Читать книгу The Sex Diet - Rhonda Nelson - Страница 8

SAMANTHA SMILED WARMLY and breathed an audible sigh of relief, then rushed across the foyer and gave him a tight hug. Hank reacted automatically, hugged her back, though he still felt like the world had been turned upside down.

“Hank, thank God. There’s been some sort of mix-up and apparently my room isn’t available.” She drew back and those twinkling green eyes gazed up at him. “Please tell me you can fix this.”

“Samantha? Sam?” Hank said, still in a state of slack-jawed shock over her transformation. The rest of the room swelled back into view, but he still felt like he’d been knocked over the head with an anvil.

“Yeah, it’s me,” she confirmed with a small shrug, not the least bit offended. She did a delightful pirouette, then looked back up and met his gaze. “I, uh, gained a little weight.”

She’d gained more than a little weight, Hank thought as his breath once again evacuated his lungs—she’d gained one helluva figure. My God…she had breasts. He blinked, swallowed, blinked again. Great breasts that lay under her tank top like a couple of lush, ripe peaches. And that wasn’t the only change, either, Hank noted as he continued to stare at her in openmouthed amazement. She’d lost the glasses and her light green eyes sparkled with amusement and something else, something mysterious and not so easily read. Something almost…wicked.

In the dimmest recesses of his mind a warning bell sounded, but he was too stunned to pay it any heed.

In addition to that, her hair no longer looked like it had had an unfortunate accident with an electrical outlet. Her curls were still tight, yet soft and tumbled over her shoulders like long strands of curly ribbons. Which seemed appropriate, considering she looked like a delectable gift, ready to be opened.

She’d always been beautiful to him—Sam was gorgeous to anyone who took the time to notice because, despite popular opinion, true beauty was something that couldn’t be measured aesthetically. It came from within, was the sum total of the entire package. His gaze drifted over her once more. But he’d be a liar if he said he wasn’t affected by the outward changes. He was a guy after all and every guy responded to visual stimuli. Not that he’d needed any additional reason to want her—he’d been secretly in lust with her for years—from the summer she turned eighteen to be exact.

Hank scratched his temple, tried to gather his scattered wits. “Fix what again?” he asked, still bewildered.

Then it hit him. Her room. First week of September. God, how could he have forgotten? he thought, mentally smacking his forehead. He’d talked to her just a couple of weeks ago, had been looking forward to her coming down. Her visits were one of the brightest spots of his year. Hank scowled. It was this damned Belle of the Beach contest. He hadn’t had time—

“My room,” Sam repeated. “According to Tina, I don’t have a room. Which isn’t possible because I have a standing reservation. Right?”

Yes, Hank thought hesitantly, she should…but he had a terrible suspicion that she didn’t. A knuckle of unease nudged his belly. “Er…let me take a look.”

He moved behind the counter, searched the system for Samantha’s reservation and, just as he’d grimly suspected, she didn’t have one.

Hank winced, rubbed the back of his neck and gave her a regretful smile. “It’s not here.” He shot Tina a pointed look. “We’ve had some computer problems lately.”

“Hank,” Samantha all but wailed, scratching the inside of her wrist. “What am I going to do? It never occurred to me to call and verify my reservation. I talked to you a couple of weeks ago, remember?” She blew out a breath, cast him a glance. “When will the people who are in my room be leaving?”

Hank checked, braced his arms against the counter. His blew out a breath. “Not until Sunday.”

“Oh, hell.” She shifted, seemingly at a loss. “What about any of other rooms? Will any of them come available?”

Hank made a show of checking, but knew the answer to that without looking. “We’re booked solid.”

She swore, rubbed a hand over her elbow.

Hank frowned. “Is something wrong?”

She arched a brow pointedly. “You mean aside from the fact that I don’t have a room, friend?”

“Yeah.” He gestured to her hand. “You’re scratching.”

She immediately stilled and flushed like a kid who’d been caught with a hand in the cookie jar. “No, nothing is wrong…except for the fact that I’m tired and hungry and I’ve been looking forward to this vacation all year. Which, I distinctly recall telling you in a recent e-mail,” she added pointedly. She pushed a hand through her curly locks. “God, I can’t believe this is happening.”

A deeper explanation lurked behind that guilt-provoking excuse, but Hank didn’t have any idea what on earth it could be. He studied her thoughtfully. Something else was at work here. Still, she was right. Given the recent reservation screwups, he should have checked and made sure that hers were secure. He just hadn’t thought about it. Things had been too damned crazy.

She rolled her eyes, then heaved a dramatic put-upon sigh. “Well, if you’ll help me get my bags back out to my rental car, I guess I’ll head straight back the airport.” She moved to pick up a bag.

“No, you won’t,” Hank heard himself say. “You can stay with me.”

She straightened slowly. “What?”

“You’ll stay with me.” So much for avoiding her like the plague, Hank thought, but then what choice did he really have? This was Sam. He couldn’t let her leave. And he didn’t want her to. Having her here this week would be the only thing that would make it bearable.

Her brow puckered. “Where?”

“In my room,” he said patiently, nonchalantly because that was how he was supposed to feel, how a friend would feel. But he didn’t—not by any stretch of the imagination. There was nothing patient or nonchalant about the blood sizzling in his crotch. He’d had a hard enough time battling his lust over the years without her turning vamp on him. It was a nasty turn of events, but he’d simply have to deal with it. He’d had a lot of practice, after all.

