The Virgin Replay by Lauren Blakely
Chance
The next morning, I rouse as the sun filters in, its rays luring me from slumber. The other side of the bed is empty. My gaze sails around the suite.
Sierra stands at the terrace, drinking in the view of the ocean, looking peaceful.
I swing my legs out of bed, pull on a pair of shorts, and join her on the deck. She wears a bikini top and a sarong, looking like a vacation goddess. It’s a good view. No idea where we go from here, or what happens next. But for now, I move behind her, brush her hair from her neck, kiss her there. She sighs happily and rests her head against my shoulder. “Good morning, handsome,” she says.
“Now it is,” I say, as I loop my arms around her waist and stare at the ocean spreading all the way to the horizon. “What a view.”
“I like that view too.” She points to the beach below us and a little lagoon at the edge of the resort. A woman in a red one-piece suit drags surfboards into the small cove, setting them on the water so they float peacefully. “It’s surfboard yoga and it’s calling my name.”
“Huh. What do you know? Mine too. My contract forbids me from going surfing. But I could do surfboard yoga.” I squeeze her butt. “I like your sense of adventure.”
“I’m quite adventurous, Chance,” she says, with a twinkle in her eyes.
“I noticed that last night.”
And I want to experience her again.
As I put on board shorts, I work through options that might earn us an extension on our arrangement past Hawaii. Maybe I need to talk to TJ, or to Google, and ask how to keep a fling going beyond the initial time frame and still return to friendship when it’s over.
For now, though, it’s time to yoga the fuck out of a surfboard.
* * *
I do my damnedest to stretch like a cat, a cow, a downward-facing dog. But on an upward dog, I stumble, splashing into the water. Sierra cracks up and offers me a hand, but I shake it off. I pop back up on the board, all wet, and thoroughly determined to nail this pose.
I get on my hands and feet, arching my spine. The view is distracting, though, because Sierra looks phenomenal in her purple bikini, showing off her moves on that surfboard.
I get in the zone, though, and apply my laser focus to the pose. But I find a way to multitask, sneaking peeks at the woman by my side who is sharing a perfect day with me.
I want another day like this. Hell, make it a few more.
How to get them is the question.
* * *
When we finish the class, we go for a hike on a nearby trail, walking through the lush resort gardens. Sierra’s wearing the pink cap I bought her, and if a hat can make me feel possessive of a woman, this one is doing the trick.
Decked out in a gift I got her, she feels a bit like mine, and I don’t mind this feeling.
As we meander through the foliage, she tells me about the flowers we see, rattling off details on the hibiscus and birds of paradise. “I have a big thing for flowers,” she says with a little shrug.
“You always have a fresh bouquet at the bar. Right there at the corner, every night.”
She wings a smile my way. “You’re observant.”
“It happens when you have a thing for the bar owner,” I say. And wow, it’s like a weight has been lifted. I’m free to say these things to her that have been on my mind for months.
“Right back atcha, handsome,” she says. Her compliment comes out nice and easy, like maybe she’s exercising the same freedom.
Maybe it’s a damn good sign she’d be open to a sex fling addendum—the addition of extra days and then we return to how we were. Friends and teammate’s sister.
I make a rolling gesture, signaling for her to keep talking as we walk along the path lined with ferns and hibiscus flowers. “So, tell me more about your love of all things floral.”
“Well, if I was going to go all amateur psychologist on myself, I’d say it’s probably because I work all the time, so I snag my little indulgences where I can—lotions and potions that smell yummy, pretty flowers, sexy lingerie.”
“Mmm. I believe lace is on the menu tonight,” I say.
“And you’ll get it. But it’s also because I just love pretty things,” she says with an unapologetic grin. “And pretty-smelling things.” Stopping, she points to a white flower. “Like those gardenias. Want to test your nose? Tell me what you smell.”
The competitor in me takes the stage as I bend to inhale the scent. “Kind of velvety and fragrant.”
“Velvety is right. Let’s see. How else can I put your nose to the test?”
I rope an arm around her waist, yanking her back to my chest so I can run my nose through her soft hair. “How’s this? You smell like blackberry, a hint of pineapple, and all my dirty thoughts.”
“You’re passing with flying colors.”
I spin her around and steal a kiss in the middle of the flowers.
