The Virgin Gift Read online

  “Yes. I love science podcasts and how stuff works podcasts,” I said, brightening as I thought of my collection of “Geeks R Us” podcasts, as my friend Lily playfully referred to my listening addiction.

  “File this under how stuff works, then,” she said with a twinkle in her eyes as she tapped on the screen, then showed me the artwork for Ask Aphrodite. Ah, that made sense. “I swear you won’t regret it. Aphrodite changed my life. I learned how to ask for what I want in bed. And Marco gives it to me. Now, thanks to her, I know what it’s like to feel incredible, to have a lover take me to the edge of desire.” She sighed seductively as if remembering that feeling. “To the edge and beyond.” Then she collected herself. “You know what that’s like. That kind of O.”

  She said it absently, offhand, even, as she turned around and picked up her clothes.

  I smiled and gave a quiet “Yes.”

  But the truth was, I knew nothing of the sort.

  When they left, I shut the door, a heaviness in my chest from telling another half-truth.

  I didn’t lie all day long. Some days no one asked about me. But questions from clients arose more often than not, peppered with knowing glances and sisters-in-sensual-arms winks. And I wanted to stop telling little white lies in my studio. I wanted to have one full, honest conversation with a client when she’d ask about sex, or desire, or longing.

  Color me a contradiction.

  I was the boudoir photographer who’d never been naked with a man before.

  The more I shot, the more I wanted to know what the couples in my photos were feeling.

  Wait. Correction: the more I needed to know.

  2

  Nina

  With Marco and Evangeline banging in the elevator or screwing in the car, I popped in my AirPods and toggled over to my podcast app to learn the inner workings of black holes, then attached my camera to my computer to download the photos.

  But as the host explained that a black hole is a region in space where the force of gravity is so strong that light can’t escape, a notion published by scientist David Finkelstein in the 1950s, I hit stop.

  I couldn’t listen anymore.

  My virginity was a black hole.

  And I needed to escape from it.

  And the longer the pull of gravity worked on my V card, the harder it would be to give it up.

  And, in turn, to fully connect with my clients. To relate to them as a woman in the know. And then, once I was on that other secret side of knowledge, the images of their pleasure wouldn’t tease me as I worked.

  But there was more at play, of course. I wanted what they were having . . . because.

  Because pleasure was its own motivation.

  And I’d never experienced true pleasure from another person.

  It was time.

  Time to fully connect with my own desires—desires that had lived only in my mind.

  Communication. That was what I needed. The few times I was involved with a man long enough that I thought it might lead to sex, I’d never known exactly how to bring up the nagging little issue of breaking my hymen. So I hadn’t ventured down the roads that led out of virginity.

  “Sorry, Finkelstein. It’s time for the goddess,” I said, and I hit download on the first episode of Ask Aphrodite, reading the description aloud.

  “How to have the love life you deserve. A love and intimacy advice show with your hostess, Aphrodite, answering all your questions.”

  I had so many questions. I turned away from the computer, knowing I’d come back to Marco and Evangeline’s passion soon enough.

  For now, I gave Aphrodite my full attention as her voice filled my ears.

  Hello there, gorgeous lovelies. Welcome to episode one of Ask Aphrodite. I’m your guide through the wilds of desire and sensuality, wherever you are in your journey. Ask any question, and I’ll endeavor to answer it, even if I have to dig far and wide.

  But first, I want you to take the initial step on the path to knowing yourself, to understanding your fantasies, and perhaps to having them.

  This is what I want you to do today.

  Ask these questions and respond honestly. Only with honesty comes passion, intimacy, and incandescent bliss.

  What do you want?

  What thoughts and desires keep you awake at night?

  What are the images that race through your mind when you’re alone?

  We all know secretly what gets us off. Think about your dirty dreams, and then put pen to paper, writing them down, knowing them, and in so doing, knowing yourself.

  When the episode ended, I reached for one of my idea notebooks, with an illustrated owl on the cover. I kept one in each room, writing down my ideas for new poses, new shoots as they struck me.

  This time, I wrote down something for me.

  I began a list.

  My filthy, wild list.

  I started with one, then filled in a few more items until my phone pinged with a text from my friend and next-door neighbor.

  Adam: Can I take you up on that offer for one more night? I’ll make a chicken stir-fry as thanks tonight, and it’ll be so delicious your taste buds will sing my praises for days.

  Nina: Of course you can take me up on it. But seriously, my taste buds will only sing for days? You must be slacking. Last time you made me a pad thai so yummy my taste buds performed arias for weeks. Now I get mere days?

  Adam: Do not doubt me, woman. I will ensure you’re more than satisfied. Don’t I always please you in the kitchen?

  Nina: Hmm. Always? That’s a powerful word. I’d say most of the time, because let’s not ever forget the pumpkin chocolate chip cookie incident.

  Adam: Oh, no, you don’t. Do not go there. We made a vow to never bring that up again.

  Nina: Did we now?

  Adam: Yes. We swore you’d never bring up the worse-than-cardboard batch of cookies I made, and I’d never bring up the time you insisted the Hundred Years’ War lasted one hundred years.

