Someday I hoped he would be. Someday soon.
“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” I muttered as I laughed. “Get to the good stuff.”
He reeled off the screenwriter’s name and number so quickly I blinked, missing most of it.
Grabbing a pen, I hunted around for a sheet of paper when I spotted one of Nina’s ever-present notebooks. I crossed the distance to the kitchen counter to write down the number.
As I replayed the message, I flipped open the notebook to scratch down the digits, but the second I saw her writing on the page, the pen slipped from my fingers.
The voice on the message turned Charlie Brown–warbly.
My head swam with images.
What on earth was I looking at?
Was this what I thought it was?
This fantastic, delicious, filthy list.
In sweet, clever, brainy Nina’s handwriting.
My friend.
My neighbor.
My deliciously depraved friend and neighbor.
I shouldn’t have looked, but hell if I could tear my eyes away now.
4
Adam
Arousal kicked in as soon as I read the first item on the list. When I reached the second, I was hard as a rock. And as I finished the third, I was sure I’d be imitating a skyscraper for days.
1. Get down on my knees.
2. Beg for it.
3. Talk dirty to me.
Scrubbing a hand over my jaw, I exhaled roughly.
This. List.
This filthy, fantastic list.
It didn’t end there. More items filled the page, fantasy after filthy fantasy, elaborately detailed. Numbers four, five, six, seven, eight, and then nine.
Holy hell. The last few words of nine sent the temperature in me skyrocketing. F*ck me hard, f*ck me good, f*ck me for the first time.
My eyes devoured them all, my body heating like a supernova. I was a spacecraft about to re-enter Earth’s atmosphere, tearing through the atmosphere at five thousand degrees Fahrenheit or hotter.
Could I imagine it? Hell, yes. I was living it right now.
I shook my head, like I was trying to wake myself up in case this was a dream. The red-hot, dirty dream of discovering the girl-next-door’s fantasies, all of them.
Except for one that wasn’t finished. Number eleven—it looked like she’d started something with the word watch in it, but hadn’t finished.
No matter. The rest was clear and explicit.
My skin sizzled as I read it again, my mouth watering at every item on this sexual bucket list.
Including number ten.
That one taunted me the most.
I tugged at my shirt collar.
Stepping away from the list, I paced around the kitchen. I was an explorer who’d stumbled across a precious artifact, one that had great and formidable powers.
My mind assembled the movie reel of her list, frame after debauched frame. Nina bent over the couch, ass in the air. Nina on her knees, her wrists tied behind her back. Nina begging, pleading, crying out for my shaft.
I flinched, surprised at the ruthless immediacy of the film in my head, the shamelessly erotic way I’d spliced together all the images to add me into the credits of her fantasy cast.
I was surprised, too, at the hammering of my pulse.
The rushing of my blood.
And the relentless desire her list stirred in me. This was more than simply being turned on by an idea.
I was turned on by the idea of her, in all these positions.
I swallowed roughly, turning around, walking back to the counter. I slammed the notebook shut, the illustrated owl on the front cover staring back at me with a grin across his feathered face. Like he knew something.
Like he was trying to tell me something.
What words of advice did the owl have for me?
I nearly smacked myself.
“Get it together,” I muttered. “You’re talking to an illustrated owl.”
A wise man would have walked away. A wise man would pretend he’d never seen it and shove the list into the trunk in the back of his brain, locking it up and throwing away the key.
I’d thought I was a wise man. I’d vowed to become one after Rose pulled the wool over my trusting eyes, using me.
But right now, I didn’t feel wise, and I didn’t feel used.
I felt hungry.
Ravenous was more like it, and I wanted to devour my good friend.
Because according to this list, Nina—beautiful, sassy, captivating Nina—was a virgin.
A virgin with a naughty appetite.
And, it seemed, judging from number ten—find the man to give me this list—she was a virgin on an erotic mission.
I’d seen what happened to women who tangled with the wrong men. I’d witnessed far too much heartbreak from my sisters when they got involved with bad boys they hoped to turn into good guys. Never worked, never would.
The result was heartache and tears.
Some other man could find this list. Some other man could hurt my friend.
I couldn’t let Nina give up her virginity—my God, what a beautiful, intoxicating gift—to some random guy she found online, or in a store, or at the freaking gym.
Number ten.
There was only one answer to number ten.
Me.
That man had to be me. I had to convince her that I was the one to give her all these fantasies, and that we’d come out on the other side the way we were right now—friends and neighbors.
But first, I’d start with food, with easy conversation, with the way we were. That was how I’d want her to see my proposition for my role in the list. To see that our friendship was the perfect basis for ten filthy commandments.
5
Nina
The shot was perfect.
Miss Sheridan down the hall had mastered the warrior pose.
She showed it to me one more time on her phone, nudging me, proud of her prowess. “See? How about that? I can’t leave my twenty-two thousand, two hundred and one followers waiting. You are a doll for helping me shoot this video at last.”
