The Virgin Game Plan Read online

  “And she’s back?”

  “She is.”

  He whistles appreciatively. “Man, you’ve got a second chance with someone you waited two years for and you’re only on the sort of path with her?”

  I swallow roughly, his bluntness cutting me to the core. “It’s not that simple.”

  “Second chances never are, but if you’ve got one, don’t squander it. Do everything to make it happen,” he says, his tone more intense than his hitting last night. “You don’t always get a second chance. If you get one, don’t let it slip by. Trust me on this.” He shoots me a meaningful stare with his dark eyes, waiting for an answer.

  Maybe I’m not ready to give one. I toss the ball back to him instead. “I’ll take your word for it. After all, a man can hope.”

  “I hope it works out for you.”

  “Me too.”

  I’ve got a ton of hope. Trouble is, I don’t know how to channel it. What to do with it. How to weigh it against everything else.

  The sound of sneakers slapping on the dirt grows louder, and seconds later, Shane returns, clapping Declan on the back, then me. “I don’t just have speed on my fastball. I’ve got it in my feet. I am motherfucking Hermes. I am the winged god.” He thrusts his arms skyward.

  “Glad to see you still have an ego the size of Jupiter, Shakespeare.”

  “No other way to be, mate.”

  That night, Declan’s words hang over me. And Saturday morning too, until I get on a plane that afternoon heading back to San Francisco.

  Before we take off, I think about second chances, about moving on, about what-ifs.

  I replay the day I met her, how our first night was cut short. We made plans, but those were scrubbed too when she moved to South America. Then she came back to the States, and I ran into her again, only to find out who she was. That stopped us, but only for a few days.

  Fate keeps bringing us together.

  Maybe it’s time to let fate take the wheel.

  I text Reese. I don’t have a plan. I don’t know what’s next. But I know this much—it’s not time to move on.

  It’s time to go for it.

  Whatever the hell that entails.

  * * *

  Holden: I’ll be back tonight. Is there any chance I could see you? Because there is nothing I want more.

  27

  Reese

  I lock the front door just as Tia and Wayne walk up the steps. They snap their gazes at me, twin suspicious and intrigued reactions.

  “Hey, girl,” Wayne says, a curious lilt in his voice.

  Tia doesn’t need words. She knows I’m up to something, and she gives me an eyebrow arch. It holds ten thousand questions, but especially these few:

  Where are you going at nine thirty at night?

  Why are you wearing something other than yoga pants and a sweatshirt?

  Specifically, those sexy skinny jeans and the top that slides off your shoulder?

  Also, how about that mascara?

  Tell me everything, especially about that oversized purse on your shoulder that I just know is full of a change of clothes.

  At last, she speaks. “Let me guess. Arms of Steel?”

  I dip my head, hiding almost, like I’m doing something wrong.

  But I talk myself back from that feeling. There’s nothing wrong with seeing Holden. We’re not hurting anyone. I like him. He likes me.

  Except what’s happening between us is so much more than like.

  I lift my chin. “I’m going to see Holden,” I say, as strong and certain as I feel inside.

  She wiggles a brow. “Like I said, everything is about sex.”

  Wayne shoots her a dirty look. “Can we go have some everything, then, babe?”

  She laughs. “Go inside. I’ll see you in a minute.”

  “For everything?”

  “For everything.”

  He pumps his fist, then, like a dutiful boyfriend who’s ready to get what he wants, he walks into the house.

  Once he’s inside, Tia grabs my wrist.

  “Is this when you give me some words of wisdom?” I ask.

  She laughs. “No. I just remember what you said the last time we talked about this.”

  She’s privy to the details, but the limits have changed. “Right. But I told you what Jillian and Adriana said. They’re fine with . . .”

  Well, with whatever this could be, I suppose.

  She sighs softly, squeezing my arm. “They’re fine with it, but are you?”

  I furrow my brow. “With what?”

  She flaps her hand. “With whatever it is?”