  Nina: Everyone gets that wrong! It’s a trick question.

  Adam: And I was tricked by pumpkin. Everyone gets tricked by pumpkin. It’s what happens every damn fall. So let’s agree to never mention the pumpkin chocolate chip cookies and I will keep that trivia faux pas under wraps.

  Nina: *grumbles* Fine. I agree. Also, can’t wait for the stir-fry. You are a master in the kitchen.

  Adam: Can’t wait to cook for you. Also, thanks, Nina. I appreciate it. I owe you big time.

  Nina: You owe me nothing. Happy to help.

  I set down the phone, a smile tugging on my lips. Adam had that effect on me, with his charming, laid-back ways, his easygoing personality.

  I’d enjoyed having my friend spend the last few nights in my guest room. One more night of his cooking, his laughter, and our long chats into the night about how solar panel highways worked, or how long badly named wars lasted, or whether it was better to say “champing at the bit” or “chomping at the bit” would be fun.

  He was always fun.

  But I had other matters on my mind and steep hills to climb.

  I returned to my list, doing as Aphrodite said.

  By the time I was done, I had ten items, and the last one would be the hardest. Take the longest. Require the most work.

  I didn’t know where to start with that one, so I doodled next to it, drawing the outline of a fox, until an idea for one more dirty wish landed in my head.

  The start of an eleventh. I began to write it down, but there was a knock on my door. A series of knocks, rapid, urgent, incessant. It sounded like someone was having an emergency.

  3

  Adam

  That was a prize-winning day.

  Two deals done. Two clients made happy. And a new streaming show premiering next week.

  Talk about a kick-ass ten hours at my production studio.

  I left my office, lowered my shades to shield my eyes from the too-bright Vegas sun, and hit the key fob on my Tesla. As the door opened, I rated my day a B.r />
  No, make that a B-plus.

  It wasn’t an A yet, because days didn’t receive their final grades till night rolled around. Nighttime had a way of raising grades to A-pluses.

  But when I checked my texts and found one from the painter, my shoulders sagged before I could even put the car in reverse.

  David The Painter: Still not done with the painting, Mr. Larkin. We should finish in two more days.

  And that made my day a C.

  Fumes. Freaking paint fumes in my condo for another night.

  I’d already overstayed my welcome at Nina’s place, since she’d let me spend the last few nights there.

  I didn’t want to put her out again, even though it was no hardship staying with my witty, entertaining, sexy-as-hell neighbor. And I didn’t say that simply because her guest room was better than most Vegas hotel rooms—the woman had impeccable taste and an eye for what made beds feel absolutely spectacular. I had no idea I’d like that many pillows to rest my head on, or such a top-of-the-line downy comforter.

  But damn, her guest bed rocked.

  No surprise, since she rocked.

  Staying with her was a helluva way to spend the evenings. We clicked so well, it was as if we’d known each other forever rather than simply the last few years.

  The only challenge? Nina was as tempting as the most decadent dessert, the kind you wanted to sneak a bite of when no one was looking.

  A dark-haired angel with red cat-eye glasses, glossy lips, and a tight body. With her deadpan wit, locomotive-fast brain, and toned body, my next-door neighbor was enticing every single second of the day and every damn nanosecond of the night.

  But I had mastered the fine art of restraint over the last year I’d spent on hiatus from any and every form of romantic relationship. And Nina never gave any indication that she was game for more. Even if she’d been game, I wasn’t in the market for more than that, given the way my last relationship had imploded—with my ex behind bars.

  With that kind of track record, I was taking a break from romance.

  Friendship though? I knew what I was doing in that department, and I intended for Nina to stay there.

  I banished the tempting thoughts of her once again.

  I clicked open our text thread and asked her if I could extend my stay at Hotel Nina.

  Her answer was swift, giving me the yes I’d been hoping for.

  My day improved instantly. Definitely back to a B-plus. Setting the phone in its holder, I pulled out of the office lot and headed for my high-rise, calling Jake on the drive home. My attorney, who was also my good friend, answered on the first ring.

  “If you keep calling me, I’m going to have to up my hourly. No more friendship discount for you,” he said wryly.

  A laugh burst from my chest. “If the rate you charge me is your friends-and-family discount, then I don’t want to know what you charge your other clients,” I said.

  “Oh, yes, you do. You might switch to law if you knew what I was pulling.”

  “Doubtful. I like being the king of my domain too much,” I said, since owning my production studio and taking all the risks—which meant reaping all the rewards—was what I liked. What I loved.

  “With the contracts we just signed, I’d say you’re the king, prince, and heir to your domain,” Jake remarked. “Those were some epic deals.”

  “Exactly. That’s why I’m calling, and this is a friend call so your hourly better be zero right now.”

  “What’s that? I can’t hear you.”

  “Drinks are on me. Can you hear me now?” I asked as I slowed to a stop at a red light.

  “That was crystal clear,” he deadpanned, but then cleared his throat. “Seriously though. Drinks are definitely on me, and yes, we need to celebrate inking deals for all these new shows. This weekend? You up for it?”

