by Monica Rush
Virgin Fix
The Virgins Series
Monica Rush
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Epilogue
Book 2 in the Virgin Series
Join the Rush!
Virgin Fix
By
Monica Rush
She's a sexy problem that needs to be fixed...
Since the day we first met, sweet little tomboy Bobbi Tipton has been untouchable, the boss’s adopted kid and completely off-limits. But now that she’s grown into a troublemaking spitfire who watches me with big eyes and flushed cheeks whenever she thinks I’m not looking, it’s getting harder and harder to steer clear.
Then my boss makes me an offer I can’t refuse. To allow him to retire with a clear conscience, he’s leaving me his entire legacy—his business, his trucks, his profits.
Oh, and one more thing.
He wants me to solve the all-grown-up, hard-headed, puppy-rescuing, hotter-than-sin Bobbi Tipton problem, too—by taking her off his hands...and I’m not the only guy gunning for the job.
Time to swing this fix into full gear.
WARNING: Welcome to Rush Hour! If you love short, sexy stories about friends-to-lovers, May-December romances with rock-solid happy ever afters, big, tough guys who are really good with their hands, virgins with attitude, hot and dirty times that will leaving you with a smile on your face—and puppies!—this is the story for you. Grab your Kindle and get ready for your fix!
Copyright © 2019 by Monica Rush Books, LLC
All rights reserved
First E-book Publication: 2019
Published by Monica Rush Books, LLC
www.monicarushbooks.com
This literary work may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, including electronic or photographic reproduction, information or storage retrieval, in whole or in part, without express written permission, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
All characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is strictly coincidental.
Chapter One
Bobbi
“Mr. Doolittle, behave!” I struggle to keep the mastiff inside the tub, but at this point, most of the bathroom is covered in suds and flying water, so I’m not sure if it really matters. The oversized soaked fluff ball is unrepentant, splashing happily in the giant jetted tub, trying to catch the closest spray of water with his mouth.
Over the commotion, I barely hear the faint rumble of a motorcycle, but it’s enough for me to slow my actions and cock my head. No—it can’t be—can it? There’s no way he’d come back here after what happened last summer. After what he did. After what we both did. I so cannot face him again, and my cheeks heat as my thoughts thrust me back to the morning that changed my life.
It was the Saturday before Labor Day, right after the big barbecue pool party. I had no idea Dean Williams was staying here with Paddy and walked in on him while he was showering. I didn’t say anything, I simply stared, mouth open, at the mountain of a man that took up most of the glass door. I could only gape as he washed himself, fisting his cock and giving it a few strokes. I remember my fingers tingling to touch him, my mouth watering to taste him.
I glance over at that same shower stall now as I absentmindedly wash the dog, images of that day replaying in perfect recall. I’ve always thought of Dean, the shaggy-haired, larger-than-life foreman on Paddy’s construction crew, as a bit of a bastard…but I never considered him as an actual man until that day. Now I can’t see him as anything but a man, a giant with bulging muscles and a tattoo on his shoulder I desperately want to see again. I remember inching closer that day last summer, completely mesmerized by the sight. I’d never seen a man his age fully naked before. He was…absolutely beautiful.
Then he turned around. Instead of barking at me to get out—which was what I expected—his lips kicked up into a grin as he continued to wash his body right there in front of me, putting on a show. He took his heavy flesh in his hand and stroked with more purpose. He grew rigid by his own touch and I just stood there, eyes wide, awestruck.
He rocked his hips and stroked faster. And I watched. I couldn’t not watch. A strange throb started between my legs. Even now as I think back to that morning, the throbbing is back, reminding me of my reaction at seeing a man stroking himself right in front of me.
My cheeks burn at the memory of what he did next. He grabbed the shower door, his large hand making a print against the fogged glass. And then, through the steam, I heard…I don’t know how to describe it…I heard him growl. It was a primal sound, one that had me panting and squeezing my legs together as the throb tightened, pounding between my legs as I grew wet, drenching my panties. His strokes became urgent, his growls and groans filling the room.
I thought I was safe to do it. I didn’t think he’d see me clearly, not with all that steam. I reached beneath the silky fabric of my bikini bottoms and dipped my finger between my legs to relieve the ache…and I touched myself. I couldn’t believe I was doing it, but I couldn’t help myself. I’ve done it several times since, too, and each time, I always pretend it’s Dean’s fingers instead of mine.
But I was wrong to think it was safe to do it standing there in front of a clear glass shower door. As I watched Dean stroking himself, thinking I was perfectly hidden in the steam and fog, I closed my eyes and imagined the way he touched himself as us touching each other. I increased my pace, lost in the moment. Then I heard moans. Whether they were from me or him, I still don’t know. I remember opening my eyes just in time to see Dean shoot his release all over the door. The sight triggered my own orgasm and I cried out—and that’s when I caught him watching me. I recovered just as Dean shut off the water and escaped before he opened the door.
We haven’t seen each other since.
The rumble of the engine grows louder. I’m so attuned to the noise that I immediately jump up to peer out the back window, where I catch a glimpse of the corner of my guardian’s garage and beyond that, off in the distance, my own little cottage rental next door to Paddy O’Malley, the man who took me in after my dad died in a construction accident when I was thirteen. That was eight whole years ago, but it still feels like it was yesterday, some days.
