Page 25 of The Virgin Rule Book (Rules of Love 1)
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.
