The Virgin Game Plan

by Lauren Blakely

  So, we go to a nearby diner, an old-school one with green Formica counters and a sign beckoning in neon. “I loved this place when I went to school here.”

  She agrees. “It hits me right in my retro-loving side.”

  “Is that the side that’s wearing that red blouse?” I ask, my eyes swinging to her shirt.

  She runs her fingers over the black buttons, a thoroughly distracting move. “You recognize the style.”

  “You wear it well.”

  “Thank you. I have a thing for vintage tops, and retro diners, and also trendy new clothes and the hippest new eateries.”

  “So you like to hedge your bets. Make sure you’ve got a horse in every race.”

  She laughs too. “Apparently. Or maybe I’m just a woman of varied tastes.”

  “An excellent way to be,” I say.

  We grab a booth near the back. I order the Asian chicken salad and she opts for the Cobb, then we return the menus to their spot behind the napkin holder. “Now and then you gotta go for a salad—athlete habit, right?”

  With a sheepish grin, she shrugs. “Athlete habits die hard.”

  “No need for them to die. You’re still an athlete,” I point out. “You said you’ll always play volleyball.”

  “True. You’ll have to drag me kicking and screaming away from the court, so I’m all about greens, protein, and new cuisines. Except,” she says, lifting a finger, “I’ll always make an exception for fries.”

  “Ah, the universal french fry rule,” I say, adopting a wise man tone.

  “It’s the ultimate exemption.”

  “The grandfather clause of food.”

  “Thou shalt not resist fries.”

  “Wouldn’t that be a commandment?” I posit.

  “Of course. Fries are on a biblical level.” She shoots me a curious glance from under her sexy lashes before her gaze drifts down. There’s a hint of a secret there, maybe even shyness.

  She’s quiet for a beat, longer than I’ve heard from her. I tilt my head, trying to understand her. “Hey, Reese,” I whisper.

  She lifts her pretty face, and for a flash of a second, she’s all wide-eyed innocence.

  That expression slams into me.

  Whatever happens tonight, I realize I need to let her set the pace. I don’t want to forget that for an instant.

  “Yes?”

  “Are you okay?”

  She’s still for another moment, then her lips curve into a grin that lands this side of naughty. The innocence is all gone, erased in a heartbeat.

  “I’m very okay,” she says, a little breathy. “I’m having a great time. I had a great time on the steps too.”

  “What do you know? So did I.” I grin just thinking about the kiss that boggled my brain, that turned my temperature up to incinerator heat.

  She slides her elbows closer to my side of the table, looks left, looks right. Hardly anyone is here, but I get the sense she values privacy. “I think I can still feel your kiss.”

  A groan works its way up my chest. “Good. That’s how you should be kissed. So you don’t forget how it feels when my lips touch you.”

  “I don’t think I can or ever will.”

  I reach across the table, taking her hand in mine. “Don’t. Because I’m planning on kissing you again, Reese. A long, passionate good-night kiss that you’ll feel in your knees.”

  That hint of innocence flickers across her eyes once more, then it’s chased by heat. “I’ll hold you to it.”

  I’d like to hold her against me all night long.

  With my free hand, I scrub the back of my neck, blowing out a long stream of air. “If we keep talking about kissing, I won’t be able to focus on anything else. How to use a fork, where I keep my credit card, remembering my fucking name,” I say, and she grins wickedly. I clear my throat, shifting gears. “But I want to know you more too. What will you do when you graduate? Do you have a job lined up?”

  She holds up her right hand, her index and forefinger crossed. “I’m supposed to be getting a job offer this week in San Francisco. I’m from there, and my mom still lives there. It’s entry-level at a publicity firm that works with different charities. Not all the charities are sports-related, but it’s a decent start.”

  “That’s fantastic. I hope you lock that up,” I say, and I can’t believe the routine-centric portion of my brain is already whispering, San Francisco isn’t that far from Los Angeles. You could see her again during the season. Maybe date her.

  Then, my logical side says, Yeah, dipshit, and you’re on the road half the year. When are you going to fit in a long-distance girlfriend?

