The Virgin Game Plan

by Lauren Blakely

  “I don’t blush,” he insists, lifting his chin, handsome even when indignant.

  I laugh, admitting the truth. “I know. It’s ridiculously fun—and easy—to tease you.”

  “And you seem to be ridiculously good at it, Reese,” he says in a low rumble that rolls down my spine, slow and lazy, leaving heat in its wake.

  We near the exit, and he swings the door open for me then holds out his arm, saying ladies first.

  “Such a gentleman,” I remark.

  He narrows his eyes and says as I pass, “Not always.”

  My breath catches, and there’s a part of me—an aching, hungry part—that wants to grab hold of that remark. To clutch it against my breasts and ask when he’s not a gentleman, whether he’s a bossy guy at times.

  A kick of possibility intrigues me. Is that my type of guy? Do I want a potent combination of charming, kind, and bossy? Do I like gentlemen who flirt by day and go rough at night? I wish I knew. I wish I’d have the chance to know Holden so much better.

  When he speaks again, he’s gone back to lightly, irresistibly provocative. “Or maybe it’s not my favorite word, just the right word. Maybe I was truly ecstatic.”

  Was he? Ecstatic? And what’s he like, then, when he is lost in the throes of ecstasy?

  I shouldn’t be thinking this.

  But it seems the dirty-thought train has left the station and I’ve booked a first-class ticket.

  “Were you really? Enjoying it that much?” I ask, my voice feathery.

  “I was,” he says in a low rasp. “I enjoyed talking to you very much.”

  “Same. Same for me.” He turns toward the quad, but I stop him with a hand on his arm. “Actually, we’re headed this way—”

  Oh, holy guns. That is one fine mountain of muscle right there.

  I am kind of a touchy person. And he doesn’t seem to mind that I’m touching him. But still, I drop my hand, reluctantly.

  I try to collect my thoughts, to narrow my focus to the task as we walk to the main building where I want to start. “I’m glad you’ve enjoyed the interview so far. I appreciate how open you were. You spoke honestly, it seemed. Some sports stars are so. . . sanitized. Do you know what I mean?”

  He nods as if he knows exactly. “They all learned from the Crash Davis School of Public Relations?”

  I cock my head. “The minor league player who logged a record fifty doubles in one season with the Durham Bulls?”

  His jaw drops. “Tell me you’re showing off and you do realize I mean the main character in the greatest baseball movie ever.”

  I shrug, biting back a smile. I knew what he meant, but I was also showing off a little. “I haven’t seen that movie.”

  He brings his hand to his heart. “How can you call yourself a baseball fan, woman?”

  I give another casual shrug. “It’s kind of old. It’s from, what, the eighties?”

  “It’s a classic. I’ve seen it, and I’m not that much older than you.”

  “I figured you weren’t.” I know all his baseball stats; of course I know how old he is. But he seems to be emphasizing a point, one that I definitely get.

  “I’m twenty-five,” he says, and it comes out like an invitation, like he’s saying he’s just the right age for me.

  My skin prickles with the awareness that he’s telling me something, not for the interview, but for me alone. And maybe he’s asking something too.

  “I’m twenty-two,” I offer, letting him know I might be in college, but I’m well above legal in every single way. Besides, I graduate in a week.

  His heated gaze lingers on me. “Good to know.”

  “Is it? Good to know?” I ask, all breathy, my skin tingling from his tone, his words, his confident gaze that travels up and down my body.

  “So very good to know,” he says.

  We’ve paused in our walk, and before the moment veers too far into dangerous territory, I shift back into motion and back to the topic of the movie, trying to keep this interview professional. Mostly. “So, this old movie. Tell me about it.”

  He rolls his eyes. “Old movie, my ass,” he mumbles, like I’m just too much. He clears his throat. “In the flick, Crash Davis is teaching the new pitcher how to interact with reporters. All you have to say is this: ‘I’m just happy to be here. Hope I can help the ball club. I just want to give it my best shot.’ It’s basically a bunch of platitudes.”

