The Virgin Rule Book (Rules of Love 1) Read online

  Raj flops down on the mat. “Looks like you don’t need to confess, Cros. They figured you out.”

  “From a picture. What the hell is so obvious about that pic?”

  “Switch to side planks,” he says, studying the shot. “Oh, I see.”

  “What is it?” I ask as I hold myself up on my right side, left arm straight up in the air.

  “It’s the eyes,” he says, tapping on the phone, then showing me a close-up of my peepers. “Do you see it?”

  “What am I looking for?”

  “You look at her like you’re falling for her.”

  I fall on my hip, slipping out of the plank, landing splat on my side with an oof.

  Recovering quickly, I ask, “What are you talking about?”

  As I pull myself up, he sits crisscross next to me then proceeds to explain in detail how my eyes give everything away.

  “Huh,” I say, studying the picture, the way I’m gazing at Nadia, how my lips are crooked into a grin, how my hand is curled tightly around her waist.

  Maybe I do look at her that way.

  Maybe I am falling for her.

  Holy fuck.

  It’s like I just learned that a pitcher I’ve batted against for years is now throwing a knuckleball.

  And I don’t know how to hit it.

  The rest of the day, I try to figure out what the hell to do with this knuckleball of Nadia’s.

  The situation gets worse when I stop by my mom’s café in the city to pick up dinner.

  She hands me a paper bag full of food. “So how are you going to deal with the fact that everyone seems to think you have it bad for Eric’s sister?”

  “Because of the photo?”

  She laughs softly, shakes her head, and sits me down at a table. “It’s not because of a photo, sweetie.” She shoots me a knowing grin. “It’s because of years.”

  23

  Nadia

  I pace my home.

  Set my hand on my chest.

  Breathe in, breathe out.

  It’s T-minus one hour till . . . hymen send-off?

  But no, that ship went bye-bye a long time ago. I mean, I don’t know for sure, but my family of little darlings and big darlings surely broke my maidenhead long ago.

  Ugh.

  Maidenhead.

  Who says “maidenhead”?

  Who says “hymen” for that matter?

  But hey, maybe those ridiculous words will calm me down.

  “Maidenhead, maidenhead, maidenhead,” I mutter, but still, the word repetition does nothing to settle the overdrive my body’s in.

  My heart skitters.

  It’s like a rabbit in my chest, racing in circles, frantically beating.

  Settle down.

  I flop down on my couch, drop my head into my hands, and try to breathe.

  My lungs won’t fill.

  My breath is short, sharp.

  Nothing is working.

  I’m going to jump out of my skin. And why?

  Why am I so wound up?

  I want this. I want him. I’m ready.

  But tell that to my nerves that are jackhammering in my cells.

  I head to the bathroom and turn on the tap for the tub. I planned to shower anyway, but maybe a bath is what I need.

  A little relaxation session.

  I strip out of my clothes, turn the temperature to hot, and toss in a tropical island bath bomb.

  I close my eyes, letting the steam swirl around me as the marble tub fills. I step into the bath when it’s nearly full, dancing the oh-my-God-it’s-so-hot hula for a few seconds before I gingerly lower myself into the water.

  And I burn.

  I’m broiling.

  Whose idea was it to make this so forking hot?

  I stand, step out, grab a towel, and wrap the fluffy material around me.

  I sneer at the cauldron.

  Draining the tub, I head to the shower stall, turn the water to lukewarm, then take a shower.

  Baths are officially not relaxing.

  Five minutes later, I’m out of the shower, but my heart is still trying to run away from me.

  Music? Do I need music?

  Should I take up yoga real quick?

  Maybe champagne would do the trick?

  On my way home from work tonight, I picked up a bottle. Organic, naturally. But I can’t pop it open without him.

  So, as I slather on lotion, then get dressed in jeans and a casual pink blouse, I try—truly try—to figure out what’ll ease my nerves.

