The Virgin Bet by Olivia Starke

slowly becoming a shut-in.
    Except for Brent. Brent appealed to her.
    “Ugh.” She pitched the book on the coffee table. “How did I let this happen.”
    By eight o’clock that night she was on her third slice of pizza when someone knocked on the door. Her heart leapt with hope. She wiped her fingers on a napkin, tightened her ponytail holder, and took a deep solidifying breath. She would not appear too eager. Another knock sounded as she walked to the door, and opened it.
    “Hi,” Brent said in greeting.
    “Hey yourself,” Tippy returned, hoping he wouldn’t notice the pink tint she knew would be in her cheeks.
    “I’d like you to go out with me tonight.” It wasn’t a command, but nonetheless it rankled her after last night.
    “Why?” she asked, lifting her chin, but unable to meet his steady gaze head on.
    Brent’s amazing pecs expanded beneath the black t-shirt he wore as he took a deep breath—a mouth-watering site. “I think I owe you.”
    She tilted her head. “Owe me what?”
    A muscle in his jaw ticked then he dropped his gaze to the floor.
    “Respect, Tippy. I’m not that high school jock anymore, and I want to prove it to you.”
    She blinked, not expecting that answer.
    “Let me grab my jacket.”
    Afterwards, she followed him to his SUV.
    “Where are we going?” she asked as he drove down her block.
    “My place,” he replied.
    Her heart banged against her ribs. “Oh,” she said, not sure what else to say.
    “You wanted to know my intentions,” he said. “I’m going to show you my intentions tonight.”
    Tippy took a deep, shuddering breath that filled her lungs, willing her body to stop trembling. She huddled against the passenger door, both thrilled and anxious. His house? Heck, what did she even know about Brent Kingston? High school run-ins didn’t count, neither did a few brief make-out sessions. Her usual introvert’s suspicion took hold. He could be a closet serial killer, using his job as preying grounds. She chewed the inside of her cheek, imagining him with a basement full of victims, rolling the image around in her brain. Then she grinned at her own wacky ideas. He was overbearing, yes, but she couldn’t imagine her city producing anything as interesting as a serial killer.
    “Have you talked to that guy again?” he asked, dragging her out of her rambling thoughts.
    She sat up straighter. “Who? Jason?”
    “Yes.”
    “No.”
    “Good.”
    She rolled her eyes. A snide comment hovered on the tip of her tongue, but she kept quiet. She needed to quit antagonizing him. What was the point?
    “So what am I in for tonight?” she asked.
    Brent made a low rumbling sound that sent a warm shiver up her spine. “You’ll see,” he said.
    “I should warn you, I’m not great with surprises.”
    “I think you’ll like this one.” He shot her his magical grin, then reached out, and squeezed her knee. His hand stayed put, and his thumb drew lazy circles on the outside of her knee, the action mimicking the way he’d worked her clit. Her breath caught in her throat, and she swallowed hard. Since when had a knee become an erogenous zone?
    Tippy let out a nervous laugh. “You don’t have a bunch of women chained up in your basement, do you?”
    He shot her a quick look. “What?”
    She stared at his hand, the heat from it passing into her bloodstream. She might self-combust. “Nothing,” she said. “Ignore me, I read too much.”
    “I actually read a lot too,” he said. “Someone told me in high school that literate men are sexy men.”
    She blushed, remembering when she’d said those words.
    “Mostly World War One stuff, though,” he continued on. “I always liked history the best in school.”
    “I assumed you liked football the best,” she said.
    He chuckled. “Yeah, well I knew early that I’d never make a career of it. Unlike some kids. I made other plans.”
    “Like being a cop?” She peered at him in the dim lighting. His face was made up of