The Virgin Rule Book (Rules of Love 1) Page 8

  My smile spreads to my cheeks. “I can picture that perfectly. I bet you loved it.”

  “It was so peaceful. Very zen and, I am not afraid to admit, quite emotional,” he says. “Watching the whales surfacing out there on the water. Seeing glaciers calve. Being in the midst of all that wilderness. It was everything I needed.”

  As we drink our champagne, he dives into his other tales of woe, rattling off a story about a woman who tried to steal his World Series ring, then another who attempted to make off with his Tesla one night, only to forget to charge it, so she ran out of power on the Golden Gate Bridge.

  I giggle as he entertains me with his stories.

  Then I school my expression. “Level with me, Crosby. Do you think you’re attracted to thieves?”

  His eyes turn intensely serious. “The evidence would indeed seem to suggest as much. As well as trouble. My cousin Rachel set me up with the last woman I went out with, and she still feels horrible about it. Not her fault, and Rachel’s a sweetheart who likes to keep herself busy, since she has a jerk of an ex and I swear she tries to make up for it by setting up others. Sometimes, though, she doesn’t make the best matches,” he says as I take the last sip of my drink. “Considering the last woman she set me up with tried to sell my dick pic.”

  The bubbles tickle my nose. They make me cough. But maybe they also go to my head, because rather than laughing, the next words that come out of my mouth surprise me.

  “Can I see it?”

  10

  Crosby

  That was not what I expected to hear from Nadia.

  Not at all.

  She’s surprising me in all sorts of ways tonight, but then again, maybe I shouldn’t be surprised, because she’s always been bold.

  But about this? About squeezing my ass and seeing my cock?

  This is brand-new terrain, and fine, it’s not friendship territory, but I can’t resist trekking across it. Achilles’ heel, here I go.

  She is it tonight.

  She’s my weakness, and I take another hit.

  “The pic,” I say, taking my time, slow and easy, letting my meaning register. “Or my dick?”

  With cheeks flushed, she purses her lips, looking right, then looking left. She whispers, her voice edging up in a question, “Both?”

  Holy fuck.

  She meant it, it seems.

  My throat goes dry. My skin sparks. And my mind is all kinds of intrigued with this woman. “Are you serious?” I ask, because I need to know if we’re playing jokes, or if we’re playing with fire.

  She swallows, like she’s gulping, then she blinks and breathes out hard. “I shouldn’t have asked that. That’s crazy. I should not have asked that.”

  “I’m not offended,” I say, reaching out and touching her arm just to emphasize my point. “Not one bit.”

  She lets out a sigh of relief. “I’m not the kind of woman who asks to see that. I swear. Honestly, I don’t even think I like those pics.”

  I can’t resist that tidbit either. “But do you like dicks?”

  “Didn’t I already tell you that? Now stop embarrassing me even more,” she says, with a playful stomp of her foot.

  “You’re truly embarrassed?” I ask softly.

  “You’re a friend, and I asked for that, and I shouldn’t have.” She waves her hand in the air. “Please just pretend I didn’t do that. It was the champagne talking.”

  But can I actually pretend that she didn’t say that?

  Didn’t seem like just an offhand comment. Or a joke. Seemed like there was a part of her that wanted to see the pic.

  And I would have shown her the shot that I paid good money to keep out of the papers.

  What the hell is that about?

  Am I some kind of dick-swinging pervert?

  Why the fuck would I show Nadia a picture of my cock when I am clearly in time-out? Why would I show her at any time, for that matter?

  But an answer flickers before my eyes. I like the idea of sharing that kind of naughtiness with her. I like the idea that she wanted to see the pic.

  In fact, I’m pretty sure—wait for it—I like her.

  And because I do, I want to smooth the landing for her, lest she berate herself more. I lean on our favorite word of the night. “If it makes you feel better, I could just accidentally show you the dick pic.”

  Rolling her eyes, she laughs, some of her embarrassment seeming to slink away. “Thanks. Story of the night—accidental butt squeeze, accidental . . . eggplant pic.”