  I laugh. “Yes, you’re the opposite of Crash Davis. It was so refreshing to see that you’re so very . . . real.”

  A smile spreads across his face. His handsome, chiseled face. His stubbled jawline. His strong cheekbones. His piercing eyes. They’re the most arresting shade—forest green flecked with gold.

  But he’s so much more than a handsome face. So much more than a strong, firm, muscled frame.

  Holden Kingsley is not what I expected. Yes, I expected the intensity. But I didn’t anticipate he’d be charming, clever, passionate, and . . . interested.

  The second that word touches down in my brain, I can’t stop thinking it.

  He seems interested.

  Incredibly interested.

  As interested as I am.

  Another spark of pleasure ignites in my chest.

  A dangerous, tempting spark.

  That’s a sign that I should focus on the interview. So I grab my podcast recorder, turn it on, then I say, “Now it’s time for my favorite part of the show.”

  He rubs his hands together. “Lay it on me,” he says, all eager and ready to go.

  “Lay it on?” I quirk a brow.

  He shoots me a don’t give me a hard time look. “I didn’t mean any innuendo by that, I swear,” he says, holding up his hands.

  “I’ll let it go just this once,” I say, because I do want him to be lacing innuendo in his words.

  I like his innuendo.

  His flirting.

  His whole confident but friendly vibe. He’s just my style, and I didn’t realize I’d be into a guy like him till now. But I am. Oh hell, am I ever.

  “Let’s talk about your favorite places on campus,” I say.

  We roam around campus for the next hour, laughing, joking, talking. Holden goes wistful at times, telling me about some of the classes he took, the escapades he and his friends got into, the games he won and lost. It’s a blast traveling down memory lane with him.

  “Coming here is almost like a class reunion for you, isn’t it?” I ask.

  “Hey, it’s not even my five-year one. Don’t age me up yet, Reese,” he teases.

  We’ve ended the tour on the steps of the history building, where we linger, taking a seat while I put the equipment away in my messenger bag.

  “Don’t worry. I heard you when you said you were twenty-five,” I volley, my skin tingling. Those forest-green eyes of his pin me for a hot second, then another one, then a few more. He licks his lips, tilts his head, seems to run his gaze over my face.

  “I’m only saying that because I want to make the most of my years in baseball,” he says.

  “I’ve no doubt you will. I can’t wait to see one of your Bandits games.”

  His eyes glint. “I’d love to see you in the stands.”

  “I’ll be there,” I say, as I stow my headphones then zip my bag.

  This is the moment when the day should end. The sun is fading into the early evening. Our work is over. He’s free to go.

  But he’s not moving.

  Nor am I.

  We’re sitting like couples do all over campus—stretched out together on building steps, hanging out in nooks in the library.

  That’s how this feels.

  Like a guy and a gal grabbing time together and wanting more.

  The air between us is charged. Atoms and ions vibrate between us.

  “Did you love it here?” I ask. I want this time to keep unfurling.

  “I did. I was here on scholarship, so I busted my ass, but I did my best to have fun and love it. They say college is the bes
t four years of your life. Or however many,” he says with a shrug, pressing his palms behind him on the steps, long legs stretched out.

  “Right. You finished in three so you could go into the draft earlier.”

  “Sports favor the young, so I did summer school to graduate sooner. So I guess I should say, the best three years of your life.”

  “Do you believe that? Doesn’t sound like you do.”

  His lips curve up in a deliciously dirty grin. “I don’t know. I’m pretty happy right now.”

  His eyes hold mine, and his gaze makes my stomach pirouette.

  His smile goes to my head, makes me all hazy and breathless.

  I’m pretty sure he’s not talking about life in the majors. I’m pretty sure he means this second, this moment, the two of us.

  That this connection is making him happy.

  “Me too,” I say under my breath. Anticipation zaps through my body, turning me warm and buzzy everywhere.

  “And you, Reese? What was your favorite part of college?” Holden asks.

