The Sex Diet. Rhonda Nelson
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she set out to do something, she did it. Failure with her was simply not an option. Still… “What kind of perfume are you wearing?”
A frown wrinkled her brow. “None. Why?”
Hank turned back around, continued down the hall to the back of the house. “You smell good. Fruity. Sweet.”
She hummed under her breath. “Must be my fabric softener.”
Some fabric softener, Hank thought. It made him want to rip her clothes off.
He was suddenly hit with the insane urge to slide his hands over her newfound curves, taste her ripe, peachy breasts and sample that utterly carnal mouth of hers, to fasten his mouth on her sex and see if that hot slick valley between her thighs smelled as sweet and fruity as the rest of her. To see if it tasted as sweet as she smelled.
Hank squeezed his eyes shut and, with extreme effort, derailed that demented train of thought. This was not good, he thought as he slipped the key in the lock. A mixture of anticipation and doom congealed in his belly as he pushed the door open and ushered her into his room.
So much for the quarantine, Hank thought numbly. Unless he wanted to move out of his house, he wouldn’t have a prayer of avoiding her. And the hell of it was…he didn’t want to.
SAMANTHA COVERTLY SCRATCHED the underside of her arm as Hank busied himself with opening the door. The minute she got into this room, she would have to excuse herself to the bathroom and pop an antihistamine before it was too late and these mere tingling irritations turned into full-blown hives. That would not be good, and the last thing she needed was for Hank to become suspicious. Samantha inwardly shuddered. She would die of mortification and embarrassment if he ever found out the lengths she’d gone to in order to get her rightfully deserved orgasm. Quite honestly, being strip-searched by a butch lesbian with a billy club fetish held greater appeal.
Hank walked across the gleaming hardwood and dropped her bags at the foot of his rumpled four-poster bed. “I’ll clean out a couple of drawers and see if I can make some room for you in the closet.”
“Thanks.” She jerked her thumb toward the en suite bath. “I’ve got to…”
Hank nodded succinctly. “Sure.” He glanced around the room, winced, then shoved a hand through his sun-bleached hair. “I’ll straighten up a little bit, too.”
“Still not letting housekeeping in?” Samantha said as she carefully picked her way over dirty clothes and orphaned shoes. She remembered that he’d always been a slob, and frankly, found the idea ridiculously endearing. Of course, she probably wouldn’t if she had to clean up after him.
“Nah,” he replied, absently gathering trash from the nightstand. “I can’t ever find anything after they’ve been in here.”
Samantha grinned and let herself into the bathroom, then sagged against the closed door.
Sweet Lord. No matter how many times she saw Hank, no matter how many times she told herself that this time things would be different—she wouldn’t be so affected by him—she always felt like the wind had been knocked from her sails, felt the ground shift beneath her feet. A curious buzzing sounded in her head and a hot sweet rush of affection and desire flooded her, pushing an instant smile to her lips. She’d undoubtedly looked like a goofy geek—she couldn’t help it, that’s who she was—but she’d never been able to pretend to be less than thrilled when she saw him. She simply couldn’t help herself.
When he’d strolled into the foyer looking like he’d just stepped off the set of Baywatch and immediately flashed that gorgeous, oh-so-lazy smile at her, it had been all Samantha could do to keep her watery knees from buckling. That achy place between her legs had throbbed and her nipples had tingled. She’d always been in lust with him—show her a female who wasn’t and she’d show you a liar—but the sensation had been altogether sharper, keener. A product of this sex diet, no doubt.
In addition to her howling, woefully neglected hormones, she’d eaten enough shellfish, kelp, pine nuts, honey and any other known aphrodisiac to sink a ship in the past three days. It was only natural that her desire would be sharper, more intense. Truthfully, she wouldn’t have thought it was possible.
Over the past year, she’d been a sexually frustrated wreck, had even gone so far as to consider hiring a man for the night—anything was possible in Aspen, for the right price. But there had been something so pathetic about paying a man to sleep with her that she hadn’t been able to go through with it. Granted she was running a risk doing things this way—she might end up with a dud and wind up as unfulfilled as she’d been during the first go round.
With a professional, that wouldn’t have happened. She could have insisted on a money-back guarantee. The idea drew a slow smile. Still, it had just been too depressing to pay for sex. She’d take her chances with the sex diet. She only wanted an orgasm, after all, and she had absolutely no illusions about falling in love.
Sam inwardly snorted. She’d given up on that pipe dream. Regardless of how great she looked now—and, dammit, she did look pretty good, if she did say so herself—she didn’t know if she’d be able to keep up the maintenance. It took a lot of effort to be pretty. Hair gel, plucking, tweezing, moisturizing, makeup and protein shakes.
She knew the effort was worth the reward—she certainly felt a lot better about herself when she knew she looked good. Still, sometimes it just seemed like too much. Unfortunately she hadn’t been born one of those women who could roll out of bed and look gorgeous au naturel. Samantha smirked, tossed an antihistamine into her mouth and chased it with a sip of water. Regrettably, she needed all the help she could get.
Thus, the sex diet.
It made her more appealing to the opposite sex and, when combined with her plan, practically guaranteed her success. Better still, whomever she finally invited into her bed would actually want to be with her—unlike a male escort, who would smile and compliment her and do all of the wonderfully wicked things she longed to experience—but with an agenda. It would be for the cash, not the act, and that was the difference. That was what she hadn’t been able to stomach. She’d have all of those things and more—she’d have a man who genuinely wanted her.
At least until she went off the diet.
The only fly in the ointment, but she was past caring. She wanted—needed—to get laid.
As long as she followed through with her plan—she’d consulted every how-to-hook-a-man book and sex manual she could get her hands on, as well as faithfully read every trendy magazine that offered tips on dating and sex—she didn’t see how things could go wrong. Furthermore, she’d learned everything that men didn’t like from Hank. Years of listening to him bemoan certain female behavior had left her with a better understanding than most of what a man might look for in a temporary partner.
And, as an added bonus, she felt at home here, in her element and comfortable enough with the clientele along this end of the beach to know that she couldn’t go terribly wrong with whomever she chose.
In addition to packing a few key snacks for her diet, she’d brought along an arsenal of various protection. She’d prepared for this week like a general prepared for war. She was ready. Past ready. Hell, it was unnatural for a woman her age to have never had an orgasm, to have never experienced the legendary Big O.
Samantha swallowed a frustrated groan. She wanted to get laid—properly! She wanted to know what it felt like to have a man’s mouth feeding at her breast—Ted, her lackluster first and only, hadn’t even bothered to cop a feel, had moved with alarming rapidity to the grand finale.
Sam wanted someone to make love to her, to feel a man’s body, his hard weight against hers, have him touch that secret place inside her that throbbed from neglect. She wanted to know what all the fuss was about. Why so many books, shows and magazines made such a tremendous deal about doing it right, doing it wrong, the where, the when, the how and the who.
She’d been with a guy who’d done it wrong—she wanted to be with a guy who would do it right. It