The Virgin Replay by Lauren Blakely
Sierra
You don’t always get what you want.
And you damn well don’t cry about it.
“Do you, Tom?” I ask the next morning as I join my cat on his lounging couch.
Technically, it’s my couch. But we both know the truth. His hair tells the story of ownership of this piece of furniture. Tom flops to his back, allowing for more belly rubs. I happily bestow them.
“See? You didn’t caterwaul when I gave you organic chicken instead of the wild turkey that I know you prefer. But the organic chicken is better for your kitty belly,” I say.
My man purrs louder, letting me know he understands how the world works. You get what you get, and you don’t hiss about it.
“So I’m not upset that Chance didn’t offer to toss me over his shoulder, carry me up here two steps at a time, kick the door down, then yank off all my clothes and bang me over the kitchen table,” I tell the cat. “Are you?”
A louder purr is my answer.
Sure, I had other plans for him. But I said yes to Chance’s fake date request because I know his pain.
Been there, done that.
Chance and I are kindred spirits in that department. We haven’t talked about our pasts in detail, but I saw how Natasha spun self-care gold out of her divorce. More like a self-care empire of absolute bullshit.
I’m convinced there’s a special kind of relationship torture waiting for people who cheat and lie. Like, maybe they can never have orgasms again.
Or maybe they’re doomed to only kiss people who have wilted-lettuce breath. I certainly hope that’s Natasha’s fate.
And I hope my ex-boyfriend is racking up more than his fair share of limp lettuce lip-locks and blue-balled nights. If there’s romantic justice in the universe, Joe’s jeans will be too tight in the crotch for all eternity. Come to think of it, I’d like to wish an uncomfortable thong on Natasha for all her days.
If the tables were turned, and I needed a hot-as-sin, charming, wildly successful man by my side at an event, I wouldn’t hesitate to ask Chance Ashford. And I’d march right into the thick of the party and show that hottie off like the arm candy, eye candy, and brain candy that he is.
That’s what I’ll do in Maui on our fake date, since cheating exes are the worst. My last serious boyfriend seemed as sweet as a cinnamon roll. Fitting that Joe was a baker, that supposedly adorable sweetheart of a man.
Turned out, the baker bamboozled the bartender.
I met Joe three years ago when we were both twenty-two, both virgins. We had a fantastic first date, strolling along the Marina, savoring the bay. We enjoyed several more fabulous dates with the swooniest goodnight kisses ever.
I wanted a little more. He said he wanted to wait until marriage. That was how he was raised, and it mattered to him.
Not my preference, but I’d waited twenty-two years at that point. I could wait longer.
Besides, I loved the guy. Loved his attention, the snickerdoodles he baked just for me, and his foot rubs.
Plus, our almost-sex life was mostly good enough.
Sometimesgood enough.
Fine, some nights I was crawling up the walls. I desperately wanted to have sex. Would it be as hot, sexy, and naughty as I fantasized?
I was ready to find out finally. I’d held onto my V-card till my twenties because I’d made a promise to myself when I was in high school to live differently from my parents.
No sex in high school.
No sex in college.
And, evidently, no sex with Joe.
Then I discovered that after two years of everything but with him, he was giving everything to someone else.
Guess that was what mattered to him after all.
I kicked him out, cried ten rivers with Tom and my friends, then wiped my tears and buried my emotions in work, work, and more work.
Now, a year later, I’m well over Joe.
But I’ve also learned my lessons.
I have zero interest in dating. I don’t want to get hurt. Don’t want to get burned. And don’t want to be made to feel a fool.
I am very interested in sex, though.
I’d like to feel pleasure. And I’m quite sure that knee-weakening, toe-curling, pull-my-hair, slap-my-ass-please sex would be the perfect cure to my burnout.
Yep. I’ve read books. I’ve watched dirty videos. I’m not afraid to explore my fantasies online, to check out all sort of adult content to learn what I like. I’m a subscriber to Joy Delivered’s monthly O-box of battery-operated friends. This woman knows her mind and her body very much.
And I want that all with Chance Ashford.
But I also know this—I won’t let an injustice take place on my watch.
So, fuck “Notes to Self” Natasha.
Fuck Cinnamon Roll Joe.
Even if Chance doesn’t want a hot night with me because of a code, I’ll gladly be his fake wedding date.
As I pet my cat, I send Grant a quick text.
Sierra:You know that wedding I’m going to in a couple weeks? Chance will be there as well, and I’m going as his date. But don’t go all chest-thumping big brother on me. Don’t spout the rules about dating a teammate’s sister. His awful ex will be there, so we’re only going to pretend to be dating so he can avoid the fire of dating questions.
Grant:I can’t believe you think I’m a chest thumper.
Sierra:I can’t believe you think you’re anything but.
Grant:Look, I think it’s cool that you’re going to be by his side. And I don’t have an issue with the whole teammate’s sister thing. Just don’t want to see you get your heart broken. Not by anyone. It’s my job as your big brother to look out for you.
I laugh, rolling my eyes. He’s such a big brother.
