The V Card
Lauren Blakely & Lili Valente
Lauren Blakely & Lili Valente
Contents
Copyright
The V Card
Also By Lauren Blakely
Also by Lili Valente
About
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Epilogue
Another Epilogue
Acknowledgments
Other Books By the Authors
Contact
Copyright
The V Card
Copyright © 2017 by Lauren Blakely and Lili Valente
Cover Design by Helen Williams. Photography by Paul Van Der Linde
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book. This contemporary romance is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners. This eBook is licensed for your personal use only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with, especially if you enjoy sexy, hilarious romance novels with alpha males. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return it and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author’s work.
The V Card
By Lauren Blakely
and Lili Valente
Once upon a time, a few years ago, two writer friends created an erotic, romantic suspense serial under the pen name Sophie Holloway. At its heart, that serial was the story of a woman asking her deceased brother’s best friend to give her lessons in seduction. Recently, those same two writers started from scratch with that romantic concept and wrote an entirely new take on it as a fun, fresh, sexy romantic comedy. The V Card is that story, and it has been completely rewritten, from chapter one all the way through to the epilogue, as a brand-new lessons in seduction romance. Sophie’s erotic serial is no longer available.
Also By Lauren Blakely
The Big Rock Series
Big Rock
Mister O
Well Hung
Full Package
Joy Ride
Hard Wood
One Love Series dual-POV Standalones
The Sexy One
The Only One
The Hot One
Standalones
The Knocked Up Plan
Most Valuable Playboy
Stud Finder
Most Likely to Score
Wanderlust (February 2018)
Come As You Are (April 2018)
Part-Time Lover (June 2018)
The Real Deal (Summer 2018)
Far Too Tempting
21 Stolen Kisses
Playing With Her Heart
Out of Bounds
The Caught Up in Love Series
Caught Up In Us
Pretending He’s Mine
Trophy Husband
Stars in Their Eyes
The No Regrets Series
The Thrill of It
The Start of Us
Every Second With You
The Seductive Nights Series
First Night (Julia and Clay, prequel novella)
Night After Night (Julia and Clay, book one)
After This Night (Julia and Clay, book two)
One More Night (Julia and Clay, book three)
A Wildly Seductive Night (Julia and Clay novella, book 3.5)
Nights With Him (A standalone novel about Michelle and Jack)
Forbidden Nights (A standalone novel about Nate and Casey)
The Sinful Nights Series
Sweet Sinful Nights
Sinful Desire
Sinful Longing
Sinful Love
The Fighting Fire Series
Burn For Me (Smith and Jamie)
Melt for Him (Megan and Becker)
Consumed By You (Travis and Cara)
The Jewel Series
A two-book sexy contemporary romance series
The Sapphire Affair
The Sapphire Heist
Also by Lili Valente
Standalones
The Baby Maker (February 2018)
The Bad Motherpuckers Series (Standalones)
Hot as Puck
Sexy Motherpucker
Puck-Aholic
Puck me Baby
Sexy Flirty Dirty Romantic Comedies (Standalones)
Magnificent Bastard
Spectacular Rascal
Incredible You
Meant for You
The Master Me Series
(Red HOT erotic Standalone novellas)
Snowbound with the Billionaire
Snowed in with the Boss
Masquerade with the Master
Bought by the Billionaire Series
(HOT novellas, must be read in order)
Dark Domination
Deep Domination
Desperate Domination
Divine Domination
Kidnapped by the Billionaire Series
(HOT novellas, must be read in order)
Filthy Wicked Love
Crazy Beautiful Love
One More Shameless Night
Under His Command Series
(HOT novellas, must be read in order)
Controlling her Pleasure
Commanding her Trust
Claiming her Heart
To the Bone Series
(Sexy Romantic Suspense, must be read in order)
A Love so Dangerous
A Love so Deadly
A Love so Deep
Run with Me Series
(Emotional New Adult Romantic Suspense.
Must be read in order.)