Her expression grew comically blank. “Your room?”

Despite his present turmoil, Hank chuckled. “Have you developed some sort of hearing disability that I’m unaware of? Of course, my room,” he said with mock exasperation. “Where else? You can have the bed. I’ll take the couch.”

“But you hate that couch.”

He heaved a dramatic put upon sigh, tried to look humble. “All the more reason you should appreciate the sacrifice.”

A reluctant grin tugged at her lips. “I’d forgotten just how full of sh—”

“Shining light and goodness I am, I know,” he finished magnanimously. He sighed deeply. “Just say thank you, and it’ll all be worth it.”

Her eyes twinkled. “Thank you.”

The issue settled, he smacked his hand against the counter. “Besides, you’re probably saving my life,” he added grimly.

“How so?”

He shot her a look. “Mom and Pop would kill me if I let you leave.”

Her eyes suddenly glittered with a warm, knowing humor and her lips curled into a distracting smile. “In that case, I’d hate to be the cause of your untimely demise. How are the pioneers, anyway?”

With effort, Hank forced his gaze away from that ripe mouth. It was unusually carnal, a fact he’d noticed many years ago when he’d almost made the monumental mistake of kissing her. Sam had always been the one woman he could trust, could bare his soul to, could confide in. She was his sounding board, his voice of reason, and was always good for a laugh.

For lack of any better explanation, he liked himself when he was with her, and he couldn’t say that about anyone else. Theirs had been the ideal relationship. His feelings for her had always been strictly platonic, there’d been nothing remotely sexual about it—until the summer she turned eighteen.

Hank could still remember the moment his interest had shifted, could still feel that terrifying combination of affection and lust as sharply today as he had the afternoon it had happened. He and Sam had taken the ferry over to Dauphin Island, for what reason exactly, he couldn’t remember now. But the trip back—that was one he’d never forget. He and Sam had been standing side by side—a pose as natural as breathing—had been leaning against the railing watching the surf lap at the hull of the boat. He’d caught a glance of her from the corner of his eye—the soft slope of her cheek, that woefully familiar smile, and just like that—in the blink of an eye—his feelings had changed. He’d been hit with the nearly blinding urge to kiss her right then.

But he hadn’t.

He and Sam had a good relationship and he’d had no intention of letting something as fickle as lust screw it up. Not now, not ever. Though it had almost happened once. Drink had dulled his determination and, though common sense had prevailed in the end, he’d almost kissed her and ruined everything.

Since then, he’d never let his guard down, had learned to keep the attraction under control. He slid a glance over her and felt his mood turn grim. A premonition of dread resonated in his belly. Undoubtedly it would be more difficult now.

“The pioneers are fine,” he managed to say belatedly in answer to her question. The thought of his Mom and Dad drew a smile.

His parents had taken an Alaskan cruise for their thirty-fifth wedding anniversary, had fallen in love with the Last Frontier and decided to turn the B&B over to him and head off to Alaska. Though he enjoyed running the B&B, he still missed them terribly. During the off season, he made regular visits, however those small bits of time never seemed like enough to catch up.

“That’s good to hear,” she said, then bit her bottom lip. “Are you absolutely certain that you don’t mind if I stay with you? I could take the couch. Or try to find another hotel.”

Hank shook his head. “Don’t be ridiculous. You’ll stay here. Let me get your bags and I’ll show you to…our room.”

Hank came around the counter, hefted Samantha’s bags and gestured for her to follow him down the hall. That fruity, mantrap scent swirled around his head once more, making his nerve-endings hum and his blood sizzle. He blinked, feeling almost dazed, then mentally swore and shook off the sensation.

He looked back at her from over his shoulder and her absolute beauty slammed into him once more.

She’d mentioned in passing conversation over the past year that she’d made some changes to herself, had been spending a lot of time at the gym, but he’d never dreamed that this would have been the end result.

He should have known better.

That’s what he’d always liked about Samantha. No bullshit. Yes meant yes and no meant no, and he never had to worry about being politically correct or any of that other crap. He could just be himself with all his little idiosyncrasies and imperfections, and know that she wouldn’t pass judgment. Furthermore, when 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 wasn’t too much to ask.

Hank’s handsome image loomed instantly to mind. Frankly she’d like nothing better than to experience it with him, but knew that no matter what she’d shocked him with her new and improved self—she most definitely had. Gratifyingly, his jaw had dropped and she’d seen a true glimmer of male interest flicker before realization had snuffed it out.

She knew that no matter how much she’d changed and despite the fact that he’d noticed those changes, he’d still look at her and remember the frizzy hair, freckles, bottle-bottom glasses and scrawny body. Sadly, to him, no matter how many improvements she made physically, he’d always look at her and see an ugly duckling, not the swan she’d managed to turn herself into.

He’d always see a friend, not a potential lover.

Samantha stared glumly at her reflection and a pang of regret pricked her heart, but she determinedly squelched the sentiment. There would be no regrets on this trip. This trip was going to be the most memorable week of her life and she wasn’t about to let a little thing like unrequited lust—or love, as the case may be—get in the way.

After all, she had bigger fish to fry. Her lips quirked with perverse humor.

But first she’d need to eat some.