  I tell both those sides to fuck off because tonight isn’t about plans. It’s about here and now. That’s all that matters anyway. This out-of-this-world chemistry with Reese Fallon. “You’re close with your mom?” I continue.

  She beams. “Definitely. She’s great. She’s a nurse practitioner. I have an older sister too. Kelsey. She’s in San Diego, finishing her residency. She’s a doctor. So I’m the black sheep of the family.”

  I arch a skeptical brow. “Somehow I doubt that,” I say, then it registers—she didn’t mention a father. That might be a sore topic for many reasons. He might have passed on. He might not have been involved at all. “And is your dad around? In the picture? Out of the picture?”

  Her jaw ticks. Her eyes go hard. That seems to be answer enough. “He’s around, but . . .” She sighs, then smiles. “Let’s not talk about my dad.”

  “Fair enough,” I say, not wanting to press.

  “What about you? Are you close with your family? Your parents are still in Seattle?”

  “Yup. Where I grew up, where I live during the off-season. We all get along great. I have two little brothers. They give me a hard time about literally everything, but I love the knuckleheads. And my parents are both teachers. English and math.”

  “So you had no excuse to be bad at either subject.”

  I tap my nose. “Bingo. Homework first, then sports.”

  “Not a bad mantra. Seems to have worked out.”

  Our food arrives shortly. While we eat, Reese and I chat about my time in the minor leagues, about when I got called up. We discuss her favorite professor, my friends, her friends, and how awesome this diner that never changes is.

  When we finish, I glance at the time on my phone.

  “Do you need to go?” Her voice is pitched with nerves.

  “No. My flight is in the morning.”

  She dips her head again, and that demure look flickers across her face. “Are you shy, Reese?” I ask, teasing. “Reese who asked me to kiss her on the steps of the building where I learned all about early American history?”

  She laughs. “And do you remember all the details from History 101?”

  “Every single critical fact. But don’t try to distract me. Are you shy about something? Nervous?” I ask, stretching out my arm, swiping a lock of hair that hides her lovely eyes.

  “Do you think I’m shy?”

  I shake my head. “No, but I think you have something on your mind.”

  With a nibble on the corner of her lips, she nods almost imperceptibly. “I do.”

  Those two words latch onto my heart. They sound . . . worried, but also not.

  Like she’s concerned, but brave too.

  “Do you want me to go?”

  Her eyes widen, and she shakes her head in a second. “No. Please don’t go.”

  The tension in my chest eases, but that voice still asks, Are you doing this, man? Are you throwing your own rules by the wayside?

  That’s the question. After things with Olivia ended a few years ago, I’ve been devoutly single and intensely focused on baseball. I don’t mean single and swinging my dick around.

  I mean single and swinging the bat.

  I’ve dated here and there, but nothing that made me want a whole lot more. I haven’t been a monk, nor have I indulged in notching names on my bedpost.

  Something a
bout Reese feels right though.

  Like maybe we could see each other again.

  Like maybe the whole long-distance thing isn’t a terrible idea.

  Maybe with her, I could make a new plan.

  I slide out of the booth, move over to her side, and scoot in next to her. Wrapping an arm around her, I run my hand over her shoulder. Playing with the strands of her hair, I whisper, “Good. Because I don’t want to go.”

  She shudders, her hand sliding up the front of my shirt. Her nimble touch heats my skin, and her voice turns me on as she says, “Good.” Locking her eyes with mine, she draws a breath, like she needs it for courage. “Holden?”

  My name on her lips seems to hold a myriad of questions in it, but also an answer.

  “Yes?” I ask, waiting, patiently waiting for whatever comes next.

  “I want you,” she says, and something about the way those words come out—fresh, vulnerable—makes me think it’s the first time she’s spoken them to a man.

  My God, they sound so enticing.

  So tempting.

  I’m a goner for her. “Reese,” I begin, laying it on the line. “I don’t do hookups.”

  “Oh,” she says, as if the floor dropped out from under her. “I’m—”

  I press a finger to her lips. “Let me finish.”