The rumble continues, unmistakably louder, and I see the very distinctive front fender of the motorcycle as it nudges up to the garage and tilts suddenly, as if its rider just dismounted and set the kickstand. Everything inside me tightens up and I start scrubbing Mr. Doolittle more energetically, the dog enthusiastically welcoming my renewed attention. I have to get out of here before Dean sees me. Or worse.
Before I see him.
“Focus and breathe,” I order myself, steadfastly not caring that Paddy’s favorite foreman—and it has to be Dean—just ruined my otherwise perfect afternoon by showing up out of the blue. In fact, maybe it’s a good thing. The leather-clad giant probably just saved me from an afternoon of lectures from Paddy once I get Mr. Doolittle toweled off and lazing in the sun.
I can hear Paddy now. It’s been the same lecture since I was eighteen. “You should find a nice man and settle down, Bobbi,” Paddy always tells me. “Everyone should have someone to take care of them. You’re not getting any younger.”
As if being in my early twenties qualifies me for AARP.
I continue to scrub Mr. Doolittle vigorously, earning a
happy howl from the dog. I wish I shared his enthusiasm. Knowing Dean is here and that there’s no way around seeing him since I’m trapped in the master bathroom in the back of the house, has me wanting to howl for an entirely different reason.
“Be nice,” I try again, focusing on my task of rinsing Mr. Doolittle and not what Dean looks like soaking wet. It’s not fair that he’s as hot as he is, especially since he blows in without notice to do whatever odd jobs Paddy needs him for, then he’s back on his big, noisy bike and off again to wherever he goes. How much does my guardian pay him to work construction, anyway? Surely a foreman doesn’t make enough to afford that pretty of a bike.
He probably takes advantage of Paddy O, and the old guy doesn’t realize it, I think bitterly.
I try to keep hold of my anger, but Mr. Doolittle makes it difficult, yowling in excitement as my scrubbing grows more intense. If I’m being honest, it’s hard for me to stay angry at Dean for long anyway—not because he doesn’t deserve it, but because he’s the biggest, darkest, roughest guy I’ve ever met in my life and I can’t even think about him without getting as frenzied as the dog I’m barely keeping in the tub. There’s just something about the way he throws his leg over the bike and roars off, his muscles straining his worn jeans, his shoulders barely contained beneath his battered leather jacket, his long, thick hair flying in the wind. He’s not a biker by trade or profession—he doesn’t belong to a club or anything like that, at least not that I know of. He just rides like someone bent on chasing the devil himself back to Hell.
“He’s a jerk,” I mutter to myself, and Mr. Doolittle yips in cheerful agreement—or vocal disagreement. I can’t quite tell the difference when it comes to this dog.
“Shh!” I urge the big goof, whose eyes are alight with joy at his impromptu bath. He’s my favorite stray from the local shelter, a lovable mutt who’s too big to fit into anyone’s home, especially mine, but I borrow him every chance I get. I just feel that if he can catch the attention of the right owner, with the right kind of lifestyle and a super big yard—maybe with some older kids, too—Mr. Doolittle will find the perfect forever home. The kind of home everyone should have—full of laughter and sunshine, with working heat in the winter and running water whenever you want to take a shower that lasts longer than one minute and thirteen seconds.
“Owwwwwooooooo,” Mr. Doolittle agrees. I sit back on my heels to survey my success with him.
“Well, you’re definitely clean,” I decide. I look around for his collar and frown. I’m sure I brought it in the house when I came over, but Paddy caught me and we got to talking as I prepped the dog for the tub. And then Mr. Doolittle—being the smartest dog in the whole wide world—recognized the sound of running water and nearly tore my arm off running through the house to the bathroom. Yes, I remember now. I got the lead tangled in his collar and simply unhooked the whole mess before I corralled him in the giant master bath, and here we are.
“Okay, you stay put for a second. Can you do that for me?”
Mr. Doolittle looks up soulfully, his big eyes holding mine as if I hung the moon, and I rub his head with the same rush of affection that nearly bowls me over with every dog I borrow from the shelter. I can’t keep any of them, but that doesn’t stop me from pretending they’re mine for the twenty-four hours I have them.
Everyone should have someone to take care of them. Paddy’s words come full circle.
“You’re a good dog,” I murmur, rubbing Mr. Doolittle’s ears, laughing as he wallops me with his big, slobbery tongue. “Okay, you’re a gross dog, but you’re a good dog.” I slide across the sudsy floor and into the door, then open it, scanning the bedroom beyond for the collar and lead. I freeze as I instantly realize my mistake.
“Owwwwooooo!” With the violent fervor of a team of Navy SEALs charging out of the ocean, Mr. Doolittle bounds from the tub and barrels toward me. I’m barely able to turn before he knocks me completely over, and then I’m up and scrambling after him, struggling to catch my breath.