  Not a hot soak.

  Not a drink.

  And not some more girl time.

  I look in the mirror, studying my face, asking the hard questions.

  What do you want? What do you need?

  I want the man.

  And I want to know we’re good. I want to know we’ve got this. I want to talk to him, or text with him.

  So I pick up my phone, open our text thread, and write him a note.

  Something that’ll set the mood.

  The mood of who we are.

  Nadia: Remember that time I asked to see your dick pic?

  I put the phone down on the bathroom counter as I swipe on some powder and blush and then mascara, feeling a little more settled already. He writes back quickly, for which I’m grateful.

  Crosby: You’re changing your mind about tonight and you want a pic instead of the real thing? I SUPPOSE I can live with that. But the bigger question is—do you still want the grain bowl?

  Nadia: I wanted to say I’m secretly glad you didn’t show the picture to me, because I liked experiencing it live last night.

  Crosby: Whew. So you want the grain bowl and the sausage? Good thing, because I’m on my way over with both.

  Nadia: Excellent. I’ll be ready with this . . .

  I step away from the mirror, unbutton my shirt to a scandalous degree, then send him a picture.

  Of the tops of my breasts.

  His reply is instantaneous.

  Crosby: Did you hear that? It was the sound of me tripping and falling flat on my face from the ABSOLUTE HOTNESS of you. I hope you have a Band-Aid for my nose.

  Nadia: I have Band-Aids with foxes on them. I know you love your cute animal socks, so these will match.

  Crosby: You do know me well. Also, thank you for the world’s sexiest image.

  Nadia: You can see them live in a few minutes.

  Crosby: I intend to, Wild Woman. I fully intend to see, touch, feel, lick, kiss, and devour them.

  Nadia: Mmmm . . .

  Already, my pulse is slowing, warmth returns to my cheeks, and my mind is calm, but eager.

  And because talking to him seems to settle my nerves, I’m guessing that making him laugh might do the trick even more, so I do a quick Google search.

  Then I send him a shot of a cat lounging seductively across a bed.

  Nadia: Here’s a naughty shot for you.

  Seconds later, my phone pings.

  Crosby: Meow! Also, here’s your shaft shot.

  Crosby: I meant, here’s your wiener pic.

  I crack up as the shot of a dachshund fills the screen.

  I am officially relaxed. All I needed was this. This banter, this connection, this fun.

  When the clock strikes eight, he texts that he’s in the lobby. I buzz him up, and a minute later, I open the door.

  “Hey, you,” he says in a tender voice that sends a charge down my spine.

  “Hey to you too.”

  I’m still nervous.

  But I’m also ready.

  Champagne and food help.

  My chest flutters as I take another bite of the food, another sip of the champagne.

  “Did you know this is organic?” I ask, holding up my flute.

  He takes a bite of his dinner then smiles, speaking when he finishes chewing. “You might have mentioned it a few times.”

  “Oh, right,” I say, waving a hand. But I’m still rattling off randomness about champagne. “See, when I went
to the store this afternoon, I wanted to make sure it would work for you. The champagne. It’s made without sulfites. And no chemicals either. Also, it’s made from sustainable grapes. Hey, what are sustainable grapes? Are there unsustainable grapes? What makes a grape unsustainable?”

  He sets down his fork and reaches for my hand. “It’s a grape that’s wildly nervous.”

  I let out a long, heavy breath. “I’m not nervous,” I say, lying, patently lying.

  “We don’t have to do this, Nadia.”

  Tension slices through me as I stare daggers at him. “Don’t say something so awful.”

  He smiles, stands, and offers me his hand. “Come with me.”

  “But the table is a mess,” I say, grasping at straws.

  “We’ll clean it up later.”

  He takes my hand, guides me to the couch, and gently sweeps out his hand for me to sit. I do.

  He goes back for the champagne flutes then sits next to me, reaching for my hand, running his thumb across the top of it. “If you’re not ready, no hard feelings.”