Run with Me
Fight for You
The Bad Boy’s Temptation Series
(Must be read in order)
The Bad Boy’s Temptation
The Bad Boy’s Seduction
The Bad Boy’s Redemption
The Lonesome Point Series
(Sexy Cowboys written with Jessie Evans)
Leather and Lace
Saddles and Sin
Diamonds and Dust
12 Dates of Christmas
Glitter and Grit
Sunny with a Cha
nce of True Love
Chaps and Chance
Ropes and Revenge
8 Second Angel
About
When you think about how easy it is to lose keys, phones, sunglasses, and your dignity on social media, you might figure it'd be a cinch for me to ditch my V Card.
You'd be wrong.
At 25, I run a successful business, live in a fantastic apartment, and have fabulous friends to go out with any night of the week. And yet I'm still a card-carrying member of a club I don't want to belong to anymore. Good thing I know just the man for the deflowering job—my brother’s business partner and best friend.
Graham Campbell is charming, smart, and, I’m told, oh-so-skilled in the sack. As long as I keep my eyes on the prize, there’s no way this pluck-the-flower project could possibly complicate matters.
Work and pleasure. As the CEO of a fast-growing company, I've been enjoying both to the fullest. What do I do when the board throws me for an unexpected loop so I can keep my business in my hands? I enlist the help of my best friend's little sister since she holds a big stake in the company. But then I learn there's another big stake she wants.
The one between my legs.
I can do this. Seven nights to teach her everything I know in the bedroom. There's no way I'll fall for her, even though she’s earning top grades in every single sinfully sexy lesson. And turns out I’m learning something too. The trouble is I don’t have the answer key to what to do when I fall hard for her.
And that throws a whole new hitch in my plans.
Chapter One
Graham
Julie Andrews twirls in a field of flowers, her arms spread wide like she’s going to hug the world, while the Alps rise majestically behind her.
“That’s the one.” I point to the light-blue T-shirt with the caption—Look at all the fucks I give!—scrawled in cursive above the famous image from The Sound of Music.
It’s the perfect T-shirt for CJ.
One, she loves musicals.
Two, I’m always telling her she needs to give far fewer fucks. Shake off the little things. Don’t sweat the small stuff.
Hell, look at me. I give so few fucks I’m practically a Zen master.
Although, for the record, the fucks I do give result in pure pleasure for the giver and the receiver.
“Would you like me to model that for you?”
I blink up at the unexpected offer. The curvy saleswoman bats her eyelashes suggestively. “It looks like it might be just my size,” she says, those baby blues drifting down to where she wants me to look.
Holy hell. That’s an eyeful. But of course, I’m only noticing her impressive rack because I want to get a look at her name tag. Ahem . . .
Olive.
I scrub a hand across my jaw. Damn, this shirt would look excellent on Olive.
Just have her try it on, the naughty devil on my shoulder whispers, determined to knock me off the wagon.
But that’s not happening. Not today, or any day in the near future.
I fish a fifty from my wallet and set it on the counter, calling on my best Bruce Willis in Die Hard 2. Just the fax, ma’am. Damn, he was cool in that film. In every film.
“Just the shirt, ma’am,” I say, flashing her a lopsided grin that has, admittedly, been known to melt panties.
“Ma’am?” She giggles. “You’re making me feel old.”
I swallow the teasing response on the tip of my tongue and slam on the charm brakes. Must. Stop. Flirting. I’m on the straight and narrow now. No distractions. Just laser-focus, like Bruce Willis disarming terrorists and saving Christmas.
“And can you wrap it up, please?” I ask, since CJ deserves the best. I can’t just waltz into brunch, ask her to pretty please with sugar on top help me save my company, and hand her a T-shirt in a plastic bag. Pfft.
The least I can do is gift wrap my request. Besides, I pride myself on excellence in gift-giving.
I check the scores for the Portland Badgers, my favorite hockey team, as busty Olive who I’m not going to hit on—not going to hit on, not going to hit on—wraps soft pink paper around the shirt, tying it with a silky white bow before slipping it into a pink gift bag. Perfect for a woman like CJ. Pink is her color.
I thank Olive and head out of the boutique, the midmorning sun of a gorgeous spring day in Manhattan shining brightly above.
My driver, Gary, waits for me at the curb of this cobbled street in the Village, and I remind myself to give him an even bigger tip, since he never idles. The dude always turns off the engine while he waits for me, treating the earth right.
That’s worth every penny of a tip.
Another thing worth every penny is having a town car at my disposal.
New York can suck it without a driver.
