The Virgin Society Collection

11. Survival Tips

11

SURVIVAL TIPS

Veronica

I’m on my balcony, lounging in sleep shorts and a tank, cooling myself off with a handheld pink fan since it’s boob hot. The kind of hot where I already yanked off that titty prison of a bra, twirled it around on my finger and tossed it on the bed an hour ago.

It’s Monday night, I taught a Little Artists class after work, and now I’ve got a panting dog curled up by my thigh, my laptop on my lap, and a mojito in my hand. I’m as prepared as I’ll ever be to answer questions online at The Dating Pool.

Mild-mannered florist by day . . . sexpert by night.

Though maybe I should amend that to mild-mannered florist by day who pretends to hate sandwiches so her boss won’t figure out she’s the fuck-me-and-feed-me-paninis anonymous sex columnist.

What a smooth save that was.

Not .

Milo seems cool and all, but you never know when someone will flip out. Agnes is a case in point. The last thing I need is to lose a solid temporary job. I suspect it’s an unwritten rule that writing about banging your boss is grounds for firing.

On that note, I need a drink. Twirling my metal straw in the glass, I take a fueling gulp of the cocktail, then set it beside my chair on the balcony. I stroke StudMuffin’s head. “I’ve got this. I’m going to earn some coffee change and talk about sex without thinking about anyone in particular,” I tell my Chihuahua boy.

He lifts his chin, asking for a scratch.

I comply, focusing on the dog. Not the man who stood so close to me when I was posting the chalkboard picture on Instagram.

I click over to The Dating Pool and get cracking, starting with this question from SingleInTheCity21.

How do you know if you’re going to like a fantasy? I have all these wild ones that I’m afraid to try since—what if reality just doesn’t live up? And then, what if I spend all my time in my fantasies and I never try the real thing?

Whew. That’s a lot, but I dive in to unpack her concerns one by one.

Dear SingleInTheCity21,

I hear ya! I worry about the same things. What if the real thing doesn’t compare? What if I can’t get out of my head when I finally get down to business?

But even if you’re having a party of one, why not make that the best it can be? If that’s a quickie, and all you need is a zero-to-sixty toy, then go for that. If you want to indulge in a long, slow, delicious fantasy involving role-play, and dirty talk, and blindfolds (ahem, sounds fun to me!), then go for that. As for whether reality lives up—your party of one is reality too. Enjoy it fully. If fantasy is better than reality, I say make the most of your fantasies!

Xoxo

Your Friendly Neighborhood Virgin

I hit post, then click to other questions, where I find a common theme.

Fantasies.

Seems Bellamy was onto something.

I close the laptop, set it on the balcony, then put my pooch down too, so I can stand and take my phone from my pocket.

Moving to the railing, I hit record, closing my eyes as the words form.

I Had a Dream About You . . .

Show of hands. Ever had a dirty dream about someone and then seen them the next day?

Oh, sure. It’s just me.

C’mon, we’ve all done it. In the light of day, you feel a little shy, a little transparent. Wondering things like . . . Can everyone tell that Bob O’Malley from accounting ate me out on the copier last night in my sleep? Or maybe you’re all pink in the cheeks because Daryl Mayberry in legal did a striptease for you in the break room to “I Dreamed a Dream,” and you still shouted for him to take it all off even though Fantine was dying.

You woke up embarrassed, maybe even confused, but definitely turned on.

Look, I’m still raising my hand. (And yes, those are dreams I dreamed once upon a time, though names have been changed to protect the innocent.)

Those dreams made me wonder what I craved. But my daydreams and my bedtime fantasies drive me to think about my wishes and wants too.

I want a guy to say to me . . . tell me what you want .

And I’ll tell him. Because I’ve got a list, starting with my top-five fantasies.

1. Speak up. If we’re kissing all hot and heavy, and you’re making these rough, growly noises, I’ll know how much you’re enjoying yourself. Give me sounds, murmurs, and sweet, dirty words, please.

2. Make me laugh. Sex is funny if you think about it, from the positions to the squeaks to the sheer mechanics. If you can make me laugh during sex, I bet the nookie will be better.

3. Spank me, pull my hair, push me down. I’m not a doll, so don’t treat me like one. I’m a grown woman. I won’t break. Bite me, hard, there, right there.

4. Be in the shower one night when I get home. Let me find you by following the sound of pattering water. I’ll walk in on you. Only, you’re not getting clean. You’re getting dirty . . . and I’m getting wet.

5. Tell me you thought about me all day, and I’m yours.

So, dear reader, I encourage you to make your own list. Write down your dirty dreams, and then decide if you want to find out how much you like sex on a copy machine.

Or not.

For now, I have a date with my Just for Her Diamond Flicker, and I’m going to pick something from my top-five menu.

***

Before I can sign off, a high-pitched bark rips through the air.

My eyes pop open and find StudMuffin, sniffing sage in a pot on the deck. But I know he didn’t bark—the sound came from below. I peer over the railing, and my breath catches when I find the culprit.

That’s my boss on the sidewalk, and his dog is barking at me.

Think fast.

