The virgin next door, p.1
The Virgin Next Door, page 1
The Virgin Next Door
Lauren Blakely
Contents
Also by Lauren Blakely
About
The Virgin Next Door
Her Prologue
1. My Glitter Dealer
2. Her Devil Butt
3. I Will Never Stop Checking My Skirts
4. A Deadly Game of Frogger
5. The Sex and Sandwiches Giveaway
6. The Perpetrator
7. Big Dictionaries
8. Mistress of Cheek
9. My Hot Mess Week
10. No Jack Holes Here
11. Survival Tips
12. Boobs on the Half Shell
13. Mister Sexy Pants
14. Yes, I am
15. A Good Boss
16. The Milo Buffet
17. Throw Me a Bone
18. A Sex Algorithm
19. Paper Airplanes
20. The Price of Admission
21. An Alligator Pit
22. He Rose to the Occasion
23. Two Down
24. Oops!
25. Ace in My Hole
26. Balcony Gardener
27. The Mother of All Complications
28. Call It Good
29. The Man Blues
30. Lady Trouble
31. A Busy Beaver
32. A Dog’s Life
33. The Virgin Club Alumni
Epilogue
Epilogue
Also by Lauren Blakely
Contact
Copyright © 2022 by Lauren Blakely
Cover Design by Kate Farlow
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 book is licensed for your personal use only. This book 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 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.
Also by Lauren Blakely
Big Rock Series
Big Rock
Mister O
Well Hung
Full Package
Joy Ride
Hard Wood
* * *
Happy Endings Series
Come Again
Shut Up and Kiss Me
Kismet
My Single-Versary
* * *
Ballers And Babes
Most Valuable Playboy
Most Likely to Score
A Wild Card Kiss
* * *
Rules of Love Series
The Virgin Rule Book
The Virgin Game Plan
The Virgin Replay
The Virgin Scorecard
* * *
Hopelessly Bromantic Duet (MM)
Hopelessly Bromantic
Here Comes My Man
* * *
Men of Summer Series
Scoring With Him
Winning With Him
All In With Him
* * *
The Guys Who Got Away Series
Dear Sexy Ex-Boyfriend
The What If Guy
Thanks for Last Night
The Dream Guy Next Door
* * *
The Gift Series
The Engagement Gift
The Virgin Gift
The Decadent Gift
* * *
The Extravagant Series
One Night Only
One Exquisite Touch
My One-Week Husband
* * *
MM Standalone Novels
A Guy Walks Into My Bar
One Time Only
The Bromance Zone
The Best Men (Co-written with Sarina Bowen)
* * *
The Heartbreakers Series
Once Upon a Real Good Time
Once Upon a Sure Thing
Once Upon a Wild Fling
* * *
Boyfriend Material
Asking For a Friend
Sex and Other Shiny Objects
One Night Stand-In
* * *
Lucky In Love Series
Best Laid Plans
The Feel Good Factor
Nobody Does It Better
Unzipped
* * *
Always Satisfied Series
Satisfaction Guaranteed
Instant Gratification
Overnight Service
Never Have I Ever
PS It’s Always Been You
Special Delivery
* * *
The Sexy Suit Series
Lucky Suit
Birthday Suit
* * *
From Paris With Love
Wanderlust
Part-Time Lover
* * *
One Love Series
The Sexy One
The Only One
The Hot One
The Knocked Up Plan
Come As You Are
* * *
Standalones
Stud Finder
The V Card
The Real Deal
Unbreak My Heart
The Break-Up Album
* * *
The Caught Up in Love Series
The Pretending Plot
The Dating Proposal
The Second Chance Plan
The Private Rehearsal
* * *
Seductive Nights Series
Night After Night
After This Night
One More Night
A Wildly Seductive Night
About
Raise your hand if you’ve ever done this. Written a racy message and sent it to—oops—the wrong person.
Yeah, me too. Except, I sent my latest Tales of a Naughty Virgin column detailing my fantasies about my hot, charming, thoroughly bangable next-door-neighbor to…MY ENTIRE COMPANY.
Did I mention I’m a children’s book editor?
