The Virgin Replay by Lauren Blakely
Sierra
I never knew how I’d feel about morning sex.
As the sun rises above the horizon, rosy light streaming through the window, Chance murmurs a sultry good morning, then tugs me against him.
In all of two seconds, I decide I very much want to find out if I like morning sex.
He pulls my back to his chest, peppers kisses all along my neck, and into my hair. Whispering sweet nothings like beautiful, so soft, so gorgeous.
“Love your hair and this sexy, pink strand,” he whispers as he runs a finger along that colorful lock of my hair. “It’s so very you.”
I smile into his touches, enjoying that he’s already figuring me out. But mostly enjoying the way he’s touching me, those big, strong hands roaming up my stomach, making me shiver.
Chance cups my breasts, squeezing them, drawing out a long, low moan from my throat. He presses his body harder against me, his thick cock announcing its intentions right up against my ass.
I wiggle against his erection as a burst of lust swirls through me. “Mmm. I want you.”
“Let me grab a condom,” he says, reaching for one on the nightstand.
As he covers himself, my hand drifts down between my thighs, and I stroke. “I’m so turned on already,” I whisper, and my God, it’s freeing to say what I want to someone I trust. A man I want. A man I can share my fantasies with.
“Good. Me too,” he rasps against my neck. “I’m turned on just from waking up next to you.”
“Your kisses got me all worked up.” I stroke a little faster, savoring the wetness—the slick, hot feel of already being this aroused.
Pushing my thigh up toward my chest, he rubs the head of his cock against my center.
I groan, closing my eyes, relishing the sleepy morning sexy times. He eases inside, and I gasp, thrilling at the feel of him, sliding inch by delicious inch into my body.
Once he’s all the way there, he moves in slow, luxurious strokes, like we have all the time in the world. Like he wants to revel in my body. His hands travel everywhere, coasting up and down my skin, always returning to my breasts. “Grab them harder,” I tell him, urging him on.
He growls against my neck, biting down on my skin as he grips my breasts. “Like that?”
“Yes. Just like that.”
He squeezes while he rocks into me. “I want it all with you. I just do.”
I want it all with him too.
More than sex.
More than these nights in Las Vegas.
Seconds later, we come together. It’s rough and passionate, and then, he’s soft and tender as he kisses my shoulder, murmuring, “You’re incredible. You’ve gone to my head, Sierra.” His voice is stripped bare and vulnerable, and I feel like we’re both tiptoeing closer to a brand-new reality. One that scares the hell out of me and maybe him too.
What if this thing between us is becoming the very thing we both sought to avoid?
* * *
The rest of the day, we indulge.
We play poker, we go to a magic show, we buy chocolate-covered strawberries, and we play slots.
Late in the afternoon, while we’re parked at an Aladdin machine, Chance’s phone vibrates in his pocket. He takes it out, squints, then winces. “It’s Grant.”
“Go ahead. Read it,” I say, hoping that whatever Grant writes isn’t going to make Chance withdraw, or worry we’re doing something wrong.
I’ve known all along that my brother’s not the real issue, but the code is for Chance, and Grant’s connected to that.
Chance shows me the message.
Grant:Thanks for the heads up. You better be good to her. That is all I have to say.
It’s permission, in a way. Maybe an acknowledgment that this trip doesn’t violate the code. “So how does that make you feel?”
Chance mulls it over, letting go of a long breath and some of the tension that crept in when he saw Grant had replied. “Better. I feel like as long as I’m good to you, I can have the things I’m looking for.”
“You are good to me,” I reassure him.
But will I still think that when this ends? When our deadline expires tomorrow morning? When he goes to New York and I head home to The Spotted Zebra?
I don’t think he’s bad news, or that he’ll treat me badly. But I do fear the end of us could be hard on me. That letting him in so deeply brings so many risks, no matter how good he is.
“Why is the code so important to you?”
He inhales deep, contemplating the question. “Why do I love baseball?” he muses. “Why do I talk to plants? That’s just who I am. I’m a guy who believes in rules and the benefits of them. I want people to be happy. I’ve always been that way, and after my parents split, I probably became even more like that. At the wedding, TJ pointed out that I was always the guy who tried to make sure everyone got along.”
That sounds exactly like Chance. Grant told me how, back when he joined the team, Chance had been one of the first guys to truly welcome him to the Cougars.
“I don’t think that’s a bad thing,” I say. “I’ve also noticed TJ has a lot of opinions. At the wedding, he told me not to break your heart.” I put that out there to gauge how Chance might react to the idea of his heart being at stake.
His lips curve into a grin. “Is that so? He gave you the big brother warning?”
“Oh, yes. He sure did.”
Chance swallows roughly, then tugs me closer. “I’d like to second that. Don’t break my heart, Sierra,” he whispers, his voice tight with emotion.
Whoa.
I wasn’t expecting that. Maybe this is a new stage of the code—saying without words that we both want more. That we’re going to give dating a shot beyond Vegas.
“I promise,” I say.
It feels like we’re in a cocoon of bliss, of possibilities. Possibilities that I desperately want.
* * *
That evening, we go to The Cosmopolitan to see the bartender I wanted to check out. Her bar tricks are movie-level amazing, with breathtaking long-pours and bottle-flips. It’s impossible to look away.
But enjoying her drinks?
The opposite of impossible. They’re as good as her tricks and as strong as her talent.
After a couple of cocktails, my head buzzes. My skin tingles. Everything feels warm and fantastic.
The world is gleaming silver and gold, and Chance and I can’t stop touching and kissing and drinking.
When we leave the bar, he gestures to a sign for a night club. “In the mood to dirty dance?”
“Always.”
In the club, we order more drinks, under the smoky haze and purple lights, we grind against each other, letting loose to the music.
As I float on the high of this night, I feel a million miles away from work and responsibilities. I’m breaking all the rules, shedding the last year of workaholism, and it’s spectacular.
It’s freedom and sensuality.
It’s indulgence.
In the middle of a particularly dirty bump and grind, while the club is pulsing and we are swaying, a woman and a man rush to the center of the dance floor. The couple sports Just Married T-shirts, and they thrust their hands into the air, wild glee in their eyes.
I look at Chance, wiggle an eyebrow.
“That’s so very impulsive,” he says, nodding at their shirts.
“So very Vegas,” I second.
He leans closer, shouting in my ear. “What Vegas trip is complete without a spontaneous wedding?”
None.
That sounds wicked. Thrilling. And utterly out of character.
“It’s a must-do,” I shout.
He locks eyes with me, his dark and hooded, more intense than they’ve ever been. “Let’s get married.”
