The V Card

by Lauren Blakely

  I decide to lean on a little humor.

  CJ: I don’t think multiple sleepovers are in the sex education curriculum.

  Graham: Multiple orgasms are, though, and they’re aided by multiple sleepovers. Plus, last time I checked, I was the teacher. And the teacher would like his model student in his bed.

  Since humor isn’t working, I’ll need to break out the big guns. I gulp. Time to be direct.

  CJ: You are, but I don’t need to learn how to be a considerate houseguest. I know how to do that. And in this situation, that means I should stay in a hotel.

  He doesn't reply right away, and I set my phone down to focus on work, then it buzzes again with a text.

  Graham: This isn’t about being a houseguest. This isn’t about politeness, CJ. This is something else, since I’m pretty sure until my ex showed up that you enjoyed spending the night with me, too. It’s over with her. It’s history. And I truly want you to stay with me. So what is it going to take for you to give me another chance to convince you? I’d really like to fall asleep with you again, and wake up with you, and do everything in between.

  I’m starting to type a reply when my phone rings. His name is big and bold. Demanding. Like him.

  And damn it, I like his demands, which is part of the problem.

  “Hello, Graham,” I say, playing it cool. I love that he’s calling to plead his case—it makes me feel special—but I truly intend to book that room.

  “Butterfly.” His tone is firm, a little commanding, a lot sexy.

  “Yes?”

  “You are one tough woman, and it sounds like your mind is made up. But I can be pretty persuasive. Give me twenty minutes to change your mind.”

  A shiver runs through me. Is he suggesting some afternoon delight? The idea is, well . . . a whole lot more than delightful. “Are you saying you’d like to pop over to my office and—”

  “—bend you over your desk and remind you why you want to stay at my place?”

  The shiver turns into a pulse, beating low and hot in my belly. Still, I try my best to think rationally. “Graham, this isn’t about sex or lessons.”

  “I know, Butterfly. Trust me. And that’s precisely why I’m not coming to your office to bend you over the desk. Nor to spread you out in front of me and devour your sweet pussy.” His voice is husky, and a small gasp escapes my lips at his words. “I’m not going to shut the door to your office or kiss you until you melt for me the way you did the first night, the way you do every night. Even though I want that. Badly.”

  I grip the edge of my desk, tingles spreading like wildfire across my skin. God, I want that badly, too. Must. Stay. Strong.

  “So what are you going to do?” I ask evenly.

  “Just wait. You’ll have the answer in twenty minutes.”

  He hangs up.

  I shake my head, trying to rid it of thoughts of that man. The trouble is, he seems dead-set on convincing me, and judging from the flush flooding my cheeks, my body wants to be convinced. But I need to stick to my plan. Batten down the hatches. Time to be an iron butterfly without a single soft spot in my armor.

  On impulse, I reach out, punching the intercom and calling my intern. “Katie, could you grab me one of those green smoothies from the market downstairs? The kind with extra kale and seaweed?”

  “Gross,” Katie pipes back, proving I’ve done an excellent job of making her feel comfortable here, despite the fact that she’s the only team member under twenty-one. “But will do, boss. You want an iced coffee, too? To wash out the nasty taste after the green thing?”

  I hesitate only a moment before giving in. “Yes, Katie. Please. That sounds perfect.”

  And it does. I will build up my fortitude with green superfoods, caffeinate myself to brimming-with-confidence levels, and then stand firm against Graham’s superpowers of persuasion. There’s nothing he can do to convince me.

  Twenty minutes later, Katie knocks on my door.

  “Come in.”

  When she opens it, she’s carrying a massive bouquet of flowers. Bright orange, sunshine yellow, fiery flowers. Her face is hidden behind three—wait, no, four dozen tiger lilies.

  I don’t recall telling him I loved tiger lilies.

  But then I remember our phone call a few nights ago. I mentioned them briefly, simply in passing.

  The man knows how to listen. He pays attention. He cares.