  “My friends. The opportunities. And what I’m doing right now,” I say, feeling daring with him. I want to squeeze as much yumminess from this time with him as I can.

  It’s only been one day. Less than a day. I feel the ticking of the clock and know this interlude is ending soon.

  His lips curve up in a crooked grin. “Is that so?”

  My chest flips, a warm, shimmery sensation rushing through me. “I’m happy right now.”

  He sighs, and I tense, dreading what it means. I’m too aware of the sun taunting us as it brings the curtain down on today. “Do you have to go?”

  Please say no.

  His tone is soft, his hand sliding closer on the concrete until his fingers are inches away from mine. “I don’t want to,” he whispers.

  “I don’t want you to either,” I say.

  This interview has veered so quickly away from professional, but I don’t care. I want all the next things with him as his eyes search my face.

  I melt into a puddle of hope. I’m hoping so hard for a kiss. Longing so desperately for him to sweep his lips across mine.

  His hand moves a little closer, and I do the same until soon our pinkies hook around each other. Jolts of pleasure burst inside my body. Sparks lick across my skin.

  On the steps of the history building, my hand touching his, his touching mine, he dips his head closer as he asks, “Would you like to have dinner with me, Reese?”

  His voice betrays his nerves a bit, enough that I can tell this isn’t his norm. He doesn’t ask out every woman he meets, talks to, interviews with.

  At least, I hope not.

  “I would love to,” I say. Then I lick my lips and go for broke. “But I’d also really like to . . .”

  He threads his fingers through mine, squeezes them more tightly, then dips his face closer and closer to finish the thought. “To kiss?”

  My answer comes out in a breathy, lust-drenched whisper. “Yes.”

  Electricity crackles between us as Holden inches closer.

  Stops.

  Holds my gaze.

  I swallow, my throat dry. I long to taste his mouth, to know if he’s salty-sweet. He leans in closer, and my breath shallows as my chest squeezes.

  Once again, he halts.

  My heartbeat staggers, and I ache everywhere.

  Please kiss me.

  He lifts a hand, hovering it close to my face, and I’m trapped in suspended anticipation, caught in a heady, teasing snare.

  I half want to stay here, in this limbo between the prospect of a kiss and the kiss itself. But I desperately crave the contact. Crave it like I’ve never craved a kiss before.

  His thumb makes contact with my jawline. Slow. Agonizingly slow and deliciously tender. Leaning into his hand, I nearly combust. A throaty gasp escapes my lips.

  My God, who is this man who can turn me inside out with barely a touch? I’m sparkling, lit up like a carnival game going wild for the winner.

  His thumb skims along my face, all while his green-eyed gaze darkens, turns hotter as he stares at me, then stares harder at my lips.

  He moves closer again. His lips are dangerously near. I part mine, waiting, hoping.

  Longing.

  It pulls me into his sexual orbit, my skin humming.

  I can’t take it anymore. I need his touch. Now. “Kiss me, please,” I whisper, almost begging.

  Pretty sure he wanted me to plead, since his mouth crooks up in a grin. “Since you asked so nicely,” he says in a sultry tone that makes my libido sing. We’re talking crawl across the baby grand, grab the mic, and croon a torch song.

  At last, at long last, Holden brushes his lips to mine.

  My breath catches, and my world tunnels to this moment, this touch. Nothing exists but the way he makes me feel. Sparks burst inside every cell, taking me hostage as his confident lips travel over mine.

  He’s gentle but determined, exploring the terrain of my mouth like he’s mapping me with his desire.

  My stomach swoops with every millimeter, every inch. Melting takes on a whole new meaning as all my cells go hot, as if I’m glowing like an incandescent lamp.

  Maybe I am.

  He kisses me that way—like he can light me up from head to toe, like he can ignite every molecule. His hands get in on the action too, as he slides his thumb more roughly along my jaw, possessively, even. One big hand cups my cheek, holding me in place.

  All that anticipation crests, then careens down, rushing into full-blown desire, blasting into a new kind of need, here on the steps of the history building, under a canopy of trees, the sun dipping in the sky.