I hit end on the recording, so I don’t lose my work, then I wrack my brain.

What do I do now?

Act innocent . It’s the best defense. Besides, did he even hear me?

Time to find out.

“Hi, there,” I say at the same volume as I dictated my column. “I was recording some thoughts on my favorite flowers and whether every day should be National Pizza Day. Yup, just working late on brilliant ideas.”

Totally not dictating a sex column.

Milo shakes his head and cups his ear, the universal sign for I can’t hear you .

Thank goddess!

Trudy tugs insistently on her leash. He points to her and then waves, and when he walks into his building next door, I do believe I’ve been saved by a dog.

Whew. That was close. I go inside and clean up the dinner dishes, both because I need to and because I need a distraction to get Milo out of my head.

My column won’t do a damn thing to get his hotness off my mind.

When the sink is spick-and-span, I dry my hands, then head to the kitchen table to clean up my transcription. Before I can start, my phone pings.

Oh!

It’s Milo texting. I click on his note as I head into my bedroom to read it.

Milo: Hey! Sorry if Trudy scared you. We’d just come home from drinks with my brother, and she must have spotted you on your balcony and wanted to say hi.

Aww, his dog likes me.

Veronica: Your dog has excellent taste.

Milo: Yes, she does. Anyway, didn’t want to worry you.

Why would he think I was worried? He couldn’t hear my top-five list.

I text back as I flop onto my bed.

Veronica: It’s all good. She didn’t freak me out. I hope you had a nice time with your brother.

There. That’s not flirty at all. We’re simply having a nice, civilized, professional-ish conversation.

Milo: I wouldn’t call it nice. More like very intense trash talk and one-upmanship. But hey, that’s what brothers do.

That’s sweet, Milo telling me about his family.

Veronica: Older or younger? Wait. Let me guess. He’s older and he’s alwaystelling you what to do, but he’s the first one at the door ready to pick you up when you’re down?

Milo: Let me guess. You have one of your own.

I settle into my purple, red, and orange pillows as I clutch the device and reply.

Veronica: I have one of those in the form of a sister. They have so many ideas, older siblings.

Milo: And they always know best.

Veronica: And they aren’t afraid to tell you.

Milo: But truth be told, I think he is. I’m going to miss him when he moves to LA.

Someone is chatty. Milo doesn’t seem to want to let this convo go any more than I do. It’s nine-thirty at night, but that’s not terribly late, so I reply with a question.

Veronica: Why is he moving?

Milo: Bryan’s a contractor. He specializes in makeovers and restoring homes, and he has a big opportunity in LA. Can you believe he’s leaving me for a job? Sheesh!

Veronica: The nerve!

Milo: My thoughts exactly. There should be a sibling law against that. Anyway, he’ll take off later this summer. For now, I try to see him as much as possible, which means I get my supply of brotherly advice on the reg. Is your sister in New York?

I shouldn’t read anything into this—how long we’ve been texting, how casually personal this feels, how quickly he’s replying. People can enjoy texting other people without it meaning they’re going to have sex on the copy machine the next day.

Veronica: Yes, she’s in the city. She’s a romance writer. And my biggest cheerleader and a total pain in the butt, and if she ever tried to move, I would lock her in my cupboard and make her stay.

Milo: LOL! (Also, I don’t usually write LOL, but if we were in person I’d laugh, so it only seems fair to let you know you made me laugh.)

I tense, eyeing the phone like it’s spying on me. Make me laugh was an item on my top-five fantasies list. Fine, make me laugh is a broad command, but is this some subtle way of telling me he heard me? But there’s no way to ask without sounding paranoid. Instead, I stick to the light-hearted mood.

Veronica: On behalf of the Fairness in Texting Council, I humbly accept your reasoning.

Milo: Do you ever want to write, like your sister? Since you worked in publishing, I was just curious.

Ugh. My shoulders sink. I don’t want him to connect the dots between me and my secret writing identity. I hate this, but I have no choice.

Veronica: I think all the romance writing genes went to her.

But after I hit send, I feel like a dirty little liar. Maybe I can be direct-ish about other topics.

Veronica: By the way, I was dictating my to-do list when Trudy said hello. Tell her I say hi too.

That’s honest enough, but it protects my anonymity with my column.

Milo: She sends her regards to StudMuffin and you as well. Also, thanks for reminding me of my failures in life. My New Year’s resolution was to do a better job at keeping a to-do list, but then I forgot to write it down.

I can’t even laugh at the joke. Is he serious? Can anyone be?

Veronica: I AM SHOOK. You don’t keep a list? How do you function?

Milo: I try to remember everything.

Veronica: Good luck with that. Sidenote: I love lists. Adore them. I want to date lists. We’ll have to do a National List Day.

Milo: Sounds like a wild date. Sidenote: Can ‘order flowers for everyone’ be on the work list?

Veronica: Obviously.

Milo: Anyway, I don’t want to commandeer all your time. I need to go write a list. I hope you had a good evening, Veronica.

I stare at his name a little longer, a little wistfully. But it’s for the best that he’s shutting down our conversation, even though I love the way he used my name, and I don’t even know why.