Well, I was.
*Facepalm*
At least the column goes viral, but I’m still the gal who gets fired for her not-safe-for-work thoughts about the so-called “Mister Sexy Pants.”
Now I need a job stat, so I jump on the first opportunity. And I come face to face with my new boss.
Mister Sexy Pants himself.
Item number one on my to-do list? Make sure my boss never finds out his alter ego…since all of New York knows I want Mister Sexy Pants to punch my virgin club card.
The Virgin Next Door
A Dating Games Novel
By Lauren Blakely
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Trigger warnings in this title include…not a damn thing except glitter and douchey exes and slightly jerky dads barely mentioned! This is a feel-good book extraordinaire!
Her Prologue
I Shall Call Him Mister Sexy Pants
* * *
I know a thing or two about fetishes thanks to my super-secret dating-in-the-city column, but I didn’t know about my own fetish until it began a few months ago. I’d just landed the column gig, so I took myself out to celebrate, as one does, with cake.
The guy who served me the slice at Peace of Cake was sexy and clever, and we flirted over frosting for a few minutes, talking about nerdy things like fractions and synonyms. But then, a pack of teenagers swarmed the shop. I had to go, and I never got his name. He called me Miss Polka Dot. I called him Mister Dessert.
I returned a few days later, but he wasn’t there. Turned out he’d just been helping out a friend. I had no idea where to find him.
C’est la vie.
But a month after that, I was sitting on my third-floor balcony of my apartment in the Village, watching New York go by in the spring, when I spotted him walking down the street. And what a view. This specimen of bearded, inked modern man wasn’t picking his clothes from the conventional dude-drobe of baggy pants, loose jeans, or Boring-with-a-capital-B khakis. He was clearly dressing for my delight in those trim, checked pants that hugged his legs.
Thank you, Mister Sexy Pants.
I, Veronica Valentine, had discovered a brand-new kink. I had a thing for men wearing trendy, tight t
But then, a little while after that, life happened, things happened, trouble happened, and my crush crashed into the middle of my life, where I’d have to see him every single stinking day.
The plan? Make sure he never, ever knows he’s the one and only Mister Sexy Pants.
1
My Glitter Dealer
Veronica
* * *
A tiny speck of glitter floats through the afternoon light from the living room window, like dandelion fluff. Then, it hovers above my keyboard and parachutes onto the letter Q.
Oh, hell no.
Glitter is the devil.
I flick at it, but the obstinate turkey won’t vacate the key. I lean forward in my vinyl kitchen chair, then blow on the enemy.
Bye, bye, you glittery imp. You will not ruin my editorial letter to Agnes Millicent.
With the keyboard again pristine, I return to my letter to one of the cleverest children’s book writers of this generation. I’m ready to tell her how she can tease out the conflict between the frog and the prince a smidge more when . . . bastard!
Another emerald particle skydives onto the keyboard.
I head to the bathroom, my tan Chihuahua trotting gamely behind me because no woman is allowed to use the restroom without her dog. I check out my reflection, and what the hell? My neck shimmers like tinsel on a Christmas tree.
“Did you knock a tube of glitter onto me, StudMuffin?” I ask my boy.
Big bat ears pop up like radar dishes, but he doesn’t confess. He tilts his head in the direction of . . . of course.
The sleeping Siamese lies posed like an odalisque, his rotund body stretched across the hall floor.
“I mean, maybe he did it,” I say to the dog. “Cats are like butlers.”
This glitter could be left over from the Little Artists class I taught yesterday at the creativity co-op over on Christopher Street. Grabbing a washcloth from the shelf behind me in the bathroom, I daub at the emerald sparkles on my throat, trying valiantly to Sherlock Holmes my way through the Case of the Glittery Neck.
Hmm.
That new silk scarf my sister lent me—well, I lifted it from her wardrobe last weekend, but those are sister’s rights—did have a little sheen to it. I scrub my skin clean, then return to the kitchen table, ready to conquer this letter, one that will surely impress my editorial director, who’ll then promote me, lauding me as one of the most talented editors ever at McGee Whitney Books for Young Readers.