  My brain takes a two-second delay to connect the dots, and when I do, I give her a c’mon look. “You don’t say ‘dick’?”

  She flutters her lashes ever so innocently. “Maybe I don’t. Maybe I do.”

  “Maybe I’ll find out. Accidentally. Now, about that eggplant . . .”

  I grab my phone from my pocket.

  “Crosby,” she says, her tone worried.

  But this ought to assuage her embarrassment. I unlock my phone, slide my thumb across the screen, and wiggle a brow, like I’m up to something terribly naughty.

  And I kind of am.

  I hunt for the perfect shot as she protests, “Crosby, I swear, I was just having—”

  I brandish the screen at her.

  She flinches.

  Steps back.

  Then a chuckle burst from her lips. “Sam Spade. That’s brilliant.”

  “He’s a private dick,” I say, turning the phone back to check out the picture of the private dick that Humphrey Bogart played in The Maltese Falcon.

  “You are the best,” she says, then moves in for a hug.

  With my phone in one hand, I wrap my arms around her, enjoying the feel of her in my embrace.

  I steal one final inhale of her neck, then let go, and as I do, my boutonniere grazes the strap of her dress, threatening to grab hold of it.

  That won’t do.

  I curl my hand over her shoulder. “Hold still. Let me make sure my boutonniere doesn’t cause a nip slip,” I say, carefully releasing the pin from the slim blue strap.

  She breathes a sigh of relief as I detach my accessory from her strap.

  “My nipples and I thank you,” she says as we pull apart. She waggles her arm, showing off the corsage. “This made the outfit, right?”

  “No doubt. The corsage is a winner.”

  “And your boutonniere is fire,” she says. “Even if it tried to mate with my dress.”

  “Smart boutonniere.” I fiddle with it. “It is pretty spiffy, and it’s holding up well. I might even be able to use it again at the Sports Network Awards this week.”

  “You didn’t tell me you were going to that. I have to present an award there.”

  A smile takes over my face. A plan takes over my mind. “What do you know? So do I,” I say, and the gears click. “Are you soloing it?”

  “Stag all the way.”

  I wiggle an eyebrow. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

  She glances around the reception, like she’s scanning for options, then she taps her chin. “I could take Brooke, or her daughter, or my mom, or your mom. Is that what you had in mind?”

  Laughing, I shake my head. “We can put our corsage and boutonniere to good use. Buddy up again?”

  Her grin is electric. “We’re awesome at it. Let’s make it a doubleheader.”

  I hum appreciatively. “I love when you use baseball analogies. And yes, I’m thinking you and I pair up again before I have to go to spring training,” I say, just to make it clear what I have in mind. “We can be, like, each other’s event dates.”

  “Sort of like escorts for various functions?”

  I can’t resist that. “Do you want the full package of escort services?” I ask, low and dirty.

  She nibbles on the corner of her lips, adopting a saucy smile. “Depends on the fee.” Then she turns businesslike. “But while you’re offering, and since you’re off the market, want to be my plus-one at a charity event next weekend? I have a golf t
hing I’m attending.”

  I make a purring sound. “Mmm. Golf. Every pro athlete’s addiction. Yes, please.”

  “We’ll plus-one each other.”

  “We have to, especially since Hollywood is making our rom-com—Plus-Oneing with the Best Man.”

  “And I’m glad the best man will be my plus-one,” she says.

  My chest warms and my mind buzzes at the prospect of another event with her.

  Another plus-one.

  It’s both a terrific opportunity and a bit of a conundrum.

  I spend the rest of the wedding trying to figure out what to do with the fact that I like my buddy’s sister.

  As the night winds down, Eric pulls me aside, clapping my shoulder. “Don’t forget I have eyes everywhere. Just because I’ll be in the Maldives doesn’t mean I won’t be watching you. And you asked me to,” he says, stern, like he was in the tux shop.