  “That’s the thing. I don’t know what it is. We’re trying to figure it out. He asked for time, and I don’t mind giving it to him. I don’t want to pressure him to do something that could blow up in the media.”

  “Of course, of course,” she says hastily. “I get that it’s a delicate situation with your dad and all. I just want to make sure you’re fine with everything.”

  I flash back to the last few nights of conversations with Holden, to the way he makes me feel, and I smile softly. “I’m fine with this. I promise.”

  “Good. And if it starts to feel . . . not fine, I’m here to talk.”

  I bring her in for a hug. “I know,” I say, but I don’t want to think about the not fine possibility.

  I want to forget about the complications just for tonight.

  Even so, my chest twinges briefly with a sliver of guilt, like I’m keeping a secret.

  Though I’m not, so I shake that errant thought away.

  “I’m so good. I swear,” I add, meaning it. “We’ve been talking and texting all week. I told him what happened at work, and he wants to see me. He just asked for time to figure out a plan, and that sounds more than fair.”

  Still, it sounds like I’m defending him.

  From what though? From my friend?

  Tia gives me a small grin. “It does sound reasonable. And I’m not judging you. I’m looking out for you. I know you have real feelings for him.”

  “That’s why I’m going. Because I do have feelings for him.”

  “And he has real feelings for you, so just be aware of that,” she says.

  “But if everything’s about sex, then we shouldn’t have to worry about feelings, should we?” I ask playfully.

  She’s not in the mood for my double-talk. She’s all serious when she says, “Oftentimes sex leads to feelings. It seems that happened to you.”

  In the Lyft on the way over, I noodle on all these species of feelings, the city whipping by as I go.

  But once I reach his home, I’m not thinking much at all.

  I’m tingling.

  I’m buzzing.

  I’m sizzling.

  The second my foot lands on the top step, he swings open the door, eager, waiting for me.

  His green eyes sweep over me from head to toe. He licks his lips, brushes a strand of hair off my shoulder, then loops one strong arm around my waist, yanking me flush against him into the foyer of his home.

  His lips are inches from mine. “Mmm. Missed you so much,” he murmurs, then dips his face to my neck, inhaling me.

  That’s the Holden I know.

  The master of the tease.

  I shudder as he runs his nose along my skin, then as he feathers a barely-there kiss against my throat.

  His voice is husky, commanding. “Get inside. Get inside now.”

  He slams the door shut, and in seconds I drop my bag and we’re kissing. Like there’s nothing else in the world.

  His lips explore mine. He holds my face like it’s been years, like he cherishes touching me. Like he can’t stop kissing me or tasting me.

  And I feel consumed by him.

  I want the consumption.

  I want him more than I’ve wanted anyone.

  This is how chemistry should be—want and heat and desire. Sex should be frenzied and electric.

  That’s how we kiss and touch, endlessly, like it’s been
months since our last kiss rather than days.

  Like it’s been forever and we’re dying for the nourishment of a kiss.

  He moans and sighs and draws me impossibly closer, his hands clasping my face like he doesn’t want to let me go.

  I don’t want to be let go.

  I press and grind against his strong, muscular frame, the friction stoking the fire in me, making me hot, making me want to climb him. I snake a hand between the seal of our bodies, rubbing it across the hard outline of his cock. He groans, all broken and ravaged.

  Our mouths fall apart as a staggered breath falls from his lips.

  As I squeeze his length through his jeans, I grin, wiggle a brow, then whisper, “My turn.”

  “Reese,” he growls, a filthy warning and invitation all at once.

  Then I’m on my knees, unzipping, pushing his jeans down a few inches, along with his briefs, freeing his gorgeous cock.

  His shaft greets me at attention, ready for me. I swirl my tongue over the head, eliciting a carnal, needy growl from my man.

  I’m no pro, no expert at blow jobs, so I don’t try to wow him with a technique I don’t have. What I do have is an overdose of desire and the wish to touch him, taste him, play with him.