“I’m happy to do it. After all, I would never want to be the one to stand between you and even one of those twenty-two thousand, two hundred and one. They need to see your warrior pose,” I said, completely serious, because this woman was a badass dame who simply needed a little tech support now and then. I was happy to provide it.
Miss Sheridan was a former showgirl and now she taught yoga classes both locally and on YouTube. She’d bought a new cell phone for the videos and had struggled to find the setting for horizontal—hence her emergency knock.
Boy, oh boy, did I know that struggle too.
“You should try my classes,” she said, folding her hands together in a namaste. She still had the curves of a showgirl, and the attitude. “Yoga for Showgirls and Seniors is getting quite the following. And yoga is good for flexibility in the you-know-what.”
I couldn’t resist the bait. I raised an innocent eyebrow. “In the butt? Is that what you mean?”
Her jaw dropped, and she cackled. “And to think I was going to say it’s good for flexibility in the bedroom.”
I laughed. “I know. Just messing with you.”
“Speaking of the bedroom, how are things with your roommate?” She wiggled her eyebrows, tipping her forehead toward the hallway.
“He’s not my roomie. He’s just using the guest room while his place is being painted.”
She made an A-OK gesture with her fingers. “Right, sure,” she said, in a way that made it clear she found my answer had holes like Swiss cheese in it.
“I swear he is,” I said, insisting, because it was true. Adam and I were friends and only friends, and that was all I wanted.
My sole focus was on business and, as of an hour ago, finding a way to eradicate the overwhelming plethora of fantasies from invading my brain nonstop during work hours. Once I knew what my clients knew, I’d be able to connect with
them on another level, like I wanted.
She hummed. “But he’s a nice one. A sweet one. He fixed the door in my laundry room the other day. And just a few weeks ago, he hung some new shelves for me.”
“He’s a handy one too,” I added, keeping it light.
“And so outgoing. He’s like the sun. You can’t tell me you don’t feel chemistry with him.” She arched a brow in question.
Her skepticism pierced me, and I looked away, my eyes landing on her tabby cat lounging in a streak of early evening sun cast through the window.
The cat stretched elegantly, looking like Evangeline, at ease in her body.
Something I was not, so I asked myself the questions Miss Sheridan was hinting at.
Did I feel chemistry with Adam? Smart, charming, easygoing Adam?
Friendly chemistry, for sure.
We were pals, birds of a feather.
And empirically, Adam was attractive. There were no two ways about that. With honey-brown hair, warm hazel eyes, a square jaw, and just the right amount of scruff, the man radiated magazine-quality looks. Like Scott Eastwood, with the same touch of rugged exterior.
But Adam was good.
And even though I was a virgin, I knew what I wanted.
A dark and dirty man to work through my wish list, the one that had been percolating in my head for years, fueled by the books I read, the videos I watched, the Tumblr feeds I devoured.
A rough man, a commanding man who’d help me cross off item after unholy item.
And all I needed from that unnamed man was to shed my virginity. To fulfill these rampant fantasies and eject them out of my head.
Adam was a straight-up kind of guy. I doubted he’d pin me down, shove my face into the pillow, and tell me to suck his—
I stopped the lust train, slapping on a smile for the older lady. “We are just friends,” I told her, and that was the other reason I couldn’t entertain romantic thoughts of Adam.
We’d become close friends over the last two years. He’d helped me grow my business, offering feedback on marketing and my online presence. His wisdom was so spot-on I’d become the most sought-after boudoir photographer in Sin City at age twenty-four.
As for him, I’d become his go-to friend, the one he played trivia games and shared podcasts with. That role had been easy to fill, especially after his last relationship turned sour, and he found his girlfriend not only using, but selling opiates near college campuses. She’d stolen money from him to fund her drug empire. To say Adam was jaded on romance was a euphemism.
He was turned all the way off love.
I headed for the door. “I’m glad your video is working now, and I can’t wait to see your triangle pose,” I told Miss Sheridan, and I left, walking down the hallway to my condo at the end.
When I opened the door, Adam stood in the kitchen slicing peppers for dinner. He shot me his winning grin, the kind where his dimples shone.
That was my Adam. He was a good man, and seeing him here in my home warmed my heart.
I set down the fork, heaved a satisfied sigh, and gestured to the empty plates. “Fine, you win. My taste buds are definitely singing a rock anthem,” I said, conceding.
“Excellent,” he said, his hazel eyes twinkling. “Are we talking ‘Don’t Stop Believin’’ or a ‘For Those about to Rock, We Salute You’ kind of anthem?”
“Please. This is ‘We Are the Champions’ level.”
He rubbed his fingers on his shirt then blew on them. “Damn. That’s tops. I impress myself.”
I patted his shoulder. “Don’t rest on your laurels though. One must always guard against complacency,” I said, then lowered my voice to a whisper. “Or else—”
He held up a hand, shaking his head. “Don’t say ‘pumpkin.’ Don’t even say ‘pumpkin.’”
“Pumpkin? What pumpkin? I was simply going to say you don’t want to slip to only a pop song level of success for your dishes.”
“Can’t stoop to pop. I’m a rock-anthems-or-bust kind of man,” he said.