  “Okay.”

  I slide my fingers through her hair. “What I’m saying is I don’t do hookups because I don’t want one-time things. And that means I want to see you again. Beyond tonight.”

  She looks like I’ve just said I want to travel to Mars.

  On a space horse.

  “You . . . do?”

  “I do,” I say, getting fully in the saddle. “I think you’re fantastic. And maybe this sounds crazy. Maybe it sounds too soon, but I don’t care. I know what I want. I’d love to see you again. That’s not a line. It’s the God’s honest truth. You’re going to be working in San Francisco. I play in San Francisco a couple of times a year. And Los Angeles isn’t that far away,” I say, even though I’m only there during the season. “I’d love to see you again. Would you like to go out with me another time?”

  She looks like she’s about to rocket to the moon. “Yes. I want that. Yes. Absolutely. And yes.”

  I laugh softly. “You answered in threes.”

  “Just like you said yes in threes in your email.”

  “What can I say? I was eager.”

  She wiggles a brow. “Same here. For me. Right now.”

  I grin, then press my forehead to hers. “I want to kiss you again tonight. And we can take it slow. No pressure,” I say. I don’t want her to think I’m handing her a line. “I’m not trying to get you into bed tonight by saying that. I swear I’m good with just kissing these gorgeous lips.”

  Her mouth curves into the most tantalizing smile ever. She’s all Cheshire Cat for a few seconds, then coy and flirty. Mischief dances in her eyes. “But what if I want to get you into my bed?”

  A jolt of pleasure slides down my spine, making my pulse surge.

  That whole thing about not doing hookups?

  It just flew out the window.

  But this is not a hookup—this is the start of something.

  “My roommates aren’t home tonight,” she says. “It’s just me.”

  I pay the bill, guide her out of the diner, and set a hand on her back as I walk her back to her place.

  I don’t stand a chance at resisting Reese Fallon.

  I follow her up the steps to her third-floor apartment, savoring the view with each step.

  Her ass is spectacular. Round, firm, and incredibly squeezable. Highly spankable.

  I could stare at her ass for ten flights, twenty, make it one hundred.

  But then, I need to devote ample attention to those legs too. Lean, strong, and so long. I bet they’d look terrific wrapped around my face.

  Wait. Can’t forget her hair—all those blonde waves. I’ll be tugging, stroking, getting that hair all messed up.

  She flicks her gaze back to me. “I don’t do hookups either,” she says, lifting her chin, her voice firm as she returns to the topic from dinner. “I should have said something at the diner, but I was sort of in shock.”

  “Glad to hear this isn’t the norm for you.”

  “It’s the opposite of the norm,” she says when we reach the landing. Fishing around in her purse, she grabs her keys, opens the door, then shuts it behind us, spinning around to meet my eyes. “Tell me something, Holden.”

  “Something,” I answer playfully, stepping into her home. It’s small but cozy, with pillows everywhere.

  With a laugh, she tugs at my shirt, jerking me closer. “How are you not a hookup guy?”

  “Does that mean you think all athletes have hookups?”

  “No. I just think . . . many do, and many guys do. I was surprised.”

  “Ah, you said you were shocked.”

  “I was. Let’s be honest. It’s unusual.”

  “A bad unusual?” I ask, hoping she says no, hoping she’s good with this score.

  “A very good unusual,” she says, dropping her purse on a table.

  I breathe a sigh of relief.

  She moves closer to me, pressing her body against mine.

  “I like that you like unusual a whole helluva lot,” I murmur as I loop a hand around her waist, moaning softly at the lush feel of her body, the hint of her delicate flesh under her blouse. My fingers tease along her back right above her jeans.

  “You didn’t answer the question,” she says, sliding her hands up my chest, spreading them over the fabric of my shirt.

  I groan from her touch, from the curious and eager way she explores my body. “You love to ask questions.”

  “I do,” she whispers, all sultry and enticing as she covers my pecs with those hands. “So, why are you not a hookup guy?”