  I draw him in more, and he rasps out, “So good.”

  His reaction heats me up, fans the flames of lust tearing through my body. Sliding my tongue over the head, I lap up the liquid drop of arousal, savoring the taste of his desire.

  “That’s so fucking good,” he mutters as his hands thread into my hair. More words of praise come my way. “Your mouth, beautiful. Your mouth is so fucking incredible.”

  Those words ignite me, setting off a chain reaction of sparks all over my skin.

  I pulse between my legs, hot and needy, as he pushes in farther.

  I let him experience more of my mouth as I take him in more than halfway, my hand curled around the base, my other hand sliding between his legs to cup his balls.

  I squeeze them gently.

  “Oh fuck,” he groans, and that seems to send him into a flurry of pleasure because he pumps his hips, coils his hands around my skull, and bites off a string of curse words before he slows his pace for a second. “Was that too much?”

  I drop him from my lips and shake my head. “I can handle you. I want to handle you. I’ve been dreaming about this.”

  His eyes are hooded, darkened with desire.

  He slides a thumb along my jaw, then over my lips. “Show me what’s on your mind. Show me now,” he urges, a plaintive plea. I love the sound of his need, crave it, so I suck his cock back into my throat, hauling him in deeper.

  Not too far, not to choking levels.

  But I find a rhythm that works for this newbie.

  I don’t deep throat him, because I’m sure that takes practice, but I’m sure, too, that I’ll have practice with him.

  Instead, I suck him like I’ve missed him, and that’s the easiest thing in the world to do because it’s all true. It’s all real. And it’s how I feel.

  He pumps slowly into my mouth like he’s taking his time with me, like he did when we first made love. He’s patient, and he listens to my body, my moves. He fucks my mouth like he’s crazy for me. Maybe that’s strange to say about a blow job, but that’s Holden, that’s how he treats me—with tender hands and fierce passion. With genuine adoration and red-hot lust.

  And with all of that as he fucks my face with his cock and my mind with his words.

  You.

  You’re so beautiful.

  Missed you so much.

  Need you so much.

  God, that’s so fucking good.

  And it is good. It’s so good that I’m rocking my hips, groaning against his shaft, soaking my panties.

  I suck hard and another salty drop slides down my throat.

  “Ahhhh,” he murmurs as his dick jerks in my mouth, then he gives a strangled “Fuuuuck.”

  He stops.

  Freezes.

  Curls his hand around my head. “If you do that another second, I’ll come.”

  I let him fall from my mouth, shooting a naughty smile up at him. “That was kind of the point,” I say in a sexy whisper.

  “The point is I need to be inside you, and I need it now.”

  Lust swirls in my veins, and the ache between my legs intensifies.

  An ache he’s going to soothe in seconds.

  He yanks up his jeans, scoops me into his arms, and carries me to his bedroom.

  In seconds, our clothes are off, and he grabs a condom from the nightstand, then pulls me into his lap on the bed. He slides a hand between my legs.

  “Holden,” I murmur as he strokes me, his fingers sliding through the slick heat.

  “You’re so wet,” he says, mesmerized as he rubs.

  “You turn me on so much,” I whisper.

  He grips his cock, slides his hand down his length, then says, “You do the same to me.”

  I tremble, pleasure rushing all over my body as his fingers glide between my legs in sync with his moans, like he’s discovering a new land.

  I arch my back, my hips rolling. “God, please, please fuck me. Please make love to me.”

  “It’s both. It’s absolutely both.” His grin goes crooked as he stops, rolls the condom down his length, then pulls me on top of him, arranging my legs around his hips so I’m sitting in his lap.

  Like lotus lovers.

  He pushes into me.

  “Oh God,” I gasp as I rope my arms tighter around his neck.

  I’m so aroused, so ready, as he fills me in one tantalizing move.

  We’re here.

  Together again.

  His hands travel to my ass, and he tugs me even closer as he goes deep into me.

