The Rules of Friends with Benefits (Rules of Love #0.5) Read Online Lauren Blakely

Categories Genre: Contemporary, Romance, Sports Tags Authors: Series: Rules of Love Series by Lauren Blakely

Total pages in book: 13
Estimated words: 12367 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 62(@200wpm)___ 49(@250wpm)___ 41(@300wpm)

Read Online Books/Novels:

(Rules of Love #0.5) The Rules of Friends with Benefits

Author/Writer of Book/Novel:

Lauren Blakely

Book Information:

A good girl follows the rules. So does a smart woman. That's why I've resisted my brother's best friend for years.

Fine, fine. Maybe the sexy, charming confident baseball player hasn't given me a reason to suspect he's thinking the same flirty, dirty thoughts as I am.

But then he starts showing up by my side at sporting events. At galas. And his eyes are saying all sorts of flirty, dirty things.

Like maybe we should cross the friends line and head right into benefits?
Books in Series:

Rules of Love Series by Lauren Blakely

Books by Author:

Lauren Blakely



Some girls dream of jewelry, but the only thing that Tiffany’s has made that really, truly thrilled me is a seven-pound sterling silver football.

I never had a horsey phase, never wanted to be a rock star, a teacher, a president, or a princess.

My one dream has always been to run a football team.

The sport is in my blood and my bones. Hell, my heart is probably football-shaped and stitched like a regulation ball.

Same shape as the top of the trophy I can’t keep my hands off. There’s only one person in the Hawks’ executive offices with me, and I’m not going to let him keep me from stroking all twenty-two inches of this shiny silver beauty, but especially where my name is engraved.

“You’re going to wear that smooth if you keep rubbing it that way.”

I look over at Crosby.

The boy next door when I grew up in California.

My brother’s best friend, and a good one to me as well.

One hell of a football fan too.

He holds out both hands, wiggling his fingers. “Come on. Let me hold it.”

I clutch it to my chest like a baby. “Not yet. I need to pet it some more.”

He laughs. “Sure. You do that. Give it a good spit shine while you’re at it.”

I waggle my brows and nod at his hand. “Is that what you do with your World Series ring?”

He nods. “And with my MVP trophy. Obviously.”

I run my fingers down the trophy one more time. It’s been quite a week, and I still can’t quite believe that my team won it. And in my first year as the owner of the Las Vegas Hawks. I want to show off the spoils of victory—aka this trophy—to everyone in my life.

Like this handsome, fantastic man who came to visit me in Las Vegas.

Okay, fine. He’s here to play poker and hit the slots with some friends and teammates. But he took the time to swing by the stadium, and now I’m taking the opportunity to be obnoxious about my new favorite thing.

As one does.

I carry my precious to the couch in my office. Sinking onto the soft leather, I pat the cushion next to me. “Come join me. We will worship it together.”

He flops down, runs his hand over the gleaming sterling silver, and lets out a gravel-throated purr. “Meow. Oh, it feels so good,” he says.

I match his tone, going all sultry. “I know. I just want to keep running my hands over it all night long.”

“That might be the dirtiest thing ever said about the Lombardi Trophy,” he says with a chuckle.

I rest the base on my knee so we can both keep fondling it. “Oh, I doubt that.”

Maybe by accident, his forefinger brushes mine, skimming along it and slowing. As he slides past my second knuckle, a spark runs up my arm.


Crosby’s touch kind of makes my skin sizzle.

Not just kind of, but definitely. Deliciously.


I hazard a glance at him out of the corner of my eye as we talk about the thrill of winning, trying to gauge whether he felt an answering spark when he touched me, or if he even realized he did it.

We’ve known each other since we were young, and this isn’t the first time I’ve felt a little chemistry between us. Like when we were home from college, and when we’ve run into each other in the time since.

Though “chemistry” implies a mutual reaction, and I’m not sure about that. Just because I get tingles doesn’t mean he does.

And so, I let the moment pass, nudging his elbow. “Why don’t you let me take you out for lunch?”

“Oh, a celebration. I approve.” He rubs his palms together. “Can we go to the fanciest restaurant on the Strip?”

“Obviously. My treat.” I stand and go to set the trophy on the shelf behind my desk, where it can awe visitors and intimidate rivals. When I turn back, Crosby is on his feet too, arms folded. Even in long sleeves, his biceps are impossible to ignore. So I don’t ignore. I ogle. Surreptitiously, of course.

“I wasn’t angling for a free lunch,” he tells me.

I arch a teasing brow. “No? I think you kind of were.” I walk over and link my hand through his arm. Because he may be my friend, but his flexed bicep is almost as impossible to resist as my trophy. “Just admit it, and I’ll let you pick the spot.”

He shrugs amiably. “I’m not going to argue with the woman who just let me fondle her silver football.”

That’s Crosby—easygoing and easy to talk to, and easy to fall back in step with no matter how long it’s been since I’ve last seen him.

Laughing, I tug him toward my office door, and we make our way out of the stadium together, where we slide into my limo and head across town and along the Strip.