“Don’t I know it,” I said as I picked up the dishes and brought them to the sink.
As we rinsed the plates and set them in the dishwasher, we caught up more on our workday. He told me about his two deals, and how excited he was for the shows to launch.
“I’m stoked about this new slate of shows. They’re edgy and clever. The perfect dark comedies that today’s viewers love.”
“I can’t wait to tune in when they’re on,” I said.
I loved his enthusiasm for his business. It matched my own for mine, and we’d always had that in common.
“And what about you? Did you capture some fantastic photos from your shoot?”
“I did,” I said as we finished cleaning. “The couple that was in today—Marco and Evangeline—were great subjects. The camera loved them, and they seemed to enjoy their shoot too,” I said.
“Of course they did. You’re ‘We Are the Champions’ level good at your job.”
“And on that high note, want to play a round of our favorite trivia questions game?” I asked as I folded the dish towel and set it back on the counter.
“With wine, of course?” he asked.
“Everything is better with wine,” I answered, and we settled into the couch, glasses in hand. With each question, I was reminded once more of why I’d said to Miss Sheridan that we were just friends.
Because we were the kind of pals who teased and laughed, who poked fun and played games.
But then he grew quiet as we volleyed questions about new science facts at each other. Normally he’d make a joke about some impossible-to-answer question, pretend it was a trick by the game maker.
Only he didn’t. He seemed lost in thought.
“Excuse me for a second,” he said, and rose, heading for the guest room.
That’s odd.
But ten seconds later, he returned, a determined look on his face as he sat next to me, closer than he had been.
I parted my lips to speak. “What’s—?”
“Nina,” he said, his voice rougher, deeper than I’d heard it before. “There’s something I need to tell you.”
Tension darted down my spine. Those words never preceded anything good.
What was he going to tell me? Was he leaving Vegas? I worried about that from time to time. He worked in the entertainment business, and his job could easily be moved to Georgia or Canada or Hollywood. While he traveled to those places a lot, Vegas was his home and his company’s home. I hoped it would remain so, but you never knew. “Are you moving to Atlanta?” I blurted out.
He furrowed his brow. “What? No.”
“Oh good. I was worried,” I said, relaxing. But then, something else was bugging him. “What’s going on?”
He scrubbed a hand across his jaw, exhaling, then meeting my gaze, his hazel eyes shining darker than usual, like there were secrets in them he was going to reveal. “I’m going to be blunt because I believe that’s what you want. When I came home today, I needed to write a phone number down, and I flipped open your notebook. To grab a sheet of paper,” he said, and my heart raced rabbit fast. My pulse sped off the charts.
“I wasn’t prying, Nina, but I saw a list you’d written,” he said, like he was laying out the facts he desperately wanted me to believe.
A white sheet of shame descended over me. Mortification took on a new meaning.
But inside my embarrassment something else formed—a kernel of anger. Red and glowing.
“That was personal,” I said, my jaw tight, as I moved away from him. “You shouldn’t have looked at it. You shouldn’t.” Maybe if I said that enough, he’d forget what he saw, erase it from his mind.
“I know I shouldn’t have,” he said, gravel in his voice. “And I’d like to say I feel terrible for invading your privacy. But . . .”
I furrowed my brow, confused. “You don’t feel bad? Then why are you telling me?”
He shook his head. “I wanted to feel bad, but I couldn’t
find it in me to.”
I shot him a stare. “Then why are you telling me?” I asked again, more bite in my tone. I stood, heading to the kitchen to clean the counter—anything to get away from the embarrassment of my most private fantasies revealed, right alongside my deepest secret.
His footsteps echoed across the floor, and in seconds he moved behind me. “I’m telling you because of number ten.” His words rumbled across the air.
I knew what number ten was.
Number ten was the linchpin of the whole list.
Number ten would be the hardest item to accomplish.
His body was inches from mine, so close I could inhale his scent, like the winter woods, and a sliver of desire thrummed in my veins, surprising the hell out of me.
The hairs on my neck stood on end. My mind went on high alert, racing through possibilities as quickly as I’d cycled through fantasies about Marco and Evangeline.
Was he about to say what I thought he was?
But Adam wasn’t that kind of guy, I reminded myself.
I waited for him to speak next, to fill the pulsing silence, even though the noises in my head were so damn loud they nearly drowned out any words.
Adam dipped his face closer, brushing his mouth over my ear, and whispered, “Ask me, Nina. I’ll be the man to do all those things to you for the first time.”
He spoke in a command. Like me asking him was an instruction. No, it was an order.
He’d given me a command.
That shiver turned into a full-body shudder.
6
Nina
Adam was never in the cards.
For all the reasons I laid out in my head when Miss Sheridan had inquired. She wasn’t the only one in my life who’d nudged me about Adam. My friend Lily had at her wedding, tugging me aside and asking when I was going to go for it. Your wedding is making you loopy, I’d teased. My friend Kate had simply arched a dubious brow.
Had they seen something in him I hadn’t?
What would I see if I turned around?
The Virgin Gift Page 3
