The Virgin Rule Book (Rules of Love 1) by Lauren Blakely (best fiction novels of all time txt) 📗

My legs part farther, and I hike up the speed, seeking friction, sweet friction, as I chase relief. I breathe harder, rocking my hips, abandoning myself to the feelings igniting in me.

To the tendrils of desire curling in my toes, coiling in my stomach, pulsing in my aching center.

As I imagine Crosby.

His face. His mouth. His lips. I breathe his name on a harsh pant.

“Crosby.”

Then I say it again, loving how it feels on my tongue in the heat of the moment, what it does to my body, the way it makes me ravenous with lust everywhere. How I’m hot with the prospect of bliss. I punch up my hips, pushing the rabbit into me.

I moan, letting my legs fall open wider as the silicone shaft sinks deeper and I imagine it’s Crosby.

Pushing, sinking, thrusting, until he fills me all the way and I gasp.

Crosby.

Oh God.

Please.

Yes. More.

Like that, fucking myself with the rabbit, its ears wildly caressing my clit at rocket speed, I moan and groan. I writhe and melt.

I picture. I imagine.

My mind plays dirty image after dirtier image, switching ruthlessly between him licking me, eating me, then fucking me.

The thing I’ve never had. The thing I want desperately now.

Sex, gorgeous, beautiful, hot, hard sex.

I want him inside me.

Taking me, having me, fucking me.

I detonate, coming hard and fierce as I call out his name.

It sounds so incredibly right. I picture him leaning over me, braced on strong arms, dipping his head, brushing a soft, gentle kiss to my lips.

Telling me how incredible that was for him too.

All of that. I want all of that. I want more than plus-oneing with the best man.

After the rabbit’s gone back into its burrow, I pick up my phone. Read a new message.

Crosby: What kind of moment did you need? Everything okay? Did I cross a line?

I reply, as more than a friend.

Nadia: I needed a moment . . . to cross all sorts of lines myself.

Crosby: Are you saying what I think you’re saying?

Nadia: I’m saying I’m feeling very satisfied right now.

Crosby: And I bet that was not an accident at all.

Nadia: It was very deliberate satisfaction.

15

Crosby

After a gallons-of-sweat-inducing StairMaster workout, some pretzel-like stretching worthy of a YouTube yogini, and a punishing session with my personal trainer at the gym—because sessions with personal trainers should always be punishing—a quick glance at the clock tells me I’m seven hours away from seeing Nadia.

I grab my water bottle and zip up my hoodie, tipping my chin to one of my workout partners. Juan, a pitcher on my team. He’s tearing up the treadmill. He yanks an AirPod from his ear.

“You almost done?”

“Do I look like I’m almost done?” he fires back, breathing hard, attacking the machine with ferocity.

“Looks like you’re taking a walk in the park.”

He laughs, then flips me the bird. “Fuck off.”

“Fuck off to you too.”

“Hey! You want to babysit again?”

“Anytime. You let me know.”

“Thanks, man.”

I turn to Holden. “Over and out for you?” I ask as he tugs on his LA Bandits sweatshirt, his former team.

“I am. Logged my four miles already this morning. So this was just extra.”

“Show-off.”

“You could work harder too. Might make your stats better,” he says, an evil glint in his eyes.

“My stats destroy your stats.”

He scoffs, then laughs. “You wish. Ready for some grub?”

“You sure you can fit it in your schedule? You probably have a one o’clock session with a sandwich, then a two o’clock to do your laundry.”

“You’re right. I’ll dine alone.”

I clap his shoulder. “Let’s go. Lunch with you will kill an hour.”

He rolls his eyes. “Thanks. Glad I’m a way for you to pass the time.”

“That is indeed one of your benefits. Along with the occasional display of friendship and support,” I say with an I’m a smart-ass wink. I gesture to his sweatshirt. “Any word from your agent or from the team about whether the Dragons have a new manager yet?”

He shakes his head, sighing heavily. Holden joined the Dragons after a recent trade. Once the city’s vaunted baseball franchise, the longtime team is now the scourge of Major League Baseball after a sign-stealing scandal that would put a certain Texas team to shame. Our fans call The Dragons our mortal enemies, saying the city isn’t big enough for two teams, when one’s best known for cheating. The cheating ran up and down the lineup, with the manager enlisting players, pitchers, pinch hitters, bat boys, camera operators, field crew, and more in an elaborate ruse to steal opposing teams’ catcher signs to rack up ill-gotten wins. So many wins and so many sign thefts that the team won two World Series in a row.

Two tainted championships one right after the other.

When an enterprising sports reporter broke news of the scandal, the Dragons owner was an apoplectic-level of livid. He cleaned house like a biohazard crew on steroids, gutting the organization with a stem to stern roster shake-up.

Every player on the cheating lineup got the hook. Every coach too, from manager down to first base, third base, pitching, and so on. The owner brought in new talent, like Holden.

But one of the last pieces to fall into place is a new skipper.

“No idea when that’s going to come. It’d be nice to know who’s going to be determining the batting lineup,” Holden says as we head up Fillmore.

“What’s the vibe like so far with the new players? Any idea yet from talking to the guys?” I ask.

He shakes his head. “I’ve only met a handful. They seem decent and as disgusted with the sign-stealing as they should be.”

“Hell yeah. If I were the baseball commissioner, I’d ban the entire former team for life.”

“Ban them right now. Right the hell now.” He shakes his head in obvious disgust. “Consider yourself lucky that you’re on the team in the city with a squeaky-clean image.”

We stop at the light. “I definitely consider myself lucky for that. In fact, I might have to get a new pair