Page 15 of The Virgin Game Plan (Rules of Love 2)
I’ve dated here and there, but nothing that made me want a whole lot more. I haven’t been a monk, nor have I indulged in notching names on my bedpost.
Something about Reese feels right though.
Like maybe we could see each other again.
Like maybe the whole long-distance thing isn’t a terrible idea.
Maybe with her, I could make a new plan.
I slide out of the booth, move over to her side, and scoot in next to her. Wrapping an arm around her, I run my hand over her shoulder. Playing with the strands of her hair, I whisper, “Good. Because I don’t want to go.”
She shudders, her hand sliding up the front of my shirt. Her nimble touch heats my skin, and her voice turns me on as she says, “Good.” Locking her eyes with mine, she draws a breath, like she needs it for courage. “Holden?”
My name on her lips seems to hold a myriad of questions in it, but also an answer.
“Yes?” I ask, waiting, patiently waiting for whatever comes next.
“I want you,” she says, and something about the way those words come out—fresh, vulnerable—makes me think it’s the first time she’s spoken them to a man.
My God, they sound so enticing.
So tempting.
I’m a goner for her. “Reese,” I begin, laying it on the line. “I don’t do hookups.”
“Oh,” she says, as if the floor dropped out from under her. “I’m—”
I press a finger to her lips. “Let me finish.”
“Okay.”
I slide my fingers through her hair. “What I’m saying is I don’t do hookups because I don’t want one-time things. And that means I want to see you again. Beyond tonight.”
She looks like I’ve just said I want to travel to Mars.
On a space horse.
“You . . . do?”
“I do,” I say, getting fully in the saddle. “I think you’re fantastic. And maybe this sounds crazy. Maybe it sounds too soon, but I don’t care. I know what I want. I’d love to see you again. That’s not a line. It’s the God’s honest truth. You’re going to be working in San Francisco. I play in San Francisco a couple of times a year. And Los Angeles isn’t that far away,” I say, even though I’m only there during the season. “I’d love to see you again. Would you like to go out with me another time?”
She looks like she’s about to rocket to the moon. “Yes. I want that. Yes. Absolutely. And yes.”
I laugh softly. “You answered in threes.”
“Just like you said yes in threes in your email.”
“What can I say? I was eager.”
She wiggles a brow. “Same here. For me. Right now.”
I grin, then press my forehead to hers. “I want to kiss you again tonight. And we can take it slow. No pressure,” I say. I don’t want her to think I’m handing her a line. “I’m not trying to get you into bed tonight by saying that. I swear I’m good with just kissing these gorgeous lips.”
Her mouth curves into the most tantalizing smile ever. She’s all Cheshire Cat for a few seconds, then coy and flirty. Mischief dances in her eyes. “But what if I want to get you into my bed?”
A jolt of pleasure slides down my spine, making my pulse surge.
That whole thing about not doing hookups?
It just flew out the window.
But this is not a hookup—this is the start of something.
“My roommates aren’t home tonight,” she says. “It’s just me.”
I pay the bill, guide her out of the diner, and set a hand on her back as I walk her back to her place.
I don’t stand a chance at resisting Reese Fallon.
I follow her up the steps to her third-floor apartment, savoring the view with each step.
Her ass is spectacular. Round, firm, and incredibly squeezable. Highly spankable.
I could stare at her ass for ten flights, twenty, make it one hundred.
But then, I need to devote ample attention to those legs too. Lean, strong, and so long. I bet they’d look terrific wrapped around my face.
Wait. Can’t forget her hair—all those blonde waves. I’ll be tugging, stroking, getting that hair all messed up.
She flicks her gaze back to me. “I don’t do hookups either,” she says, lifting her chin, her voice firm as she returns to the topic from dinner. “I should have said something at the diner, but I was sort of in shock.”
“Glad to hear this isn’t the norm for you.”
“It’s the opposite of the norm,” she says when we reach the landing. Fishing around in her purse, she grabs her keys, opens the door, then shuts it behind us, spinning around to meet my eyes. “Tell me something, Holden.”
“Something,” I answer playfully, stepping into her home. It’s small but cozy, with pillows everywhere.
With a laugh, she tugs at my shirt, jerking me closer. “How are you not a hookup guy?”
“Does that mean you think all athletes have hookups?”
