The Virgin Replay by Lauren Blakely
Chance
The shower beats a tantalizing rhythm of desire.
I make my way to the balcony, curling my hands over the railing, gripping it tightly.
Holding on takes sheer iron will.
I want to head into the bathroom, open the door, shed all my clothes, step inside the shower. Kiss the breath out of her as hot water pours over both of us.
Instead, I white-knuckle it through the next few minutes, staring at the ocean, trying desperately to key in on anything but the images racing through my head.
Water sliding over her lush body. Soap glistening on her skin, her hands in her hair as she tips her head back under the stream.
I grip harder. It’s a wonder I don’t break this railing.
These two nights are going to be torture.
But I want the torture. The torture makes me feel wildly alive. I haven’t felt like this in ages, and the rush of lust is incredible. The only thing that comes close is striding across the field, taking the mound in the bottom of the ninth with the bases loaded.
The moment when I’m the one thing that stands between the other team winning or losing.
I get that same wild thrill as I imagine all these filthy possibilities with Sierra Blackwood.
Ten minutes later, she emerges from the bathroom. I turn around as she makes her way to the terrace, stops in the doorway.
A dark pink sundress hugs her breasts, then falls softly down her body, flaring out from her waist, stopping at her knees. Purple and red flowers twist in a pattern across the fabric. Cherry blossom ink dances down her arm, looking brighter post-shower. Or maybe it’s my imagination. Maybe everything about her is turned up several degrees. Her hair is still wet and impossibly sexy. She holds a hairdryer.
I can barely breathe. But breathing is overrated when I’m near her.
I can’t mince words. I can’t fucking fake a thing now. I scrub a hand down my face as I say, “Wow. You look . . . incredible.”
She smiles, soft and inviting. “Thank you. I’m glad you like your date.” The words come out more sensually than before.
A groan escapes my lips. “I like my date a lot,” I say in a rough whisper.
I like her so much I have to walk right past her, fists clenched, and head to the bathroom before I do something dangerous.
Like draw her in close and plant a hot, scorching kiss on those lips.
I lock the bathroom door behind me and seriously consider whacking off as I turn on the shower.
Between the steam enrobing the room, the scent of berry lingering from her body wash, and the smell of her that’s every-fucking-where, I’d go from zero to blast off in under two minutes, no doubt.
But I’ve got to get these feelings under control.
And I have control.
That’s what makes me millions of dollars a year. I have so much fucking control and I need it to get a handle on tonight.
Or . . . do I?
My mind flicks back to her comments on the plane.
She’s not interested in a relationship.
She doesn’t want to get serious.
Maybe tonight, we can bend the golden rule.
I’ve been refusing to think of her sexually—well, more than I already do—because I don’t want a messy entanglement with a teammate’s sister. But if she doesn’t want to get serious, then that rule doesn’t apply.
Especially when two adults might want the same damn thing—for dirty dreams to come true, like we said on the plane.
This wedding date started as a show-the-world-you’re-a-good-sport plan. Maybe it’s still that. But what if it’s a two-way road, and we’re headed to the same place?
The bedroom.
My new agenda for tonight? Find the fuck out.
* * *
Island music floats through the open door as the sun dips toward the edge of the ocean.
Sierra gazes at the sea, resting on her elbows.
Her hair is dry now, curling softly over her shoulders, and she’s still barefoot. As I walk through the living room, past the coffee table with the hairdryer on it, I catch a glimpse of a pink cotton bra strap peeking out from the strap of her sundress.
I rein in a groan of desire when I join her on the terrace. As she removes her AirPods, she takes in my attire with an approving nod at my blue linen shirt and khaki shorts. “You’re looking good.”
“I’m a fashion rock star.” I nod to her phone. “Listening to anything interesting?”
“Rearranging Your Sock Drawer in Five Simple Steps,” she deadpans.
“Excellent. Next we’ll have you listening to How to Organize your Utensils.”
“I’ve got that queued up and ready to go.” As she tucks her phone and AirPods into her purse, she says, “Actually, I was listening to Lulu Rhodes. This female comic I found. She talks about the challenges of dating and adulting. Very self-deprecating. I’m actually thinking of expanding The Spotted Zebra and having stand-up comedy once a week. Some of my favorite lady comics.”
“That’s fantastic. Save me a seat in the front row at your comedy nights,” I say, flashing forward to life back in San Francisco. If we indulged in a fling here, would I still be able to go to her bar with the guys next season after games? To her comedy nights? Hell yeah. We’re both adults. We could handle that. “How is it going, finding the talent?” I ask.
“My friends and I are on the hunt. Clementine, Trish, Erin, and I like to check out clubs in the city and see some of the women,” Sierra says as she brushes some hair off her shoulder. “Plus, after I return from this wedding, I’m going to Vegas for two days to check out Lulu in person and also a bartender who supposedly makes both amazing drinks and does those fantastic bar tricks.” She mimes flipping a cocktail bottle.
“Two trips in a row,” I say. “I’d say you’re taking relaxing seriously, but it sounds like you’re still as relentless as ever.”
“Relentless is my middle name.” Sierra picks up her purse. “So, this whole fake date thing. Part of the plan was we need a picture, right?”
It sure was. But I didn’t script the photo or plan the caption in advance. Now that we’re doing it, questions flash before me.
How far are we pushing this fake date narrative online? What do I call her on social? Do I make sure we look . . . affectionate?
“So, I just post a pic of us and say you’re my date? Confession: I’m not a pro at dating. Or posting personal stuff online.”
She touches my biceps, her hand nice and soft. “I’m not either. But my friends are great at the whole live-my-life-online, so we just keep it simple and fun.”
That’s the order of this fake date business.
And we should do it now to get out in front of this pretend fling. If we don’t, a guest at the hotel could recognize me and post something. If I’ve learned anything from Natasha’s online persona, it’s that nothing stays private for long.
I’m here with a brilliant, successful, passionate, badass babe and I don’t mind showing her off. I fish my phone from my pocket, and we line up by the terrace. I slide in next to her. She inches closer, and yeah, that’s another clue—the way she presses her body right next to me. Then, she lets loose a soft, low hum.
I stretch out my arm and snap a selfie of us.
Not a single thing about this picture feels fake at all.
When I check the image of her curled up by my side, looking both sweet and sexy, it sure as hell seems like we’re on a date.
Feels like we are too.
I write up a draft and show her the caption: Not a bad start to the off-season. Hawaii, pre-wedding party with my gorgeous, brilliant date—life is good.
I’m no wordsmith like my brother, but this feels just right. Hope she thinks so too.
“Ohhh,” Sierra says in a purr as she reads. “Flattery is the way to my heart.”
I level her with a stare, then swallow roughly. “It’s not flattery. It’s all true,” I say.
Her eyes stay locked on mine. She nibbles the corner of her lips. “Good,” she whispers. “Same.”
And the answer to whether Sierra wants to level up seems to be yes.
“And here’s my confession,” she says, glancing around the suite. “Thank you for insisting I stay with you. I kind of can’t wait to go to bed tonight.”
I stifle a cough. The thought of her in bed is going to be the death of my control.
“Let’s get you away from that temptation right now,” I say.
But maybe later we can give in. All the way.
I’m pretty sure I won’t even have to throw out my good-guy card if we do.
Since these vibes I’m getting from her—the long embrace and the lingering gazes—are telling me to go ahead and exercise that loophole.