  What have I become?

  I’ve gone from a professional, focused woman to turn-me-inside-out Reese.

  With one daring kiss.

  Holden doesn’t let go. His hand slides into my hair, his strong fingers threading through my strands as his mouth discovers how I like to be kissed.

  As I discover it too.

  At the same time, we’re learning . . . me.

  He’s tender in his touch but somehow commanding too, like he knows my after-dark dreams and wants to fulfill them.

  And maybe he alone can.

  I’m sure I’m reading too much into one kiss.

  But then, I’ve never had a kiss like this before, one that reverberates in my marrow, that scrambles every thought.

  It’s a kiss that doesn’t stop.

  Instead, he changes tempo. He slows the pace, kissing slow and hot and deep. Then he shifts, gliding his mouth along my jawline, to my neck, to my ear, and I’m utterly lost.

  Lost in the thrill of the best kiss in the world. His hands rope into my hair, his lips travel over my face, and his sexy sighs fill my ears.

  “Holden,” I murmur, and his name is like melting chocolate on my tongue.

  “Mmm.” That’s his response. Just a long, sexy hum as he flicks the tip of his tongue along the shell of my ear.

  Tugging my earlobe between his teeth, he nips, biting down. For a second, I tense everywhere as a sharp pain blooms, but then it dissipates into a delicious, dizzying sensation.

  He breaks the kiss, pulls back, and sweeps his gaze over me. His eyes are dark, glimmering with satisfaction and the promise of more pleasure. “So . . . want dinner?”

  Dinner?

  No.

  I. Want. Him.

  Fuck food.

  I want Holden Kingsley with a wild kind of desperation.

  I want him more than I’ve ever wanted anyone.

  Maybe I don’t need to be in love.

  Maybe I don’t need to be in a serious relationship. Maybe I simply needed to meet the right guy at the right time.

  Because I feel ready. So damn ready.

  But should I tell him? Should I let him know I’m dying to experience things with him I’ve never felt before? That his kissing has unlocked a fervent wish in me? That, after twenty-two years and counting, I’m considering throwing in the tow
el tonight, if he’ll have me.

  Curiosity has taken the wheel.

  If he can kiss like that, I’m dying to know how he makes love.

  Do I say that to him?

  Should I say that?

  That’s probably too much, too soon.

  I need to think about what to say, how to ask for what I truly want.

  Or whether I should say anything at all.

  I lean in close, feeling as bold as I did when I asked him for the interview. “I would love to have dinner now.”

  Can he hear the subtext in my voice?

  He growls, and that’s close enough to a yes for me.

  4

  Holden

  This was not in the plan.

  But I’m writing a new one for the next few hours.

  Instead of returning to my hotel room, studying up on the Texas Scoundrels starting pitcher, then hitting the sack early, I’m going to enjoy the hell out of this time with the most captivating woman I’ve ever met.

  Even though a nagging voice in the back of my mind warns that I should resist her—because I don’t do hookups, and this can’t go anywhere.

  But I want it to.

  Oh hell, do I want it to.

  That’s unexpected; I didn’t think I wanted anything more than casual for a while. Not after the way my college girlfriend, Olivia, kicked me to the curb shortly after I was drafted to the minors in the unremarkable eighth round.

  We’d made plans to stay together after graduation, but her plan, it seemed, wasn’t to date a minor leaguer.

  A guy whose career was in flux.

  Translation: why the hell couldn’t I have scored a fat signing bonus in the first round?

  She walked away, and I vowed to focus on the game and only the game.

  But fuck the past.

  Screw plans.

  Here I am.

  All thanks to chemistry.

  Only, there’s more going on with Reese than that. This thing brewing between us isn’t merely about hormones. There’s a connection that makes me want to get to know her, to understand her.

  This attraction feels like a winning streak at the plate, and every good ballplayer knows the golden rule of the game—you don’t mess with a streak.

  You honor the hell out of it.