  Talk about a superpower.

  Fighting off a massive grin, I take the flowers and set them on my desk.

  “These, obviously, are for you,” Katie deadpans. “Based on the sheer number, some guy either needs to make up or convince you to be his, and if you say no, I’ll say yes because a man who sends four dozen flowers is a keeper.”

  The smile won’t disappear. “Thank you, Katie.”

  She hands me the card. With nervous fingers, I open it.

  Stay with me.

  Katie clears her throat. “Um, there’s more.”

  “More?”

  She thrusts a white box at me. The sticker reads Luna’s Sweets. Inside is a delectable-looking whoopie pie. I haven’t had one of these in ages, and it smells delicious. There’s a note here, too. A longer one.

  I made dinner reservations at eight. I’m taking you out to your favorite restaurant. But feel free to have dessert first. These whoopie pies are irresistible. Just like you.

  The grin? It consumes all of me. Not just my face. I swear it’s a full-body smile.

  Katie clears her throat. “I have your kale smoothie and the coffee. Do you still want them?”

  I shake my head. “No. I don’t need them anymore.”

  I don’t need fortification because I don’t want to resist him.

  Because I’m beginning to understand that he’s not the only teacher around here. I’m teaching myself, too, pushing myself to step out of my comfort zone and grow. And the lesson I have mapped out for CJ Murphy for the next few nights is this—learn to enjoy myself with a man without falling head over heels and losing my grip on my sanity.

  I will savor this whoopie pie, I will savor the whoopee, and then I will walk away from both with my head held high.

  Chapter Seventeen

  CJ

  By the end of the day, I’m so hyped up on sugar and anticipation that I decide to hit the gym after all. I would rather shower there than at Graham’s, anyway. The girly part of me likes the idea of arriving at dinner all dolled up and ready to knock Graham’s socks off, instead of allowing him to peek behind the curtain and realize how many times I poke myself in the eye while getting my eyeliner just right. Plus, I snagged a new dress this afternoon at a boutique I love, and some pretty new lingerie, so I’m all set for date night.

  I text Graham that I’ll meet him at eight. He texts back that he can’t wait to see me—sending another wave of anticipation rushing through my chest—and I burn up the next two hours with a bike ride, a shower, and a blow-out at the salon on the corner.

  At seven fifty, I slip through the thick dinner crowd at Eataly on Fifth Avenue, the combination authentic Italian grocery and vast palace of sinfully delicious eateries of my dreams. But my favorite, of course, is the rooftop bar and grill. I make my way to the hostess stand by the elevators, where a big-eyed Italian girl in a red dress informs me Graham is already waiting for me on the roof.

  As the elevator zips skyward, I realize Graham never actually said we were meeting at Birreria, and I smile. There’s something special about not needing any other directions aside from your favorite restaurant at eight.

  He knows me.

  And I know him.

  As I exit the elevator, I head directly for the far end of the bar, where I suspect Graham will be sitting with a half pint of the on-site brewery’s latest concoction. And he is.

  “Hey there, Mr. Campbell,” I say as I come to a stop beside him.

  He turns from the view of the post-sunset pink sky behind the skyscrapers of Manhattan, his eyes lighting up in a way that makes me thankful
for showers, blow-outs, and smoky ash eyeliner that exactly matches my short-sleeved sweater dress.

  “Hello, Miss Murphy.” He shakes his head as his gaze skims up and down, taking me in with an appreciation that makes me feel like the most beautiful woman on the rooftop. “You’re stunning tonight.”

  “Thank you,” I say, reaching out to smooth his tie. “You don’t look bad yourself. I like you in a tie.”

  “Note to self—skip the gym and keep the tie more often.” He drops a ten-dollar bill on the bar and slides off his stool, motioning toward the front of the restaurant. “Let’s see if our table’s ready. I checked with the hostess a few minutes ago, and she said it should be set soon.”

