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

Set my hand on my chest.

Breathe in, breathe out.

It’s T-minus one hour till . . . hymen send-off?

But no, that ship went bye-bye a long time ago. I mean, I don’t know for sure, but my family of little darlings and big darlings surely broke my maidenhead long ago.

Ugh.

Maidenhead.

Who says “maidenhead”?

Who says “hymen” for that matter?

But hey, maybe those ridiculous words will calm me down.

“Maidenhead, maidenhead, maidenhead,” I mutter, but still, the word repetition does nothing to settle the overdrive my body’s in.

My heart skitters.

It’s like a rabbit in my chest, racing in circles, frantically beating.

Settle down.

I flop down on my couch, drop my head into my hands, and try to breathe.

My lungs won’t fill.

My breath is short, sharp.

Nothing is working.

I’m going to jump out of my skin. And why?

Why am I so wound up?

I want this. I want him. I’m ready.

But tell that to my nerves that are jackhammering in my cells.

I head to the bathroom and turn on the tap for the tub. I planned to shower anyway, but maybe a bath is what I need.

A little relaxation session.

I strip out of my clothes, turn the temperature to hot, and toss in a tropical island bath bomb.

I close my eyes, letting the steam swirl around me as the marble tub fills. I step into the bath when it’s nearly full, dancing the oh-my-God-it’s-so-hot hula for a few seconds before I gingerly lower myself into the water.

And I burn.

I’m broiling.

Whose idea was it to make this so forking hot?

I stand, step out, grab a towel, and wrap the fluffy material around me.

I sneer at the cauldron.

Draining the tub, I head to the shower stall, turn the water to lukewarm, then take a shower.

Baths are officially not relaxing.

Five minutes later, I’m out of the shower, but my heart is still trying to run away from me.

Music? Do I need music?

Should I take up yoga real quick?

Maybe champagne would do the trick?

On my way home from work tonight, I picked up a bottle. Organic, naturally. But I can’t pop it open without him.

So, as I slather on lotion, then get dressed in jeans and a casual pink blouse, I try—truly try—to figure out what’ll ease my nerves.

Not a hot soak.

Not a drink.

And not some more girl time.

I look in the mirror, studying my face, asking the hard questions.

What do you want? What do you need?

I want the man.

And I want to know we’re good. I want to know we’ve got this. I want to talk to him, or text with him.

So I pick up my phone, open our text thread, and write him a note.

Something that’ll set the mood.

The mood of who we are.

Nadia: Remember that time I asked to see your dick pic?

I put the phone down on the bathroom counter as I swipe on some powder and blush and then mascara, feeling a little more settled already. He writes back quickly, for which I’m grateful.

Crosby: You’re changing your mind about tonight and you want a pic instead of the real thing? I SUPPOSE I can live with that. But the bigger question is—do you still want the grain bowl?

Nadia: I wanted to say I’m secretly glad you didn’t show the picture to me, because I liked experiencing it live last night.

Crosby: Whew. So you want the grain bowl and the sausage? Good thing, because I’m on my way over with both.

Nadia: Excellent. I’ll be ready with this . . .

I step away from the mirror, unbutton my shirt to a scandalous degree, then send him a picture.

Of the tops of my breasts.

His reply is instantaneous.

Crosby: Did you hear that? It was the sound of me tripping and falling flat on my face from the ABSOLUTE HOTNESS of you. I hope you have a Band-Aid for my nose.

Nadia: I have Band-Aids with foxes on them. I know you love your cute animal socks, so these will match.

Crosby: You do know me well. Also, thank you for the world’s sexiest image.

Nadia: You can see them live in a few minutes.

Crosby: I intend to, Wild Woman. I fully intend to see, touch, feel, lick, kiss, and devour them.

Nadia: Mmmm . . .

Already, my pulse is slowing, warmth returns to my cheeks, and my mind is calm, but eager.

And because talking to him seems to settle my nerves, I’m guessing that making him laugh might do the trick even more, so I do a quick Google search.

Then I send him a shot of a cat lounging seductively across a bed.

Nadia: Here’s a naughty shot for you.

Seconds later, my phone pings.

Crosby: Meow! Also, here’s your shaft shot.

Crosby: I meant, here’s your wiener pic.

I crack up as the shot of a dachshund fills the screen.

I am officially relaxed. All I needed was this. This banter, this connection, this fun.

When the clock strikes eight, he texts that he’s in the lobby. I buzz him up, and a minute later, I open the door.

“Hey, you,” he says in a tender voice that sends a charge down my spine.

“Hey to you too.”

I’m still nervous.

But I’m also ready.

Champagne and food help.

My chest flutters as I take another bite of the food, another sip of the champagne.

“Did you know this is organic?” I ask, holding up my flute.

He takes a bite of his dinner then smiles, speaking when he finishes chewing. “You might have mentioned it a few times.”

“Oh, right,” I say, waving a hand. But I’m still rattling off randomness about champagne. “See, when I went to the store this afternoon, I wanted to make sure it would work for you. The champagne. It’s made without sulfites. And no chemicals either. Also, it’s made from sustainable grapes. Hey, what are sustainable grapes? Are there unsustainable grapes? What makes a grape unsustainable?”

He sets down his fork and reaches for my hand. “It’s a grape that’s wildly nervous.”

I let out a long, heavy breath. “I’m not nervous,” I say, lying, patently lying.

“We don’t have to do this, Nadia.”

Tension slices through me as I stare daggers