  “I prefer getting to know a woman,” I say, dipping my face to her neck, dusting my lips there as I inhale her scent. No perfume, no lotion or potion. Just that showery goodness, and it’s my kryptonite. “I prefer to have a connection. Everything’s sexier, better, more . . . real.” I press a kiss to the hollow of her throat. A needy gasp falls from her mouth. “And honestly, I’m not interested in being a playboy. It’s not my scene. It holds no appeal,” I tell her as I travel up the gorgeous column of her neck, savoring the sounds of her arousal, the rush of breath, the soft sighs.

  “This is appealing though,” she says, all feathery light.

  “So appealing,” I say as I catalog the way she responds, how her hips arch against me, how her hands grip my chest harder.

  The way she moves makes me want to discover more of her. All of her.

  I thread my fingers through those lush strands of her hair, giving it a quick tug.

  “You’re a very interesting man,” she says, then travels back down, playing with my abs through my shirt but stopping there.

  “Interesting is sexy,” I say.

  “It’s very sexy,” she counters, her fingers close, so damn close to undoing my jeans.

  The prospect of her hand dipping into my briefs, grabbing my cock, touching, stroking, is electrifying.

  But I want to get her naked first. I slide my hands through her hair, let it fall through my fingers, then lift her chin. Meet her gaze straight-on. “This would be even more interesting if we were in bed,” I say in a low voice.

  She shivers, all eager and desperate. “Yes. Bed. Now.”

  I laugh as I trail my fingers down the bare skin of her arm. “Good. Because I have all sorts of plans for your body. Plans that involve you and a bed and many, many orgasms.”

  She rewards me with a throaty moan. “Yes, please, yes.”

  As I kiss the shell of her ear, my hand slides down the back of her jeans. Groaning, I make contact with the ass I admired on the steps. I curl my palm over the soft skin of her rear. She trembles, a desperate cry falling from those red lips.

  “I want to undress you,” I rasp in he
r ear. “Spread you out on the bed so I can kiss you everywhere.”

  Her knees wobble, and I wrap an arm tighter, squeeze harder. Hold on to the woman who’s rocking my world.

  I pull back so I can meet her gorgeous blue eyes. Hers are glassy, lust drunk. “And I want to taste you. Feel you on my tongue.”

  She shudders, her shoulders heaving, her breath stuttering. “Please, Holden,” she says, and the need in her voice undoes me even more. “I can’t take the teasing anymore.”

  Good. That’s where I want her.

  Desperate. Begging.

  Needing.

  I grab her hand, tip my forehead to the room that clearly has a bed, then guide her to it.

  She flicks on a bedside lamp, which bathes the room in a soft glow. “I want to see your body.”

  “The feeling is completely mutual,” I say, then we begin the slow seduction of taking off clothes.

  I go first, undressing her.

  Unbuttoning each black button on her blouse.

  Touching her soft skin.

  Savoring the way goose bumps rise in the wake of my fingers.

  Sliding off the red fabric.

  Letting it fall to the floor.

  “My God, you’re stunning,” I say as I regard the beauty in front of me wearing a red lace bra. “Look at you. Still in your power color.”

  She bites her lips, nodding. “Is it working?”

  “I feel powerless in front of you,” I say, speaking from the truth of my bottomless desire for her.

  Her eyes journey down my frame, landing on the outline of my cock through my jeans. “Funny, Holden. You don’t seem powerless at all.”

  I groan savagely as she stares at my erection.

  We’re both still for a minute, drinking each other in, gawking shamelessly.

  Then we fly.

  Clothes come off in a flurry. I tug at my shirt, tossing it onto the floor.

  Her eyes pop, and she licks her lips, staring at my chest, my arms, then the small tattoo on my forearm—a tree illustration. “I like that,” she whispers, staring at my ink.

  I give her a thorough once-over. “I like everything,” I say as she unhooks her bra, letting it land somewhere.

  Her tits are perky and perfect for my hands.

  My throat is dry, my chest is a furnace, and I need to get her completely naked. My phone is wedged into my pocket, so I take it out, put it on the nightstand, and then unzip her jeans.