Sierra:You don’t have a thing to worry about. My heart is not in the equation.
Because I won’t let it be.
* * *
The next day, I power-walk with Clementine, though our pace is closer to a jog thanks to Magnus. He won a national dog agility competition last year that went viral and became known as Flying Magnus, the country’s fastest little dog—busting records as he weaved through poles, raced through tunnels, and climbed up and down seesaws.
As we attempt to keep pace with Super Dog, I give my friend the download on the wedding date with Chance.
When we hit the corner of California, Clementine tugs gently on the leash, and Magnus sits instantly, waiting to cross till he gets a command. “You’re going to pretend date the guy you’ve been lusting after? Just want to make sure I’m getting all the cray-cray details just right.”
Is it crazy, though? Seems more like I’m being helpful. “Yes, but it’s only for one event, and it’s for solidarity.”
With a laugh, she says go to the pooch, and we cross the street at a fast clip. “That is so sweet of you to provide a solidarity fake date to the guy you want to bang.”
“That’s what fake dates are. Expressions of solidarity and friendship. No one should face the inquisition of the ex alone.”
“Ah, it’s a great gesture of good will too?”
“I suppose it is.”
“And will you dance with him?”
That’s a good question. But it’s a wedding. Hard to imagine we won’t. “Probably.”
Clementine bumps me with her hip. “Oh, baby. You’ll get to feel that big, baseball body up against you. Yum.”
I roll my eyes. “Are you trying to tempt me?”
“I highly doubt I need to tempt you. I think you’re already tempted, Sierra. Just imagine dancing with that hunk of a man when he’s wearing a suit. Wait. Will he wear a suit to a Hawaii wedding? Oh, will he have a Hawaiian shirt on and linen pants? Who cares! Either will be smoking.”
I try to picture what Chance might be decked out in, and honestly, anything would look good on that man. “Exactly. He can wear whatever he wants.”
“Athletes just look hot in anything.”
“Does someone have a thing for athletes?”
Clementine bats her lashes, waves a demure hand. “You know there’s a certain someone in my past. But it doesn’t matter. I’m off the market, and we’re talking about you, you, you,” she says. “So you’ll probably dance with Last Chance Train.” That’s the nickname sports talk hosts gave Chance years ago. Opponents like to say the last chance train is pulling out of the station when he takes the mound, since he’s so hard to eke a hit off. “You’ll shimmy with the hottie. Put a hand on one of those sexy biceps. He’ll wrap his arm around you. Maybe you’ll plant a kiss on his cheek.”
She’s painting an awfully alluring portrait of the wedding. One I doubt will bear any semblance to reality. I narrow my eyes at her. “Are you trying to drive me crazy?”
“Is it driving you crazy? I bet that’s how you’re going to feel at the wedding. Because that does sound kind of hot and bothery,” she says as we march along Jackson Street.
I huff. “You’re not helpful.”
“I know. But, confession time—I’m more excited for your fake date with that hottie pants than I am for Trish’s real wedding. And I’m ten thousand times excited for her. But don’t you dare tell her I’m ten thousand and one times excited for you.” Clementine wags a finger at me.
I mime zipping my lips. “I won’t. And I’m glad you’re looking forward to my fake date, but I assure you there won’t be a real one since he’s Mr. Rules, and apparently his main rule is you don’t date a teammate’s sister.” I heave a sigh, then raise a finger. “Wait. Idea. I’m going to temporarily emancipate myself from Grant.”
My friend’s green eyes sparkle with excitement. “Yes, girl, yes. I fully support you. This brotherly emancipation will be good for your lady parts. But you’re still going to stay an extra night in Hawaii, right? You need it even for a hot fake date.”
“You and Trish made a convincing argument. And really, I can’t rush out at midnight. So yes, I will.”
We reach the curb and stand stock still as Magnus sits like a proper dog. “You can laze around in a hammock. Watch a sunset. Take a dip in the pool.”
That does sound appealing. “I’m glad you bullied me into the extra night. I’m looking forward to it.”
Maybe not as much as I’d enjoy the room if it were the site of my fucking-for-the-first-time fantasies. But I’m pretty sure I’ll enjoy being Chance’s fake date too.
When we finish our almost-jog, I give Magnus a kiss on the head, then tell Clementine I’ll see her soon.
She blows a kiss, then tells the dog to wave.
He lifts a tiny paw.
“Gah. Who needs a man when you have a perfect dog?” I call out.
She spins around, then spins back right in the middle of the crosswalk as a gray-haired lady passes her. “One more thing. Maybe consider telling Chance you want to bang him on his balcony.”
My friend. Is she for real? As the lady snaps her gaze back to Clementine, I try to rein in a laugh. “Could you be any louder?”
She cups a hand around her mouth. “Yes, I can!”
I stare at her, shaking my head, shrugging sorry at the woman who has probably suffered whiplash. “And no, I won’t say that to him. Rules and all.”
She shrugs airily. “Bet he’d do it. Bet he’d bend that one.”
Bet I’d like to know.
