The Virgin Gift(7)

My mind assembled the movie reel of her list, frame after debauched frame. Nina bent over the couch, ass in the air. Nina on her knees, her wrists tied behind her back. Nina begging, pleading, crying out for my shaft.

I flinched, surprised at the ruthless immediacy of the film in my head, the shamelessly erotic way I’d spliced together all the images to add me into the credits of her fantasy cast.

I was surprised, too, at the hammering of my pulse.

The rushing of my blood.

And the relentless desire her list stirred in me. This was more than simply being turned on by an idea.

I was turned on by the idea of her, in all these positions.

I swallowed roughly, turning around, walking back to the counter. I slammed the notebook shut, the illustrated owl on the front cover staring back at me with a grin across his feathered face. Like he knew something.

Like he was trying to tell me something.

What words of advice did the owl have for me?

I nearly smacked myself.

“Get it together,” I muttered. “You’re talking to an illustrated owl.”

A wise man would have walked away. A wise man would pretend he’d never seen it and shove the list into the trunk in the back of his brain, locking it up and throwing away the key.

I’d thought I was a wise man. I’d vowed to become one after Rose pulled the wool over my trusting eyes, using me.

But right now, I didn’t feel wise, and I didn’t feel used.

I felt hungry.

Ravenous was more like it, and I wanted to devour my good friend.

Because according to this list, Nina—beautiful, sassy, captivating Nina—was a virgin.

A virgin with a naughty appetite.

And, it seemed, judging from number ten—find the man to give me this list—she was a virgin on an erotic mission.

I’d seen what happened to women who tangled with the wrong men. I’d witnessed far too much heartbreak from my sisters when they got involved with bad boys they hoped to turn into good guys. Never worked, never would.

The result was heartache and tears.

Some other man could find this list. Some other man could hurt my friend.

I couldn’t let Nina give up her virginity—my God, what a beautiful, intoxicating gift—to some random guy she found online, or in a store, or at the freaking gym.

Number ten.

There was only one answer to number ten.

Me.

That man had to be me. I had to convince her that I was the one to give her all these fantasies, and that we’d come out on the other side the way we were right now—friends and neighbors.

But first, I’d start with food, with easy conversation, with the way we were. That was how I’d want her to see my proposition for my role in the list. To see that our friendship was the perfect basis for ten filthy commandments.





5





Nina





The shot was perfect.

Miss Sheridan down the hall had mastered the warrior pose.

She showed it to me one more time on her phone, nudging me, proud of her prowess. “See? How about that? I can’t leave my twenty-two thousand, two hundred and one followers waiting. You are a doll for helping me shoot this video at last.”

“I’m happy to do it. After all, I would never want to be the one to stand between you and even one of those twenty-two thousand, two hundred and one. They need to see your warrior pose,” I said, completely serious, because this woman was a badass dame who simply needed a little tech support now and then. I was happy to provide it.

Miss Sheridan was a former showgirl and now she taught yoga classes both locally and on YouTube. She’d bought a new cell phone for the videos and had struggled to find the setting for horizontal—hence her emergency knock.

Boy, oh boy, did I know that struggle too.

“You should try my classes,” she said, folding her hands together in a namaste. She still had the curves of a showgirl, and the attitude. “Yoga for Showgirls and Seniors is getting quite the following. And yoga is good for flexibility in the you-know-what.”

I couldn’t resist the bait. I raised an innocent eyebrow. “In the butt? Is that what you mean?”

Her jaw dropped, and she cackled. “And to think I was going to say it’s good for flexibility in the bedroom.”

I laughed. “I know. Just messing with you.”

“Speaking of the bedroom, how are things with your roommate?” She wiggled her eyebrows, tipping her forehead toward the hallway.

“He’s not my roomie. He’s just using the guest room while his place is being painted.”

She made an A-OK gesture with her fingers. “Right, sure,” she said, in a way that made it clear she found my answer had holes like Swiss cheese in it.

“I swear he is,” I said, insisting, because it was true. Adam and I were friends and only friends, and that was all I wanted.

My sole focus was on business and, as of an hour ago, finding a way to eradicate the overwhelming plethora of fantasies from invading my brain nonstop during work hours. Once I knew what my clients knew, I’d be able to connect with them on another level, like I wanted.

She hummed. “But he’s a nice one. A sweet one. He fixed the door in my laundry room the other day. And just a few weeks ago, he hung some new shelves for me.”