  I did ask him. I do know what’s good for me. And hey, nothing has happened. So I’m still on the wagon.

  “And I was already interrogated by your henchmen,” I say.

  “Good. They’ll be keeping their eyes on you while I’m gone,” he says, then tips his head to Holden and Grant, who are drinking beers at the bar. Holden is chatting with a woman in a peach dress, Grant with a bearded dude.

  “Yeah, they look super focused on their mission to keep me in line,” I tease.

  “They’re focused enough. Nine more days till spring training. You can do it. And then you’ll behave during spring training because you’ll be busy all the time.”

  “I’ve so got this. And you go on your honeymoon. Worship your wife. Fuck your brains out. Drink piña coladas. I will be fine,” I tell him, and it feels mostly true.

  Until I get in the elevator alone with Nadia at the end of the evening.

  11

  Nadia

  I’m not into dick pics.

  That’s not because I’m a prude. And it’s not because I still carry my V card. It’s because when I watch porn—and I do watch it, thank you very much, incognito mode—I’m not simply interested in the dick.

  I want to know what the man does with it. How it makes the woman feel. But also how she appears to feel when he’s doing other things for her. Going down on her, kissing her breasts, worshipping her body.

  So why does my brain keep planting images of what Crosby’s dick might look like?

  Not helpful.

  As in it’s not helpful to staying plus-one-ers.

  Especially since he’s on a dating diet.

  Maybe I need to reassure him that I’m not some kind of perv who’s dying for him to whip out his schlong for the camera.

  That I’m his friend. That I support his anti-dating quest.

  As the elevator shoots us up to my floor, since I booked a room for the night, I set my hand on his arm. “I just want you to know, as we embark on plus-oneing with the best man, that I will behave like your friend as we planned. There will be no deliberate or even accidental taking of dick pics, and no deliberate or even accidental asking for them. And I would never attempt to sell them.”

  He wipes a hand across his forehead in a whew gesture.

  “Because I live by the belief that friends shouldn’t ask friends for dick pics. And they shouldn’t take them either,” I say, raising my finger to make a point.

  He laughs. “I do believe I’ve seen that on a bumper sticker somewhere. Along with Friends don’t ask friends to bang and Friends don’t ask friends for boob shots,” he says as the elevator stops at my floor. We step out, and as we walk down the hall, he drapes an arm around me, pals-style. “Also, told you I’d find out if you said ‘dick.’ I’m pretty confident I can get you to say ‘fuck’ now.”

  I fling my hand across my mouth, Bette-Boop-style, playing it up. “Oops! Did I say . . .” I take my time, making him wait for it, before I finish with “Dick?”

  He licks his lips and growls sexily. “Better than ‘eggplant.’ Soon you’ll be saying ‘cock.’”

  I have nothing against cock.

  Hell, I have nothing at all against cocks.

  Someday I’d like to enjoy a cock against me.

  But since I don’t say those words in the boardroom, and since I haven’t had the chance to say them in the bedroom, how it feels on my tongue is truly virgin territory.

  “You never know,” I say with a flirty shrug. “For now, be happy I said ‘dick,’ since it’s way better than ‘wiener pic.’”

  “How about ‘shaft shot’?”

  “Oh, that’s good. But what about . . . ‘member pic’?”

  He taps his chin, murmuring his approval. “I like that because it’s so euphemistic, the perfect amount of innuendo.”

  “‘Member pic’ it is,” I declare, banging an imaginary gavel.

  “You can accidentally ask me to show you a member pic anytime,” he says with a laugh, then the laughter fades as I dip my hand into my clutch purse, fishing out the key card when we reach my door.

  He meets my gaze. His irises are rich with possibilities. “You know, if this were Plus-Oneing with the Best Man, this would be the scene where he accidentally shows her a member pic, they double over in laughter, she stumbles forward, and he catches her,” he says.

  The movie reel of that moment unspools before my eyes.

  And I like it.

  I like it a lot.