  I put my foot to the gas when the light changed. “I’m always up for a night out.”

  “And will your pajama party friend be joining the festivities?” he asked in a high-pitched tone, clearly mocking me and, by extension, Nina.

  I rolled my eyes. “Please. We don’t have pajama parties. We have pillow fights. Get it right.”

  “Aww, that’s so adorable. Do you two do face masks together and paint your nails too?”

  “Of course, then we write in our diaries,” I said, laughing. “Anyway, asshole, I’m sure Nina’s up for a night out with the crew, but I’ll ask her.”

  Jake took a beat then dropped the ribbing. “How are the sleepovers with her? That can’t be easy.”

  As I turned on my street, I noodled on his comment briefly. Was I that transparent with my little bout of lust for her? No way. That wasn’t possible. I’d never let on that I’d had a single stray dirty thought about her. I tossed back a question, deflecting. “Why do you say that?”

  “Because you’re you, and she’s her, and you two have that weird mind meld going on half the time we’re all together,” he said, and I breathed a sigh of relief that nothing more was obvious to him.

  “Just good friends. I still have the burn marks on my back from Rose. I’m not interested in anything right now,” I said, telling the truth as I mentioned my ex. I didn’t want to be involved with anyone, and Nina was the kind of girl who didn’t do one-night stands. Plus, I didn’t think Nina and I could ever be compatible in certain other ways. She was a good girl. And I was the type of guy who corrupted good girls.

  “Which means you’re keeping her warm at night with your sweet, charming personality? Got it,” he said, returning to trash talk, like he often did.

  “Sweet?” I asked with a scoff. “Sweet is for candy, and I don’t care for candy. But charming? I’ll take that as a compliment, thank you very much. And I’m spending the night again because the painters aren’t done.”

  “Ah, yes, more proof that you’re into her.”

  “Because I don’t want to inhale fumes while I sleep?”

  “You could have asked to crash at my place,” Jake answered. “But you didn’t. You’re crashing with her.”

  “She’s down the hall, and you’re a mile away,” I said, pointing out the obvious.

  “A mile is not that far, and I’m not personally offended that you didn’t ask. I’m just saying, actions speak louder than words, and yours say you have it bad for your neighbor.”

  But if actions spoke, so did inaction. I’d never pursued anything with Nina, and therefore I was in the clear. “No, my actions say I’m a wise man, choosing to keep my commute exactly the same.”

  “Yes, your commute. Of course.” I could practically hear him roll his eyes.

  “And on that sarcastic note, I definitely look forward to you buying all the drinks this weekend,” I said, then we ended the call when I pulled into the building lot and headed for the elevator, shooting up to the tenth floor as I replied to the painter, letting him know that two more days was fine, but I hoped they’d be done no later. My parents were flying out next week and would be staying in the guest room.

  When I reached Nina’s door, I rapped twice. I didn’t want to barge in on her. Growing up with sisters, you learned to knock on every door every time or else they’d put your head in a sling. I was bigger, taller, and stronger than my two sisters, but that didn’t matter. There was nothing, no death ray, no tractor beam, no master ninja move stronger than the headlock administered by a sister who’d been walked in on.

  But Nina didn’t respond, so I took out the key and unlocked the door.

  “Yoo-hoo. Honey, I’m home,” I joked, calling out when I was inside.

  It had become my regular greeting the last few nights. She’d usually respond with something like “I’m just grabbing the casserole from the oven” or “Let me take my curlers out.”

  But the walls echoed. She wasn’t here.

  She’d probably headed out for a quick errand or to grab an Earl Grey latte at her favorite shop down the street. The woman was addicted.

  I dropped my keys on the entryway t
able, scanning her place, as had become my custom these last few days. It was so her, so feminine but not girly. Pillows in rich royal shades of purple and blue lined her couch, and framed photos of snowfalls, autumn leaves, and sun-drenched beaches hung on the walls. Her photos, since she snapped landscapes when she wasn’t shooting bodies.

  As I surveyed the scene, my eyes landed on a Post-it note on the fridge. Adam, did you know that the heat shield for the Apollo missions could sustain temperatures of up to five thousand degrees Fahrenheit? Can you even imagine how hot that is?

  Smiling, I grabbed the note and folded it up, tucking it into my pocket. I opened the fridge, cracked open a beer, and scrolled through the Whole Foods app to place a dinner order for tonight, adding red, orange, and green peppers, along with carrots and chicken for the stir-fry I’d make.

  As I hit send, my phone dinged with a new voicemail on my messenger app. It was from my buddy Brandon, who worked in Paris now. Ah, he must have snagged the number of a TV writer he’d been trying to track down for me, a hotshot who he thought might be perfect for one of the shows my company was helming.

  I hit play as he rattled off his usual variation on a greeting—“a stunning redhead walking down the street just stopped to give me her number”—yes, his usual greetings were details of his alleged prowess with the French women.

  I laughed because he was so full of shit. Well, he’d never had a problem with the ladies in college, but we both knew he wasn’t trying to get strangers to stop, drop, and get on their knees for him. He was all talk. All facade. It was how he dealt with a past he wasn’t over yet.