The Virgin Rule Book (Rules of Love #1) - Lauren Blakely Page 0,48

you even more.”

“Funny how that works. I want you too.”

I swipe her hair away from her face, helping to straighten it. “Question for you though. You said ‘never’ when I was touching you. Have you never come like that before?”

She grins, then gives an impish little shrug. “Others have tried. Others have failed. This was another first.”

Pride suffuses me. But it’s more than pride.

It’s something else entirely.

Delight?

No.

Happiness?

That seems too obvious.

Maybe I’m simply happy to give this woman so many firsts.

She deserves them, yes. But I love, too, that she’s experiencing them with me.

She finds some mouthwash in the limo—props to the driver for being well stocked—and we straighten up thoroughly then step out of the limo, put together once more.

On the street, she eyes me up and down. “Looking good, twenty-two. No one would suspect we’ve been up to anything.”

“Exactly. Just that we’ve been following all the rules.”

She chuckles like we have a private joke, and we do. “We have definitely been following our rules,” she whispers.

“Our rules are important,” I add.

She turns to head into the hotel then spins around again, her gaze roaming over my face.

“Wait,” she says, stopping to neaten an errant strand of hair on my forehead. Her fingers brush lightly over my skin. Her soft touch feels unexpectedly familiar, like we do this when we go out, like she fixes my tie or smooths my hair, and like I’d do the same for her.

So I do, tucking a chestnut curl behind her ear.

She raises her chin, her eyes meeting mine. A charge rushes through the air, but it’s not buzzing with lust this time.

It’s humming with . . . something else entirely.

She flashes me a soft smile. “You look good, Crosby,” she says, and her words send an unexpected tingle down my spine.

That tingle—it doesn’t feel sexual. It feels . . . warm, and I don’t know what to make of that either.

So, I offer her my arm, and she takes it. As we enter the gala together, my heart beats a little faster. A little harder.

A rhythm that’s less like we’re friends with benefits and more like that other thing.

The thing I don’t know how to name.

But it feels hopeful.

And it feels dangerous.

19

Nadia

An attendant scurries up, asking to take my wrap.

A private thrill rushes through me—my wrap.

My gift from Crosby.

“Thank you.” I hand it to her as she gives me a ticket, which I drop into my purse.

Next, a woman in a silver dress and cute red glasses strides over to us, an iPad in her hand.

She can only be a publicist.

“Hello, Ms. Harlowe and Mr. Cash. We’d love to take your photo on the red carpet.”

Crosby shoots her a smile, then me. “Of course.”

“That would be great,” I echo, though my shoulders tense briefly.

How will we look together with lights flashing?

In many ways, this picture is no different than the wedding photos from last weekend.

And at the same time, it’s a universe apart.

We just came together in the car.

Mouthwash and neatened hair aside, do I have an orgasm aura about me?

I want to lean in close to Crosby, to whisper, “Do I look . . . obvious?”

But then, I’m not sure I want to let on to him, either, that I’m still floating on a cloud of climax dust.

Just smile for the camera.

The silver-sequined, no-nonsense publicist guides us along the red carpet to a backdrop splashed with the Sports Network Awards logo.

A young photographer with a Russell Wilson charm greets us with a quick hello then lifts his Nikon. “Let’s get one of the woman who’s going to bring us a Super Bowl victory.”

I grin. “That’s the goal.”

He snaps a few shots of me. “Fantastic. And now one of the Cougars best known for . . .” He stops, flashes an evil grin at Crosby, and continues, “His long ball.”

Crosby rolls his eyes. “Thanks, Leo.”

The photographer shrugs. “I call it like I see it. But then, no one saw it. Such a shame.”

“Ah, you’re so sweet, Leo. Missed you so much,” Crosby says, smiling for the guy he clearly knows.

“And now how about a few of beauty and the beast together?”

Crosby points to Leo. “He’s a regular Seinfeld.”

“Hey, what’s the deal with dick pics?” the photographer asks, imitating the famous comic.

“I don’t know. Why don’t I send you one later?” Crosby fires back, and the barbs delight me, the way they juggle them like lit torches.

“Let the countdown begin,” Leo says, then gestures for us to move closer together. “There. Pretend you like