StudMuffin whines at my feet as soon as I start typing. I invite him into my lap, patting my bare legs. Pants can suck it on remote-work days.
He doesn’t jump but instead races to the door in a flurry of tan fur and desperation. “Hold on, handsome. I’ll be right there.”
I dart to my bedroom and grab the red polka-dot skirt I left on the bureau after art class and pull it on. One pocket sags, and I stuff my hand in, groping around. Ah, there’s a tube of glitter from class yesterday, a lipstick, and I think my pair of skull earrings with the missing hook. But I have to jet, so I leave the treasure trove intact. Then I snag the scarf, because I am not going to offend Manhattan by showing them my nest of unwashed hair.
No way.
I fly to the door, leash up my pooch, and stuff my feet in flats. We rocket down the three flights in my walkup building, sprint out to Grove Street, and arrive at his favorite tree just in time for the little guy to make his mark in Manhattan.
I catch my breath as he whizzes.
Man. Nothing like the fear of dog pee to make a gal run. As StudMuffin does his business, I scan the busy block for . . . well, for anything out of place. New York seems to be under construction these days, so my street has become a postcard for scaffolding. A cement truck swings onto my block, and then I hear a whisking noise.
Dammit. I know that sound. I have to know that sound.
I spot the cyclist as he hops from the street onto the sidewalk to avoid the truck. This is bad. The guy on the bike is now twenty feet away, and my dog hates bikes as much as I hate bad grammar. “StudMuffin!” I warn as he lowers his leg at last.
My brown-eyed boy glances innocently at me while I tug on his leash. I’m about to scoop him up and out of the line of fire when he catches a glimpse of the wheeled velociraptor.
He loses his canine mind. We’re talking ear-splitting howls of bike rage as he prepares to ambush the two-wheeler, now five feet away.
I lunge for StudMuffin before he can attack the front wheel. Immediately, the cyclist yanks the handlebars and steers the bike into the tree, stumbling off it, but landing on his feet. “Whoa,” he mutters as I hug the dog to my chest, my pulse spiking.
I whip around to face the cyclist.
It’s . . . holy hell . . . no way.
My dog bike-tripped Mister Sexy Pants. The hot, clever guy I talked to once upon a time in a cake shop a few months ago. The guy whose name I never got.
His back is to me as he untangles his . . . pants leg.
Gah. Not helpful. His butt is so cute in those tight pants.
Think fast, Veronica.
I huff out a breath. Check. Cinnamon-y.
I lift a hand to my wild hair. Thank goddess I hid it in a scarf.
A breeze blows by. It’s summer, so the air feels good on my legs.
The guy straightens and peers at me, studying my face, then my body.
“Oh. Hi. Miss Polka Dot,” he says, using the nickname he gave me that day at the shop. He remembers, which is awesome, but a little terrifying, considering my state of attire. “Um. You . . . well, you have . . .” he says in a voice straight out of my daydreams. And my night dreams. And my dirty dreams.
I flash a self-deprecating smile as I lift a hand absently to my neck. “My neck is covered in glitter. I thought I got it all off, but I must have missed some,” I say.
But he doesn’t laugh. He winces like he’s borderline embarrassed.
“Actually,” he begins, swallowing, then stopping. He was smooth the day I chatted with him in the cake shop, but he’s awkward now and it’s so cute. I love awkward men. They’re such a breath of fresh air. “It’s not your neck. It’s your . . .”
He points, lowering his hand in the general direction of my . . . fresh air.
My ass!
That’s why there’s a breeze.
I slap my hand to my butt, and it’s swinging in the summer breeze. I hurriedly tug my obstinate skirt hem out of the waistband of my panties.
Where it’s been the whole time.
Great. Just great. I’ve been flashing New York City my cheeky black panties with pink cartoon devils on them since I hightailed it out of my home.
My other cheeks heat, my face surely the shade of a candy apple. Setting my dog down, I swing around, smoothing my skirt one more time when StudMuffin barks, lunging at the bike. I spin back to grab him but as I whirl, the contents of my pockets clatter to the sidewalk.
