Page 56 of The Virgin Game Plan (Rules of Love 2)
“One to . . . Give me more of that good shit right fucking now,” he says as he turns down the heat on the pan.
“That.” I point, indicating the latter. “That’s how I rate it; that’s what I want. Well, after I eat, of course.”
He winks. “Good answer,” he says, adding some soy sauce then plating the food and setting it on the table.
He grabs forks and cloth napkins, then pulls out my chair.
“Such a gentleman,” I say.
“Except in bed,” he whispers, all low and smoky, sending a shiver down my spine.
“And I like that you’re not entirely a gentleman in bed.” I pick up my fork and dig in. I moan around the first bite like a Food Network host. “You have won the favor of my belly.”
He wiggles a brow. “So, I’m in the good graces of your pussy and your belly. Nice to know.”
I crack up. “Yes, Holden. You have won over my vagina. Aren’t you pleased?”
“As fucking punch,” he says in a sexy rumble. “But the stomach too?” He blows on his nails. “Damn, I’m good.” He takes another bite of the lunch.
“You are very, very good,” I say slowly, seductively, so the compliment sinks in.
When he’s done chewing, he leans closer, kisses my cheek, then whispers, “Thank you.”
My chest flips. “For what?”
He pulls back, sitting up straight. “Just thank you.”
I smile, dipping my head, knowing what he means. He’s thanking me for giving him the keys to my body for the first time.
Hell, I’m thanking me too.
I chose well.
Yay, me. “Let me get this straight,” I begin, loving this moment, the après sex where we can flirt and tease as if the world doesn’t exist beyond this home. “You can cook. You like your parents. You’re smart. You play word games. You’re a hard worker. And you don’t do hookups. What exactly is wrong with you?”
Of course, I know the answer—nothing. But there’s something wrong with the situation, the thing that’s hanging over our heads.
The salacious tabloid fodder we’d be.
The sheer juiciness of us is a problem for a man trying to carve out a new golden boy rep with the press. A few words here or there on social media, a spin to the left by the press, a spin to the right by the public, and we’d be the golden boy Home Run Hitter and the sweet-as-apple-pie Coach’s Daughter one day. But the next day Twitter would chew us up and spit us out with memes about Holden nailing his spot in the lineup by nailing me.
We’d be trashed.
Ugh.
Perception.
It’s a wonderful thing, and a terrible thing,
Your star can either shoot to the stratosphere or dim out based on how the public sees you on any given day. I love and hate the world I work in, but I understand it, and so this tryst between us exists in a mini vacation, a contained moment in time. When this afternoon ends, he’ll head to the ballpark, ending the spell.
But right now, behind closed doors, we’re in a cocoon of food and sex and laughter.
“You forgot on your list of pros that I’m good in bed,” he points out.
“But are you? I don’t have any benchmark,” I tease.
He narrows his eyes, his voice dipping deeper. “And I like it that way.”
“You’re a little possessive.”
“Yes. I like being your first. Call me primal. Call me possessive. Call me whatever you want. I just like it.”
“And I like it too,” I say.
After we finish eating, I help clean up, and then he tugs at the bottom of the shirt I’m wearing. “Don’t go,” he says, his tone vulnerable and commanding at the same time.
My heart pirouettes, delighted that his appetite for me is ravenous. “I do have to interview you for the podcast follow-up,” I say playfully, though I know that’s not why he wants me to stay.
“Yes, interview me, and then still don’t go.”
I laugh, feeling light and happy inside.
“Spend the rest of the day with me. Tell me you don’t have to go,” he implores.
I wrap my arms around his neck. “I don’t have to go.”
He loops his around my waist, yanks me close, and meets my eyes. “Good, because I want to fuck you, and make love to you, and spend the day with you.”
Gooseflesh rises on my skin. “You don’t have to sell me on it. With you, I’m sold,” I whisper.
A kiss is his answer.
A kiss that makes my knees wobble.
The kind of kiss I want over and over.
We break it and head to the living room, settling into the couch. Grabbing my recorder from my purse, I do a quick follow-up interview for my podcast.
It’s brief, under ten minutes, and we touch on what he’s been up to since the last time he was on my show.
I’m open and forthright, and he’s the same, a marked contrast for the “no comment” king.
