satisfied right now.

  Crosby: And I bet that was not an accident at all.

  Nadia: It was very deliberate satisfaction.

  15

  Crosby

  After a gallons-of-sweat-inducing StairMaster workout, some pretzel-like stretching worthy of a YouTube yogini, and a punishing session with my personal trainer at the gym—because sessions with personal trainers should always be punishing—a quick glance at the clock tells me I’m seven hours away from seeing Nadia.

  I grab my water bottle and zip up my hoodie, tipping my chin to one of my workout partners. Juan, a pitcher on my team. He’s tearing up the treadmill. He yanks an AirPod from his ear.

  “You almost done?”

  “Do I look like I’m almost done?” he fires back, breathing hard, attacking the machine with ferocity.

  “Looks like you’re taking a walk in the park.”

  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.”<
br />
  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.