The Virgin Gift(36)

Her list was a bucket list, a project to shed her virginity so she could focus again.

And here on the other side of her innocence, we’d resorted to what we’d always been.

Pals.

Joking.

Talking.

Having fun.

We weren’t sharing sweet nothings or whispering confessions of unexpected emotions.

Get it together, man.

Besides, how the hell was I going to tell her what I wanted? Did I even know? This Mack truck of feelings had slammed into me from out of nowhere, and I honestly wasn’t sure how to sort them out.

Or, at this point, if I should.

Maybe we were well and truly done, with number nine under our belt.

Best to focus on that.

“You were a model student,” I said with a grin, because now wasn’t the time to let on that I wanted more than her list.

Or the moment to tell her that tonight never felt like a checklist item for me.

Yes, sure, technically we’d achieved her mission.

But, in doing so, something else had unfolded for me.

Something that wasn’t on my list, or hers.

That was the trouble. Falling wasn’t on the agenda.

And I didn’t have a detailed plan for how to deal with it, how to broach it, or what the hell it would mean for us.

I focused on number nine instead, because it was easier. Running my fingers down her arm, I asked, “What did you think of number nine, sweet girl?”

Her lips curved up. “I’m ‘sweet girl’ now?”

I dotted a kiss on her nose. “You’re always sweet to me.” There, that was honest.

She ran her fingers through my hair, nibbled on her lip, then said, “Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For doing that for me.”

My brow creased. She was thanking me? I didn’t want thanks. I wanted her. Moreover, I wanted her to want me the same damn way.

Not in a thank you for your service kind of way.

I needed to devise a plan, to figure this out.

But how was I going to figure it out this close to her, when I was inhaling her sweet smell, drinking in her intoxicating scent?

“You don’t have to thank me,” I said, and I didn’t know where I was going next, but I was going somewhere. “I wanted to do everything with you.”

“You did?” Her tone pitched up, rising with hope like it had earlier when she’d asked if I’d liked going down on her.

Rap, rap, rap.

I blinked.

What was that?

The knocking sounded again.

She jolted out of bed, scrambling to her bureau, grabbing a T-shirt. “My door. Someone is here.”

“Just ignore it.” But as soon as I said that, the knocker called out.

“Mr. Larkin, it’s David from City Painters. Just need a tiny minute of your time.”

I groaned, my head falling back on the pillow for a long few seconds of frustration. I swung my feet over the bed, left the bedroom, and found my briefs, jeans, and T-shirt. In seconds, I was dressed, my phone in my pocket, and I answered the door.

David smiled proudly at me, his craggy face pleased. “We finished. Come see it. It looks fantastic.”

“Thanks,” I said. “Appreciate that. I can see it tomorrow.”

“No. You have to see it tonight. My men can’t clock out till the client gives approval.”

I gritted my teeth, sighed heavily. “I’ve no doubt I’ll approve it.”

His grin widened. “We finished early. Bet you didn’t think we’d finish it on Friday night.”

“No. I sure didn’t.” And I wished he hadn’t.

He tipped his forehead to my place. “Come. You’ll want to see it before you sign off. You can pay tonight, yes?”

“Of course. Of course I can. Just give me a second,” I said, and returned to the bedroom to find Nina in yoga pants. She’d brushed her hair and knotted it into a bun. Her laptop lay on the bed.

It was as if we were erasing the evidence, rewinding to casual buddies who helped each other out with guest rooms for crashing in and food for noshing. “I need to go see what’s going on next door.”

“Yes, go. I hope it looks fabulous. I need to”—she paused, like she was thinking—“I need to prep for tomorrow. I had a last-minute booking with a client who’s in town with her lover this weekend. She’s doing some casino-themed shots, so I need to go over my plans to shoot her in a bed of coins.”

I ached a brow, laughing. “That’s interesting.”

She shrugged with a smile. “What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas. You know how it goes.”

Then she winked at me, as if the city’s slogan was ours. As if it was a reminder that we were a secret.

Was that all we could be? Nighttime rendezvous and dirty deeds, midnight trysts and secret fantasies?

I wanted to know what number eleven was. Wanted to ask if we could write in numbers twelve, thirteen, fourteen, and more.

It had felt like she’d wanted that too.

But hell, maybe I was wrong. Maybe she responded the way she did because it felt good. Because she had a little kinky sub in her, and I gave her my kinky dom.

Maybe that was it.

My mind raced, hunting for answers in her eyes. I didn’t find any, so I crossed the distance, curled a hand around her head, and kissed her lips.