Page 41 of The Virgin Rule Book (Rules of Love 1)
“Me too.” Gently, I run my fingers along a soft curl of her hair. “But know this—I’d love nothing more than to play hooky, unzip your dress, strip you down to nothing, and kiss every inch of your naked body.” I meet her gaze again, locking eyes with her so she can see in mine how much I want her. Reaching for her wrist, I run my thumb over it and feel her shudder under my touch. “I’d love nothing more than to kiss you, touch you, fuck you.”
She shivers, her eyes fluttering closed for a second. “I want that too,” she whispers, and I don’t know how I’m going to make it through the next few hours.
“We better go,” I growl. “Or I’m going to take you right now.”
“Can’t have that,” she says, sexy and teasing.
Somehow we separate for real this time.
No touching.
She grabs her purse, lifting a brow as she checks its contents. “I don’t need my Leatherman, but I do need these two necessities.” She takes out a tissue to wipe away her smeared gloss, then leans into me and dabs my lips too, a delighted grin on her gorgeous face. “There. Now you don’t quite look like you were kissed six ways to Sunday.”
“But I was. I definitely was.”
She tosses the tissue into the trash can, snags her lipstick, and reapplies it.
I raise a hand. “Um, back up a sec though. Leatherman?”
“Every woman should carry one. How else would I remove a porcupine quill if I’m out hiking?”
“There you go.”
She snags her keys and drops them into her purse. “Let me grab a wrap.”
I grin. “Let me.”
She shoots me a curious look as I reach behind her for the small shopping bag.
“I ditched the corsage. Tonight isn’t the prom. It’s a gala, and this seemed more fitting.” I hand her the bag, anticipation skating over my skin, along with the hope that she’ll like it.
Pulling out the tissue paper, she dips her hand inside and tugs a length of wine-colored fabric from the bag. “It’s one of those wrap thingamajigs,” I say. It comes out gravelly and a little awkward.
A smile lights up her face. “You can just call it a wrap,” she says, then runs her hand over the soft fabric. “It’s silky and gorgeous.”
My heart thumps at the compliment. “Glad you like it.”
She tosses it around her shoulders and hugs it across her breasts. I breathe out hard, groaning my appreciation for how goddamn good she looks in everything—especially in something I got her.
“Gorgeous. Like you.”
“Thank you,” she says, all whispery and sexy, and I am dying with desire for her.
We step out into the hall, and she shuts the door behind us. In the elevator, she turns to me, her expression pensive but determined.
She steps closer, fiddles with my tie, then meets my eyes. “Before we do any of those things you said, there’s something I want you to know.”
16
Nadia
Funny, I don’t normally tell a guy the status of my V card on a second date.
Not on a third or fourth date either.
For the longest time, I thought my virginity was a whispery secret, a closely guarded little nugget of privacy. Right now, right here, I’m seeing it for what it is—not a secret, but a fact.
Having sex or not having sex says nothing about who I am, what I want as a woman, or what I want in bed.
I flash back to my choices with other men.
By the time I was ready to have sex, the men I dated were uninspiring. In college, I never dated anyone long enough to want to give him the keys. Then, in my master’s program, I liked a guy well enough, but when my pants were off for the first time, he groped me like I was a Thanksgiving turkey.
Kind of a turnoff.
I didn’t want any more with him or the others.
So I never told them I was a virgin.
No one has earned need-to-know status yet, because I’ve never met anyone I wanted to sleep with.
Until now.
I want the man standing across from me in a tux.
My friend.
My friend with benefits.
My brother’s best friend.
I want him, unequivocally, passionately, and so damned soon.
This awareness dawns on me all at once, like the lights turned on in a house that’s been dark.
Switch.
Every room illuminated.
And I know beyond a shadow of a doubt that I want to have sex with him.
And so, I’m not confessing my virginity. I’m sharing it.
As the elevator doors whisk shut, I meet Crosby’s gaze. “So, everything you just said to me—take me, have me, have sex with me?”
His eyes widen, sparkling with the desire I’ve seen in him since he showed up at my door tonight. “Yes?” His voice is full of anticipation.
I draw a breath but find it’s remarkably easy to tell him. Maybe because we’ve known each other for years, or because we’re friends.