  Heat flares through me, a match striking. “I wonder what that would look like. The stumbling part.”

  “And the catching part,” he adds.

  “And whatever comes next,” I say in a softer voice.

  Like we’re both tempting fate.

  Testing possibilities.

  “In a plus-one situation, it’s important to know those things,” he says, his voice husky, a bare scrape of want and wishes.

  “I’d definitely like to know,” I say, taking my time with each word.

  His blue eyes blaze. The vein in his neck pulses. His lips part, and he stares hungrily at mine. “I imagine after she stumbles, there’s an accidental kiss.”

  Those words.

  Accidental kiss.

  They ignite a riot in my chest. They send flurries of sparks across my skin. They light up my insides.

  My heart beats like a wild drum. “I wonder what that looks like.”

  He lifts a brow, his voice all smoky. “Or feels like.”

  “A lot like a real kiss?” I ask, my stomach flipping.

  There’s a charge between us. Ions and atoms are self-replicating, multiplying at an exponential rate, and that electricity tugs me closer to him. “But maybe we should just test it out to be sure. After all, we tested the accidental butt squeeze,” I say.

  For a few seconds, I wonder who this bold woman is inside me. Who this woman is who’s trying to have a kiss with this man. Is it the champagne? Is it him? Is it me? And most of all, will I regret this in the morning? But I don’t regret the dancing, I don’t regret the talking, and I definitely don’t regret the butt squeeze. That was not at all accidental, but totally deliberate.

  And because I don’t really believe in accidents—I believe in doing things on purpose—I decide to do just that.

  If we’ve made it through this night so far as buddies who flirt, as buddies who squeeze, as buddies who tease and toy, then surely we can weather a kiss.

  Taking a step, I pretend to stumble.

  Crosby catches me, steadying me. He runs his hands down my arms, brushes my hair off my shoulder, and then presses the sexiest, most tender kiss to the hollow of my throat, murmuring, “You smell so good. All night long. You’ve been in my senses.”

  My eyes float closed, and my body screams, Touch me.

  I whisper, “You’re definitely in mine.”

  His lips travel softly along my neck, closer to my jaw, brushing there and making me shiver. He cups my cheek. “This is what an accidental kiss looks like in the movies,” he says.

  Then he sweeps his lips across mine.

  I m
elt.

  We’re talking tingles everywhere.

  Along my arms, down my chest, between my legs.

  Tingles of desire and longing as he kisses me in a kiss to end all kisses.

  It’s a kiss that lights up the sky. A kiss that makes you want to write down every detail, record every second, imprint it on your mind for all posterity, so you can recall later on what it felt like to be kissed like this.

  It feels like how kissing was meant to be.

  A delicious, decadent good-night kiss.

  His lips brush mine gently at first, a whisper of a kiss. His breath is soft, a needy exhale, like he’s wanted this all night.

  And my God, so have I.

  I’ve been craving it while denying it, but I don’t want to deny anything now.

  Not the tender sweep of his lips, not the delicious exploration, not the way he flicks his tongue across the corner of my mouth.

  Mmm, that tantalizing moment sends a wild thrill through my cells.

  We linger in the kiss, lips and mouths taking their time, getting to know each other. Savoring every lush second.

  His lips are magic.

  They make my body perform all sorts of tricks, like the disappearing act of my willpower.

  It’s vanished, gone like a rabbit in a hat.

  And I don’t care.

  This kiss spreads from the center of my chest to the tips of my fingers. It lights me up from head to toe.

  It makes me want him desperately.

  Then want him even more when he kisses me deeply.

  Hungrily.

  Giving me exactly the type of kiss we needed to try out tonight. Like he knows this is the only kind of kiss we ought to have.

  A promise.

  But it’s more than a promise. This cracks open a whole new world of possibility.

  And it ends before we let it go too far.

  For that, I’m grateful too.

  He runs his hand down my arm, giving me a dopey smile. “Just so you know, I like accidental kisses even better than accidental butt squeezes.”