Page 24 of The Virgin Rule Book (Rules of Love 1)
His eyes widen as my hand travels lower, then lower still.
Oh, thank you, champagne.
I’m feeling floaty indeed.
His eyes darken, a flicker of desire in them, chased with that teasing glint. “Nadia, are you checking out my butt transplant?” he asks, but he doesn’t sound like he’s busting me.
More like he’s . . . inviting me.
Still, heat flushes across my cheeks. I tug my hand away, raising it again to curl over his shoulder. “Sorry. I’m so sorry. It was sort of an accidental squeeze, powered by champagne and dancing,” I say, tripping over my apology.
Ugh, that’s a lie.
I hate lying.
It was not accidental.
It was deliberate and deliberately sneaky.
His voice dips low, a rough whisper just for me. “Was it? Accidental?”
His sexy tone sends a flare of sparks through my chest. A shiver that makes my whole body tingle.
“Or maybe it was . . . curiosity?” I posit, a little breathy.
“By all means, indulge your curiosity,” he murmurs.
My breathing quickens, rushing from my lungs in an unexpected burst that sends prickles of heat along my skin.
“This isn’t my normal MO,” I whisper, coming close, but not too close, to my virginity confession. Crosby doesn’t know I’ve never had sex. I don’t blast that little fact on a billboard. But the least I can do is let him know that I’m not a regular butt squeezer. “Just wanted you to know that. I don’t go around accidentally squeezing butts. Or deliberately.”
He takes a moment, licking the corner of his lips. “All the more reason to check it out. Deliberately,” he says, so warm and sexy on that last word.
Sneaking a glance behind me to confirm the rest of the guests are caught up in their own world, I snake my hand down to his butt once more.
Cover his firm cheek with my hand.
My insides handspring. My pulse spikes.
His butt feels fantastic.
I squeeze it harder, murmuring my appreciation.
He rumbles his in return, a low growl in his throat that lights me up. “Yeah, it’s better when it’s not accidental,” he says.
“I have to agree,” I say, unsure how I’m forming words right now.
Unsure, too, what happens next.
Because the mood has shifted once again.
But when the music switches to Ella Fitzgerald and a love song so swoony you have to sway with your lover, we separate.
Untangling quickly.
“Drink?” I ask, my voice feathery, uncertain. “After all, I need the rest of the dance-your-ass-off tale.”
“Let’s do it.”
We make our way to a bar in the other corner of the room, away from most of the festivities, and order two more champagnes.
After the bartender serves us, we raise our glasses to toast. “To my wedding buddy,” I say.
He smiles back. “And to mine.”
We clink, and I feel mildly recalibrated.
Only mildly.
“So, Alabama the fortune-teller was a bit of an exhibitionist,” he says, returning to the tale. “And when we were dancing, ‘Girls Just Want to Have Fun’ came on. She decided to take off all her clothes, right down to her red thong underwear.”
My jaw drops. “Are you serious?”
“One hundred percent.”
“I guess she did want to have fun.”
“When I gave her my shirt to cover her up, that’s right when the cops came into the club, and they thought I was involved in her striptease.”
I wince, a little nervous. “How did you get out of it?”
“My teammates.”
My brow furrows. “They were with you?”
“Nope. But like most ballplayers, I have plenty of teammates who are Latino and speak Spanish. So I made it my mission over the last few years to learn the language. I talk to Juan, one of my starting pitchers in Spanish all the time. So when I was in Mexico, I gave my best effort in talking to the police, and I think they appreciated that. One of them said I should find a nice girl, not a crazy one.”
“And what happened to the crazy one?”
He makes a whooshing sound, his arm dipping in the universal sign for an airplane flying. “I flew her home that night. Literally got on the next plane with her, and then I caught a flight to Anchorage. I went whale watching the rest of our vacation. Solo.”
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.