“Mmm,” she says, returning the favor. “And you have that soapy, woodsy, I-want-you-to-bend-me-over-the-bed smell.”
I laugh. “And we officially have aced the nose test.”
She turns, and we continue on the path. I gesture to some plants along the way. “Want me to wow you with my plant knowledge? Boom—plumeria.”
She slow claps. “Your new nickname is Chance ‘Green Thumb’ Ashford.”
I raise a finger to make a point. “I’ll have you know I take excellent care of an entire bullpen of succulents at my place.”
A brow lifts in question. “A bullpen?”
Am I doing this? Telling her about one of my quirks?
And the answer is yes. This conversation is more fun than I’ve had in ages. “Yes, they’re named Mariano, Trevor Hoffman and Dennis Eckersley. The three greatest closers of all time.”
“But only Mariano goes by just his first name?”
I scoff, like isn’t it obvious. “Of course. He’s one-name-only worthy. The best of all time. But I named them all since I believe in paying homage to the greats who make my life possible.”
“And you do that by naming plants after them? That’s insanely adorable.”
“Please don’t tell opposing batters I’m adorable,” I say with a growl.
She stops to pat my cheek. “I will keep all your secrets, you chocolate-covered-strawberry-loving, plant-naming, pink-hat-buying, fearsome closing pitcher who strikes fear into his opponents when he stalks to the mound in the ninth inning.”
I narrow my eyes, adopt the sternest expression in the history of stony looks. “Just like that,” I say, in a low rumble.
“If they only knew you were a softie underneath,” she teases.
I grab her arm and yank her against me, her lush body pressed to mine. “You will tell no one that I name plants.” I drop my voice to a bare whisper. “Or that I talk to them.”
“Shut up. You talk to your plants?”
“I ask them to watch over me as I pitch,” I whisper.
“The fact that you talk to your plants is my new favorite thing about you.” She coasts her hands up my chest, cupping my face. “You. Are. Criminally. Cute.”
I crack up, and we kiss again, laughing as we do.
That’s a great way to kiss, I’m discovering. Kissing and laughing, feeling like you connect with someone. It warms my jaded, bruised heart. Makes me feel like we can have this fling, and go right back to friendship and guy codes and all the good things.
But first, I’d like a few more nights please. No reason for a sex fling to only last two short nights, after all.
Maybe that’s how I’ll make my pitch to tack on some extra days. A why not? proposition.
Striking out the side with the bases loaded is easier than figuring out how to broach my desire for more of her. I have zero experience in navigating unconventional arrangements with a woman.
But sex? That’s throwing a fastball down the middle, so I laser in on that when we return to the suite. I bend her over the bed, take her again, and give her an epic orgasm, enjoying one helluva climax myself.
Afterward, we fall onto the mattress in a tangle of limbs, sweat, and breath.
I love Hawaii.
* * *
When Sierra and I head down to the beach for Trish and Blake’s sunset ceremony, we hold hands, like we did last night.
When I get my first chance during the reception, I snag a minute away from her. I grab my brother, catching TJ up on the details.
“So you want to have a longer sex fling?” he asks.
It sounds so crass when he puts it like that. Sex fling. But I’m not entirely sure how to put into words what I want, so I try to keep it simple. “I’d like to spend more time with her. Yes.”
A soft chuckle is his answer. “Sex. More time,” he says, like tomato, toe-mah-toe. “Whatever helps you sleep at night, baby bro. Point being, you want a longer . . . fling.” TJ sketches air quotes.
I want an extension. For sex, yes, but also for going on hikes and talking about plants and flowers. Which sounds like . . . exactly what I can’t say to anyone, even my brother.
“Yes, a longer fling,” I reply.
With a thoughtful sigh, he scrubs his jaw. “None of this one-night-only stuff. Right?”
“Exactly.”
Like he’s the relationship guru, TJ parks a hand on my shoulder. “Here’s what I’d do if I were writing this scene in a book. I’d have the hero figure out what’s in it for her. How to make it work in her life. Because the last thing you want is to come across like a horny, sex-starved, walking boner who just wants to get laid.”
Whoa. “Tell me what you really think.”
He smirks. “Then don’t come across that way to her.”
I’m still not in the market for anything permanent, but last night with Sierra felt like sex, passion, and intimacy.
It felt like a real connection. Like we understood each other’s needs.
And right then, I know how to ask for what I want.