“Mister—stop—” I gasp as he tears out of the bedroom toward the kitchen. The moment he hits the hallway his legs seem to shoot out beneath him in all directions, and it’s only his thundering momentum that keeps him upright as he races forward. I’m equally graceless when my bare feet encounter the cold, now completely soaked tile floor, and I start skating across the surface, my arms wind-milling. I lunge forward and catch the dog’s hind legs, but Mr. Doolittle starts howling with renewed excitement and bursts forward again, jerking me off my feet.
I barely have a sense of Paddy, his eyes wide as he backs away from the imminent collision, as I surge into the bright, sunshine-filled kitchen, losing my grip on the dog and all control of my own legs. Then I see Mr. Doolittle crash against the enormous body of Dean Williams, practically leaping up and over him, and there’s no way I can stop myself before I follow suit. Only I can’t quite hurdle all six foot four, two hundred and forty pounds of smoking hot muscle that’s already stumbling beneath Mr. Doolittle’s full-on assault.
Instead, Dean and I both crash to the ground. I land squarely on top of him, my legs splaying wide over his hips, my body hot against his, and every inch of my tee-shirt and ripped sweat shorts completely soaked and sticking to my skin like I’m some sort of drowned rat fleeing a sinking ship, drenching him in the process.
Dean’s hands fly up even as he topples backward, grabbing my waist and locking me to him. The look on his face is a mix of shock, confusion, and a sudden flash of something dark and hot as his brain seems to register that it’s a woman currently grinding into his groin, a groin that responds instantly even before he has a chance to register who it is exactly that’s on his lap.
Dean and I—aren’t friends. We’re barely even acquaintances, despite what happened that Saturday before Labor Day, and I’ve made no secret of my disdain for him. But there’s nothing about the guy that isn’t a hundred percent red-blooded male, and for just the barest moments, he looks at me with real, honest-to-god lust in his eyes. I catch my breath, forcing myself not to respond, then roll off him before he can get a firmer grip on me.
Mr. Doolittle, always ready for a good game of tag and never having anyone bigger than him to play with, immediately takes my spot, leaping onto Dean with a joyful, yodeling bark.
“Bobbi!” Paddy finally manages to get my name out, and he tosses dish towels at me. “Are you daft, girl? What have I told you about keeping that thing on a leash? Now look what you’ve—”
“Enough!” Dean roars from the floor, but even as I whirl on the bastard to accuse him of scaring the dog with his rough and angry voice, I see him lift the mastiff bodily, turning the giant animal around in the world’s craziest waltz as Mr. Doolittle scrabbles his hind paws against Dean’s heavy jeans. As the two of them wrestle for dominance, Dean’s head tilts back, his eyes clenching shut—
Then he bursts forth with the biggest, boldest laugh I’ve ever heard a man utter.
And…I’m gone.
Chapter Two
Dean
What. The. Fuck.
What the actual fuck.
I know better than to attempt to make sense of the fact I just danced with a dog. That’s how used to my boss’s crazy ass, sexy-as-sin, glossy-haired strawberry blonde ward I am. Instead of staring a second more into those deep emerald eyes I’ve dreamed about since first seeing her here at Paddy O’Malley’s house, I turn and face the dog that’s covered me in enough hair to make a fucking rug.
“Really?” is all I say. The dog glances up at me with enormous eyes and smiles as it pants. “What’s wrong with this mutt? Why’d she attack me like that?”
“She’s a he,” Bobbi retorts hotly and hurries to the dog’s rescue. Like I would hurt a dog. Yet another thing she’s assumed about me that’s completely untrue. Every time I stop by Paddy’s place after a job and to sleep in a comfortable bed for a refreshing change, Bobbi Tipton makes another SWAG about me—a Scientific Wild Ass Guess—that’s so off the mark
I don’t bother correcting her.
As if I’d ever do a goddamn thing to hurt an animal. Deep down she knows that, I suspect, so for her to now look at me with that blazing green glare, accusing me without words, I’m half tempted to take her over my knee and…
Shit. I shouldn’t have gone there. My dick is now consumed—and growing yet again—with the thought of taking Bobbi in any sense of the word. Sure, I’ve pictured her naked, thought about the two of us rutting around like a couple animals in heat, bodies slippery with sweat as I bury myself inside her over and over until we pass out from exhaustion. Who could blame me?
I’ll never forget the way she touched herself as she watched me in the shower the last time I was here. I stroked my cock to scare her off, but when it didn’t, when her nostrils flared and eyes glazed over with a hunger I was a fucking fool to ignore, I couldn’t stop myself from pushing it one step more—and then she did too.
It took every ounce of my control not to pull her into the shower with me that day. I even held the shower door closed to stop myself from reaching for her, ripping off the green bikini that matched her eyes and drove me wild, and bury my cock deep inside her tight little pussy.
That itty-bitty bikini didn’t cover the swell of her tits and barely held on at her hips. Seeing her in something so revealing had my protective nature in overdrive, making me ready to kill the men on my crew at the barbecue for so much as looking at her all day long. It didn’t matter that she had me as hard as a fucking rock with the way she kept stealing glances at me and smiling shyly. It was me she kept eyeing, me she walked in on in the shower, me she taunted by touching herself while I stroked my cock until we came all over our hands.