Except, it feels deliciously personal. And not the least bit professional.

Veronica: See you tomorrow, Milo.

Milo: Night, Glitter Gal.

And that feels even more personal, his nickname for me. I set a hand to my suddenly racing heart, then put my phone down, before the exchange veers even further away from professional.

I head to the kitchen table, clean up the transcription of my column on my laptop, then send it to Bellamy before I call it a night.

When I slide into bed a little later, I click back to the texts. I can’t resist re-reading the messages as I settle under the sheets. They send a tingle down my spine. So much that when I put down my phone for good, it’s not the last device I use before I fall asleep.

But even if Milo entered my fantasies, at least I kept Mister Sexy Pants out of my column. That’s a solid step in my program of de-crush-ification.

In the morning, I’m at the bathroom mirror, slicking on Two Pink Lips gloss while Hot Stuff sniffs my hair. This cat loves my shampoo. When he tries to rub his head against my blow-dried locks, I inch away. He gives me the stink eye, then resorts to watching my every move from his perch on the vanity when my phone beeps.

I get a burst of excitement at the thought that it could be Milo, wanting to walk with me to work. I’d say yes in a heartbeat, but the message isn’t from him.

It’s Bellamy, and I try not to be disappointed.

Being the badass boss lady she is, she’s already read my column. I love literally everything about this installment . . . but can you pretty please add Mister Sexy Pants to it? Like maybe in between the fictional Bob O’Malley and Daryl Mayberry? The readers love Mister Sexy Pants. He’s become something of a legend here at The Dating Pool .

I groan. More like a legend in my own mind.

But I reply with, Of course . While I’m tapping out the message with the phone on the counter, Hot Stuff stretches then saunters across my phone, stepping on the screen with his gigantic paws. “Dude,” I chide, but he’s already leaped to the floor and is off to the living room to likely lick something.

Not his balls though.

I glance back at the phone screen, figuring he fired off another note prematurely. But the email he walked on is safe and sound in drafts. “Seriously?” I grumble. “You couldn’t have sent that email? You had to send the one to Agnes?”

I catch a final glimpse of the big boy before he slinks into the kitchen. He holds his head high, and he is definitely giving me the butt.

I sigh and add a line for Bellamy at the end of the column. That seems the better place for Mister Sexy Pants. Then I send her the edited closing paragraph:

For now, I’m going to grab my Just for Her Diamond Flicker because I have a dream date with Mister Sexy Pants and my imagination.

Well, it’s the truth.

I hit send, finish my primping, and as I drop my gloss into my purse, I get a new message in my inbox—from Blanche.

Huh. I didn’t think I’d hear from her again so soon.

Dear Veronica,

I can’t thank you enough. Your recommendation was spot on. Pun intended. In any case, do not hesitate to reach out when you’re ready to look for work again. I will do my best to help you.

Blanche

I’m pretty sure her offer is a tit for tat, but that works for me. I’ll definitely cash in the favor soon enough. I shoot her a quick reply, telling her about my new job and thanking her for checking in, then head to the kitchen, where I grab a pen and check the calendar of firemen and rescue pets that Ellie gave me for Christmas.

Six weeks from now, I’ll begin my redemption job search with the hope of snagging a new publishing gig by the end of the summer. Hazel said she’ll be talking to her editor soon, feeling out Lancaster Abel Books about possible openings on the children’s side. She’s asking her writer friend TJ, as well, to keep his ear to the ground.

I circle the date and write blastoff in the square. Then I grab my purse, kiss my pets goodbye on their wet noses, and head to work.

When I arrive fifteen minutes later, Milo’s back is to me, and he’s bent over a bike on a stand, giving me a perfect view of his ass, all firm and muscular in a pair of snug jeans that are unfairly sexy.

Why am I so into his booty?

No idea, but I want to grab his ass. Preferably while he’s deep inside me.

I manage to tear my gaze off his rear, but oops, it lands on his strong, toned, inked arms, which move fluidly as he builds a mint-green custom bike. He’s wearing a tank top today, giving me a full view of his tattoo for the first time. It’s so unusual. Is it hydrogen molecules? The chemical composition for oxygen maybe?

“What’s your tattoo for?” I blurt, even though it gives away that I’ve been staring. “The one on your right arm?”

From behind his glasses, his blue gaze drifts to his ink, then he turns to me, a smile spreading slowly. “I studied chemistry in college. I’m kind of a geek.” He holds out his arms, almost like he’s inviting me to touch. I wish . “It’s the chemical composition for body hormones.”

I sway, grabbing hold of the wall next to me. God help me.

“You okay?” he asks.

“I’m great,” I squeak, as a flush sweeps over my neck.

“You look a little hot. I think it’s going to be in the eighties today . . .”

“Yeah, feels like five hundred,” I mutter, turning away from him.

If he looks me in my eyes, he’ll know I had a dirty dream about him last night.

Only it was more than a dream. Dreams come in the middle of the night.

Fantasies help us to come before we sleep.

I make a hard right and head straight for the display case for the flowers where I yank open the door to cool off.