  We become a blur of breath and limbs and heat, of bodies moving, pressing, tangling together.

  I rock with him, the friction driving me wild.

  His hands are everywhere.

  My hair, my breasts, my hips. Like he can’t settle down, can’t decide which part of me to traverse next.

  But I know where I want him.

  I guide his hand between my legs, where I need him.

  “Touch me,” I whisper.

  “Yes,” he grunts, as his fingers stroke my clit, as his cock drives into me, as our shuddery breaths fill the air.

  He rocks and strokes, and my mind melts.

  My bones liquefy.

  Pleasure tightens inside me, coils, then explodes as I fall to pieces on him, with him, for him.

  Seconds later, he’s growling and grunting and joining me on the other side of bliss.

  We’re quiet for a bit, just panting and breathing, our arms wrapped tight around each other as our bodies seek the sheen of each other’s skin. As we can’t seem to let go.

  He kisses my neck, my shoulders, my throat, worshipping my skin like he’s adoring me after sex.

  And I feel cherished.

  I have no benchmark, no comparison. But I know intrinsically that this is how intimacy should be—trusting, loving, wanting.

  Full of wonder, full of tenderness, he looks at me, his eyes all dreamy. “What am I going to do with you?”

  It’s a valid question. “I could ask the same about you.”

  He strokes my cheek, his green gaze holding mine, his eyes full of passion, but something more.

  It’s not just physical.

  It’s never just been physical between the two of us. Not since the very first day we met.

  “I mean it, Reese. I’m crazy for you.”

  My heart thunders. “It’s just the sex talking,” I joke. Right now, that’s easier than facing the enormity of what’s happening between us.

  He shakes his head. “I don’t think so. It’s not just sex for me. Say it isn’t just sex for you.” He sounds desperate, needy.

  I shiver, a tremble that sparks the possibility of deep and potent joy.

  But that joy is tempered by the fact that we’re here in this apartm
ent, behind closed doors. I’m feeling this thing between us, but I want to give him the time and space to figure out what to do and say. “Yeah,” I say, sounding dopey with happiness. “I’m kind of crazy for you too.”

  He cups my cheeks, presses his forehead to mine. “I’m falling for you.”

  My heart flaps its wings and flies high up into the night sky. “I’m falling for you too.”

  We kiss until his stomach growls.

  I laugh as we break apart. “I guess sex worked up your appetite.”

  “Seems it did.”

  This time, I play après-sex chef. I make him a sandwich and take a few bites too, before we get back in bed.

  I drag a hand down the ladder of his firm abs, my fingers making their way to his happy trail. “Now, let me take my turn all the way.”

  “Like I could ever deny you,” he says in a naughty whisper.

  I finish what I started earlier, taking him in my mouth, savoring the taste, drinking him down.

  After that, he grabs my hips, drags me up his body, and gives me an order. “Now sit on my face and fuck my mouth.”

  I shudder, knowing it won’t take me long, not with those dirty words, not with the commands he gives me as I sit on his face and rock my hips against him, moaning and groaning and obliging.

  I’m all too happy to take my turn too.

  I come again in a rush of pleasure, a burst of ecstasy, and then I collapse next to him.

  He runs his fingers down my arm. “Spend the night,” he says.

  “I’m one step ahead of you. I already packed clothes for tomorrow.”

  “You should pack work clothes for tomorrow night too. And maybe the next one?” he says, his voice pitching up with nerves, his eyes etched with so much hope.

  I have so much hope inside me too.

  I say yes, and my hope is that I’m not a fool for falling for him.

  I see him that next night after his Sunday evening game, curling up together for a hot and dirty session between the sheets.

  Then we watch a little bit of Bull Durham. “Yep, it’s definitely an old movie.” But I tap his nose, and I say, “But you? You have become a master at talking to the press. I’ve seen your post-game comments on the local station.”

  His eyes go wide, eager for my verdict. “And?”