  I swallow roughly. “I am ready, I’m just . . .”

  “Nervous?” he supplies.

  I nod, admitting it at last. “I am.”

  “Do you want to talk about why?”

  I take a sip of my drink then set down the glass, waiting for the floaty feeling to kick in.

  But champagne isn’t the answer.

  Crosby sets his glass on the table next to mine, waiting for me to tell him the truth I’m holding in.

  I part my lips, draw a shaky breath, then blurt out, “I don’t want to be bad in bed.”

  A laugh bursts from his chest. “Nadia,” he says softly, then weaves his fingers through mine. “Would you think it’s crazy if I said the same thing?”

  I scoff. “There’s no way you could think that.”

  He gives a but I do shrug.

  My jaw drops. “Do you really worry about that?”

  He inches closer, clasping my hand tighter. “I want this to be good for you. Fuck, that’s wrong,” he says, dragging a hand through his hair. He stops like he’s collecting his thoughts, then his blue eyes lock with mine. His blaze with heat, but something else too—something sweet, something vulnerable. “I want it to be spectacular.”

  My heart lodges in my throat, and I swallow past a lump that appears out of nowhere.

  What the freak?

  Now is not the time for my crying-on-cue gland to activate. I draw a steadying breath. “I don’t want to be unspectacular,” I admit, feeling terribly vulnerable too. “I want you to feel good as well.”

  He cups my face in his hands and presses his forehead to mine. “It’ll feel good because it’s you, and it’s me, and it’s us.” His heady whisper sends me spinning into a whirlwind of lust and longing and something else too—something that feels dangerously close to another L word.

  He brushes his lips against mine, a hint of a kiss, then he pulls back. “But we can put the brakes on this for now. Or forever, if you want. There’s no pressure. Hell, if you want to play poker or watch SportsCenter or scroll through Netflix in the hopes of finding a new comedy you haven’t seen, we can do that.”

  I shake my head. “I do like poker, but I don’t want to do that. I think . . .” I do a status check, and my heart is finally beating normally. “I think I just needed to talk to you first. I feel better now.”

  “We can talk all night if you want. I meant what I said last night. No regrets. No pressure.” He sweeps some hair off my shoulder, making me shudder. “Do you want to talk more now?”

  The truth is . . . I do. Because talking to him settles me. This connection with Crosby is what I like. This is why I want to be with him tonight. My eyes drift down his body, taking him in again—his navy-blue Henley stretched snug across his firm pecs and showing off his strong biceps, his faded blue jeans fitting him just so, then finally his . . . corgis?

  I peer at his purple socks, then up at him, arching one are you serious brow. “Are there corgi butts on your socks?”

  He waggles a foot. “Why, yes, there are. These are my new lucky socks. Bought them today.”

  I laugh, truly laugh, from deep within. “So a dog’s rear end? Those are your getting-lucky socks?”

  He slides his foot up my leg. “What’s hotter than corgi butts?” he asks, his covered toe reaching my knee.

  I laugh harder, pushing his foot away. “You really love your good-luck charms.”

  “I’m a superstitious mofo.”

  “So without the new socks, nothing would happen tonight?”

  He slides his arms around my waist and shakes his head, the mood shifting, intensifying. “Honestly, Nadia, I just like socks a lot. They’re kind of my thing. And maybe the ritual makes me feel calm, makes me feel centered.”

  “Do you feel calm right now?”

  He licks his lips. “I feel certain.”

  My body hums at his words, at his gaze, all possessive and open at the same time. “Certain about what?”

  “About you,” he says, a husky sound that ignites a shiver of sparks down my spine.

  “What about me?” I ask breathily.

  “This.” He leans in close again, takes my face in his hands once more, and reconnects with my lips.

  He’s torturously slow and deliberately gentle, like he’s kissing me in slow motion.