I can’t believe there was a day when I didn’t have this. Growing up with jack shit, my shoes held together by duct tape, I was lucky to have bus fare. I won’t ever forget how lucky I am to have all this now, and to take care of my family, too, so their shoes are whatever kind they want.
I slide onto the cool leather seat, and my phone dings with a note from my good friend Luna, thanking me for recommending she see the newest Zach Galifianakis flick. Apparently, she laughed all the way through. I’m sending a quick you’re always welcome, when another text lands. This one is from Lucy.
My shoulders tense, and I tell Gary to head to Ruby’s Kitchen on the Upper West Side, a farm-to-table place that has the best eggs in the city.
“Of course, Graham. Did you find what you were looking for?”
“I did. A perfect gift for CJ.” A smile crosses my lips as I think of CJ and her nerdy addiction to novelty T-shirts, but the grin erases itself when I glance back down at my phone.
Lucy. Lush, but loony Lucy.
I really should block her number.
But if I did that, she would show up on my doorstep, crazy leaking out of every pore, and I would need a damned crowbar to pry her off of me. Briefly, I wonder what Bruce’s John McClane would do in a situation like this, but then decide he wouldn’t let it happen in the first place.
Just the fax, ma’am, and yippee-ki-yay-motherfucker.
Lucy: Hey there, G-Man. What are you up to?
I roll my eyes at the nickname I can’t stomach then fire off a quick reply.
Busy.
Nothing shuts down a textual flirt attempt like a one-word reply. I’ll just keep Die Harding it through the day, like John McClane would if he were the badass CEO of a sexy-as-sin lingerie company.
I delete the text and shove the phone into the pocket of my jeans.
Ex-girlfriends have a way of coming out of the woodwork at the least opportune times, proving my long-standing belief that any relationship that lasts for more than a few weeks is a Big Mistake. Gigantic with a capital G.
Lucy, for all her sexy curves, filthy mouth, and willingness to tackle any challenge in the book on exotic sex positions, is proving to be the biggest mistake of them all.
The trouble is, I’ve always been a sucker for the crazy ones. They’re just really good in bed.
Okay, fine, that’s a lie.
I’m a sucker for all the ladies. Blond, brunette, redhead. Crazy, sane, smart. I love women. We’ve had a solid mutual appreciation society going on for years.
Until Lucy came along, and the focus-sucking vortex of her growing obsession with me served as a stark reminder that I don’t have time for distractions in any shape or form. I don’t have a minute to spare on a romantic relationship. Not with my business at stake. My industry is in a massive state of flux, and I need to concentrate on keeping the company train rattling along at full speed.
That’s why I’m seeing CJ.
She’s my secret weapon, the key to making sure Adored moves in the right direction, despite the suitors waiting in the wings for my baby, doing their best to tempt my shareholders.
Absently, I run my hand over the silky bow, frowning as my fingers slide across a card. Plucking
it from the bag, I turn it over—In case you change your mind about wanting more than the shirt.
I smirk. So Olive found a way to get her number into my hands after all.
But I'm a good boy and have been since things ended with Lucy a few months ago.
A very good boy, who has no use for a beautiful woman’s phone number.
Though a quickie would take my mind off of this upcoming board meeting, and Olive did seem like the kind of woman who would be fine with a one-night stand—flirty, but not raring to sink her claws into me . . .
I grab my phone again and tap out a message to Olive.
Graham: Anything in particular you think would change my mind?
Almost immediately, my phone pings again.
My eyes practically pop out of my head when I open the multimedia message. Olive is one bold woman. One bold, busty woman.
I blow out a long stream of air, reminding myself I need to stay strong.
I type out a reply.
Graham: Sorry, Olive. I sent that message as a mistake.
Before I can hit send, though, she replies again.
With a dozen smiley panda emoticons.
I groan, sliding a hand over my face.
Emoticons. Why did it have to be emoticons? Is it possible for anyone these days to communicate without a stupid smiley face?
My phone dings once more.
A winking emoticon.
Then a red-thong-wearing emoticon.
And finally, a unicorn jumping over an eggplant.
Fuck. This is what happens when I let myself even think about stepping off the straight, narrow, and celibate path.
Graham: Sorry, Olive. I’m not the eggplant you’re looking for. I need to delete your number.
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