  “Perfect. I’m starving,” I admit, shivering slightly as he puts his hand at the small of my back, guiding me through the growing crowd milling around the bar. Even through my clothes, his touch is enough to send electricity zipping across my skin.

  “Cold?” he asks.

  I shake my head, saved from having to say more as the hostess makes eye contact with Graham and motions for us to follow her up the steps to the dining area. I don’t know why I’m suddenly feeling so self-conscious, but I’m nearly as nervous as I was that first night at Patio West.

  Okay, that’s a lie. I know exactly why I’m feeling self-conscious, and I decide to confront the issue head-on.

  As soon as we’re seated with menus and the hostess has stepped away with assurances that our server will be with us soon, I brace my hands on the table and lean in to whisper, “Thank you for the flowers. And the dessert. I’m sorry we fought.”

  Graham leans in, mirroring my pose. “We didn’t fight. We had conflicting opinions that were amicably resolved with assurances and presents.”

  “Very nice presents. The flowers were incredible,” I continue in a soft voice. “But still. You were right. I was letting the meeting with Lucy affect my thinking when that really has nothing to do with us.”

  “Exactly. That was a very different situation.”

  “Totally different,” I whisper with a firm nod.

  Graham’s forehead wrinkles as he whispers back, “Why are we whispering?”

  My grin turns into a laugh. “I don’t know,” I say at normal volume, my shoulders relaxing away from my ears as I sit back in my chair. “Growing up, my dad had a thing about keeping dinner conversation light and as emotion-free as possible. I guess he got in my head a little.”

  “Parents will do that to you,” Graham agrees. “I can’t leave the apartment without doing a walk-through to make sure all the lights are off. I keep hearing my dad’s voice in my head preaching the evils of wasting electricity.”

  “Aw, Bob,” I say affectionately, thinking of his gruff, no-nonsense father, who loves to laugh—loudly—at anything and everything. “How’s he doing? Did they let him back in the fishing club yet?”

  “Not yet,” Graham says. “But he and Mom took up tennis so he has an outlet for his competitive streak. From what he tells me, they’re crushing it in the mixed doubles over-fifty-five division in the local league.”

  I shake my head in admiration. “That’s awesome.”

  “It is. Now as long as they can resist the urge to play each other too often, they should be able to make it to the over-sixty-five division without filing for divorce. The only thing they love more than each other is winning.”

  “No. I’ve seen the way they look at the other. You can’t fool me, Campbell. They are proof that love can last.”

  His smile softens. “Yeah, they are.”

  I start to ask him if his mom’s still working part-time, when our server appears. Graham lifts a brow in my direction as he points to the menu. “The usual, I assume?”

  I nod. “Yes, with the chimichurri on the side and—”

  “No beans on the antipasto plate,” he finishes before communicating the rest of our order. We both love to try new things, but when the flank steak, truffle pasta, and antipasto variety platter are this good, I can’t bring myself to part from tradition.

  “My mouth is already watering,” I confess, biting my lip as our server hurries away. “You’re going to have to fight me for the last mozzarella ball tonight.”

  Graham laughs. “You can have it. I had more than my share last time we were here, before Thanksgiving, when you had to leave early so you wouldn’t miss your show. How was that one, by the way? Funny Farm, wasn’t it?”

  “Fun Home,” I correct with a roll of my eyes. Graham is pretty well versed in the classic musicals, but I haven’t dragged his appreciation into the current century just yet. “It was incredible. Beautiful. Funny. Heart-wrenching. I ugly-cried so hard at the end I had to go to the ladies’ room as soon as the curtain was up and clean the mascara off my cheeks.”

  His brows draw together in concern. “And that was an enjoyable night at the theater for you?”

  I nod enthusiastically. “Oh, yes. It was. The story is about a lot of things, but the theme that got to me was how the fear and shame we don’t deal with as we grow up is passed on to our children. A kind of legacy of pain, you know? And how loving and accepting yourself, even when society is telling you that you don’t deserve love, truly is a gift you give the world, not just the person in the mirror. I thought that was beautiful. And important.”