  He flicks his tongue across my bottom lip, and I shudder. We’re talking full-body tremble here, pleasure spinning through my veins.

  He’s achingly tender, kissing me like he’s luxuriating in every second, like he’s exploring my mouth in the most unhurried way. He slides his tongue across it, then nips on the corner, sucking my bottom lip between his teeth.

  “Ohhh,” I moan, and the melting begins.

  It starts as a warm, hazy sensation gliding over my skin. Then it becomes more intense with each brush of his lips, with each sensual graze of his mouth on mine.

  I go boneless, my knees weakening even though I’m sitting, as he cups my face and kisses me like I’m the answer to every question.

  His hands slide into my hair, his fingers tangling through the strands as he deepens the kiss.

  And I deepen it right back, kissing him the way he kisses me.

  Because he’s the answer too. He’s the answer to all my questions about sex, about intimacy.

  Especially, maybe, about why I waited.

  I waited for this.

  This connection.

  This sense that we’re the only ones in the world, that our kisses are all that exist.

  That no one has ever touched the way we touch.

  These are endless, floating, hungry kisses that become full-body experiences. Soon, he’s shifting, stretching me out on the couch, sliding next to me, taking me in his arms.

  We don’t stop making out.

  We go at each other’s mouths more intensely, breaths coming faster, legs wrapping around each other, bodies tangling.

  His hard-on presses against my pelvis, and the feel of him sends a wild, erotic thrill whirling through me, settling between my legs.

  Yes, I have officially melted in his arms.

  And at long last, we break the kiss, coming up for air. His lips are red, and his eyes are shimmering with something more than desire.

  Something wildly powerful.

  Maybe the same thing I feel.

  I grab his shirt collar and own this moment. “I’m not nervous. Not anymore.”

  “So, the corgi butts worked,” he murmurs.

  I laugh softly then run my hand over the back of his head, my fingers curling into his hair. “Crosby?”

  “Yes?”

  I gaze up at him, speaking from the heart. I don’t want games, or plus-ones. “You’re the one I want. I want this with you. You know that, right?”

  A grin tugs at his lips, playful and happy.

  Wildly happy.

  “I do,” he whispers. “I do know that.”

  “Good.” All those ne
rves are long gone, and I’m so here, so ready.

  So sure.

  “And I want it to be so good for you,” he says. “Do you know why?”

  “Why?” I ask, feeling like we’re hovering on the edge of something new.

  He’s quiet at first, then he licks his lips. “Because this doesn’t feel like just friends with benefits, Nadia,” he says, unexpectedly intense. “Not at all, not anymore.”

  My breath hitches, and tingles light up my body from head to toe. But they aren’t just tingles from desire. They’re from my heart. From the possibility that he feels the exact same way.

  My chest is glowing, my heart is squeezing. And the rest of me? The rest of me is wanting.

  Craving.

  I tug on his hair, dragging him closer. “I’m aching for you.”

  His lips crook up. “Let me take care of that.”

  He sits up and unbuttons my blouse, keeping his gaze pinned on me the whole time. “I want to taste you first, sweetheart,” he says, and I arch my back, arching into that new word.

  Sweetheart.

  I’m no longer Wild Girl, or Wild Woman.

  I’m sweetheart, and the significance isn’t lost on me.

  The affectionate name, the possessive tone.

  “I want that.” I help him along, unbuttoning my jeans, unzipping them. “But I have to warn you about something.”

  He shoots me a curious look as I shimmy down my jeans. “What’s that?”

  I take a beat, smiling wickedly, because I might be virginal, but I’m not innocent. “I’m outrageously wet right now.”

  The groan that falls from his lips is carnal, and somehow it makes me even wetter.

  We’re a blur of clothes and nudity as he tugs off my jeans and I push down my lace panties.

  He slides down the couch, moving to the end, kneeling between my thighs as he parts my legs and gazes at me like I’m his next meal.