The Virgin Rule Book (Rules of Love #1) - Lauren Blakely Page 0,40

Knocking it down? Sending this banter into officially naughty terrain?

I squirm, my body hot, my center pulsing.

Yes. Yes, I am doing this.

I type out my greatest wish right now. I feel daring and bold as I write it, no matter how risky this might be. We’ve sped up to sixty miles per hour in the span of one hot picture of my feet in heels.

But maybe that was all we needed, a match to our kindling.

Nadia: I’m wanting you to kiss me all over.

Crosby: Fuck, Nadia. I’d love to. You’re going to look so damn good in those shoes. And I bet you taste so good everywhere. Every inch of you.

I wave a hand in front of my face, as if that will lower my temperature. But my skin is flushed, hot with lust and need. I’m dangerously wet and wickedly turned on.

There’s only one solution.

Nadia: On that note, I need a moment. Be right back.

Letting go of the phone, I slide down my panties, kicking them to the floor. Opening the nightstand drawer, I grab my most favorite rabbit. Turning it on, I lift up my knees, then let them fall apart as I close my eyes.

The rabbit’s ears buzz, tantalizing my wet clit.

A gasp falls from my lips, hungry and wild.

I glide the rabbit’s head through my hot center. It moves easily. I’m that slick, that aroused.

That ready for Crosby.

My skin tingles all over, cells bursting with electricity, sparking with pleasure as I rub.

My legs part farther, and I hike up the speed, seeking friction, sweet friction, as I chase relief. I breathe harder, rocking my hips, abandoning myself to the feelings igniting in me.

To the tendrils of desire curling in my toes, coiling in my stomach, pulsing in my aching center.

As I imagine Crosby.

His face. His mouth. His lips. I breathe his name on a harsh pant.

“Crosby.”

Then I say it again, loving how it feels on my tongue in the heat of the moment, what it does to my body, the way it makes me ravenous with lust everywhere. How I’m hot with the prospect of bliss. I punch up my hips, pushing the rabbit into me.

I moan, letting my legs fall open wider as the silicone shaft sinks deeper and I imagine it’s Crosby.

Pushing, sinking, thrusting, until he fills me all the way and I gasp.

Crosby.

Oh God.

Please.

Yes. More.

Like that, fucking myself with the rabbit, its ears wildly caressing my clit at rocket speed, I moan and groan. I writhe and melt.

I picture. I imagine.

My mind plays dirty image after dirtier image, switching ruthlessly between him licking me, eating me, then fucking me.

The thing I’ve never had. The thing I want desperately now.

Sex, gorgeous, beautiful, hot, hard sex.

I want him inside me.

Taking me, having me, fucking me.

I detonate, coming hard and fierce as I call out his name.

It sounds so incredibly right. I picture him leaning over me, braced on strong arms, dipping his head, brushing a soft, gentle kiss to my lips.

Telling me how incredible that was for him too.

All of that. I want all of that. I want more than plus-oneing with the best man.

After the rabbit’s gone back into its burrow, I pick up my phone. Read a new message.

Crosby: What kind of moment did you need? Everything okay? Did I cross a line?

I reply, as more than a friend.

Nadia: I needed a moment . . . to cross all sorts of lines myself.

Crosby: Are you saying what I think you’re saying?

Nadia: I’m saying I’m feeling very satisfied right now.

Crosby: And I bet that was not an accident at all.

Nadia: It was very deliberate satisfaction.

15

Crosby

After a gallons-of-sweat-inducing StairMaster workout, some pretzel-like stretching worthy of a YouTube yogini, and a punishing session with my personal trainer at the gym—because sessions with personal trainers should always be punishing—a quick glance at the clock tells me I’m seven hours away from seeing Nadia.

I grab my water bottle and zip up my hoodie, tipping my chin to one of my workout partners. Juan, a pitcher on my team. He’s tearing up the treadmill. He yanks an AirPod from his ear.

“You almost done?”

“Do I look like I’m almost done?” he fires back, breathing hard, attacking the machine with ferocity.

“Looks like you’re taking a walk in the park.”

He laughs, then flips me the bird. “Fuck off.”

“Fuck off to you too.”

“Hey! You want to babysit again?”

“Anytime. You let me know.”

“Thanks, man.”

I turn to Holden. “Over and out for you?” I ask as he tugs on his LA Bandits sweatshirt, his former