  “Wow,” Graham says, sobering. “I didn’t realize musicals got that heavy.”

  I shrug. “Sometimes. There were funny parts, too, but I think that was the part I needed to hear.”

  Graham’s head tilts quizzically. “Really? But you always seem so . . . you. Unapologetically you, and happy about it.”

  I grin. “Well, I am usually. But there are times, like when facing down my twenty-sixth birthday without experiencing things I was certain I would have experienced by this point, that I struggle.”

  He nods thoughtfully, holding my gaze as a slow smile curves his lips.

  “What?” I laugh again. “Why are you smiling?”

  “I’m smiling because I’m glad you decided to stop waiting for experiences to find you and decided to hunt them down for yourself. And I’m glad I’m the one who gets to show you what you’ve been missing.”

  My cheeks flush, and my chest feels warmer than it did before. “Me, too.”

  His eyes glittering, he adds, “And you are absolutely worthy of love and acceptance. You’re one of my favorite people and, as you know, I have excellent taste.”

  My gaze falls to my bread plate as the warm feeling floods through the rest of me, all the way to the tips of my fingertips and toes. And I know what this feeling is. It is familiar to me from bear hugs from my brother, and hour-long girl-talk sessions with Chloe, and long, lazy summers with my grandmother before she passed away, learning how to knit and laughing over old episodes of SNL.

  But I’ve never experienced it like this, all tangled up with wanting to press my lips to every inch of the person who’s inspiring the sensation, to thank him for making me feel loved in my body as well as in my soul.

  I know Graham doesn’t love me romantically. But his words are the perfect reminder of why this is so right . . . and so dangerous.

  Who better to teach me how to make love than someone who loves me already?

  But who is it riskier to learn with than someone I know I could fall so hard for, who only loves me as a friend?

  “You okay, Butterfly?” he asks, his hand coming to rest on my knee under the table.

  I look up, forcing a smile. “Yes, I am.” I take a deep breath and add in a teasing tone, “Though I’m not going to look very sexy in whatever lingerie you have picked out for our lesson later. I can’t resist seconds of the truffle stuff, and I’m not even going to try.”

  “You will always be sexy in anything you wear,” he says, giving my knee a gentle squeeze. “But I didn’t pick out any lingerie for tonight. You want to know why?”

  I nod.

  He runs his hand up my knee. “Because the lesson I want you to learn is that you’re b
eautiful just as you are. You’re gorgeous in whatever you choose for yourself, be that panties, T-shirts, music, friends, work, or anything else.”

  A flush spreads over my chest as my heart beats harder, faster, trying desperately to wiggle closer to him. “Thank you,” I say, because it’s all I can manage.

  “Besides, the other lesson for tonight is that sex can be amazing when you do whatever feels right for you. When you’re ready, whenever that is.”

  When I’m ready . . .

  I nod, nerves and breathless excitement flaring behind my ribs, making it feel like a balloon is inflating in my chest. But before I can give verbal confirmation that yes, I’m ready, all ready, so ready, the server arrives with food and share plates. So much food. Delicious, incredible food.

  But I can barely taste it.

  I can’t focus on the rich, yet delicate cream sauce or the perfectly firm pillows of smoky mozzarella. I am only partially present for my conversation with Graham about Luna, his best friend from grad school who is preparing to launch a new fleet of food trucks in the financial district, or our discussion of why Birreria’s tiramisu is superior to all others in the city.

  All I can think about is that tonight is the night. In an hour, maybe less, I will know things that I’ve never known, and I will never be the same. And Graham will be there, and he will forever be a part of this story, this decision, this transition from one stage of my life to the next.

  And yes, it’s a little scary. But it’s also right. Because I’m ready.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Graham

  Handle with care.

  That’s what I keep telling myself during the car ride to my place.

  Be gentle.

  Take it slow.