“I ditched the corsage. Tonight isn’t the prom. It’s a gala, and this seemed more fitting.” I hand her the bag, anticipation skating over my skin, along with the hope that she’ll like it.

Pulling out the tissue paper, she dips her hand inside and tugs a length of wine-colored fabric from the bag. “It’s one of those wrap thingamajigs,” I say. It comes out gravelly and a little awkward.

A smile lights up her face. “You can just call it a wrap,” she says, then runs her hand over the soft fabric. “It’s silky and gorgeous.”

My heart thumps at the compliment. “Glad you like it.”

She tosses it around her shoulders and hugs it across her breasts. I breathe out hard, groaning my appreciation for how goddamn good she looks in everything—especially in something I got her.

“Gorgeous. Like you.”

“Thank you,” she says, all whispery and sexy, and I am dying with desire for her.

We step out into the hall, and she shuts the door behind us. In the elevator, she turns to me, her expression pensive but determined.

She steps closer, fiddles with my tie, then meets my eyes. “Before we do any of those things you said, there’s something I want you to know.”

16

Nadia

Funny, I don’t normally tell a guy the status of my V card on a second date.

Not on a third or fourth date either.

For the longest time, I thought my virginity was a whispery secret, a closely guarded little nugget of privacy. Right now, right here, I’m seeing it for what it is—not a secret, but a fact.

Having sex or not having sex says nothing about who I am, what I want as a woman, or what I want in bed.

I flash back to my choices with other men.

By the time I was ready to have sex, the men I dated were uninspiring. In college, I never dated anyone long enough to want to give him the keys. Then, in my master’s program, I liked a guy well enough, but when my pants were off for the first time, he groped me like I was a Thanksgiving turkey.

Kind of a turnoff.

I didn’t want any more with him or the others.

So I never told them I was a virgin.

No one has earned need-to-know status yet, because I’ve never met anyone I wanted to sleep with.

Until now.

I want the man standing across from me in a tux.

My friend.

My friend with benefits.

My brother’s best friend.

I want him, unequivocally, passionately, and so damned soon.

This awareness dawns on me all at once, like the lights turned on in a house that’s been dark.

Switch.

Every room illuminated.

And I know beyond a shadow of a doubt that I want to have sex with him.

And so, I’m not confessing my virginity. I’m sharing it.

As the elevator doors whisk shut, I meet Crosby’s gaze. “So, everything you just said to me—take me, have me, have sex with me?”

His eyes widen, sparkling with the desire I’ve seen in him since he showed up at my door tonight. “Yes?” His voice is full of anticipation.

I draw a breath but find it’s remarkably easy to tell him. Maybe because we’ve known each other for years, or because we’re friends.

Or maybe because we’ve been up-front about what we are.

Friends with benefits.

I finish the thought. “I want that. I’d really like to have sex for the first time ever. And to have it with you.”

That was easy.

As easy as buying shoes, as easy as talking to a friend, as easy as being with family.

“Tonight,” I add. It’s a relief to say because I want this so badly. I want it with every part of me, and I want it with him.

But Crosby is frozen.

He breathes out. Breathes in.

Fine, he blinks a bit.

But that is all.

I laugh, a nervous sound. “Maybe I do need a Leatherman to get you to talk.” The nerves missing before now clobber me over the head like a criminal sneaking up on me in an alley, and I twist my fingers together. “Crosby? Say something, won’t you?”

That’s what I ask.

And then I wait, terribly, awfully worried that I’ve broken him.

17

Crosby

Why am I not freaking out about deflowering my best friend’s sister?

Maybe because resisting Nadia has never been about her being Eric’s sister. It’s because I asked Eric to be my no-sex sponsor.

But Eric’s not here.

And I’m so damn grateful because I don’t want to stop.

I want to say to her, Absolutely, let’s go right this fucking second.

All right, her truth bomb does knock the breath out of me, and I have to get it back before I can answer her. She’s vibrating with nerves, and I can’t leave her like this.

“Yes.” I knock the side of my head, kick-starting my shock-stalled brain. “Yes. Yes. Yes.”

Her shoulders relax, and she lets out a laugh, chased with a long sigh of relief. Then she smiles like a sexy and innocent vixen.

That’s what surprises me the most. Nadia is a conundrum. “I wasn’t expecting you to say that. You’re so . . .” I have to hunt for the right word. “Bold and confident. You’re a woman who knows her own mind. You’re so . . . sexual. I didn’t expect you to be a virgin. You don’t seem innocent.”

The elevator doors open, and she steps out first. “I’m not innocent, Crosby. I’m simply inexperienced. But nothing is virginal up here.” She taps her temple.

I would love to know all her filthy thoughts, and I’m dying to know if they match mine. “What’s in there, Wild Girl? Tell me. I want to know every dirty thing.”

Her smile is devilish. “The other night? When I took a moment?”

I nod, my neck hot, the collar of my shirt suddenly too tight. “Yeah, I remember perfectly.”

“I imagined you on me, over me, in me. I want to feel all of that with you.”

I drag a hand over the back of my neck, letting out a low groan, my temperature shooting up to dangerous levels. With my other hand on the small of her back, I guide her out of the lobby and into the waiting limo. I tell the driver where we’re heading then raise the partition so we’re alone in the vast back seat.

I take her hand, linking my fingers through hers. “I want you so fucking much. But this is big. This is huge. I don’t want you to have any regrets.”

She furrows her brow, glancing down at our clasped hands, then back up. “Regret is not what I’m feeling now.”

I laugh lightly. “Me neither. But I don’t want you to feel it later.”

Funny, how telling Nadia how I feel is so much easier than anything I’ve ever done with any other woman, light-years easier than talking to anyone else has ever been.

“I want to do everything with you, for you, to you. I want it to be spectacular for you. You deserve that. You deserve to feel incredible,” I say.

Her eyes shine with lust and a warm kind of happiness. The sort of happiness that comes from within, from someone knowing you, understanding you.

“I’d like to feel that way,” she says in a tempting whisper.