Kiss Me Once, Kiss Me Twice

by Kimberly Raye

  “Men don’t make us happy,” she recited the mantra she’d heard time and time again growing up. “We make ourselves happy.”

  “True, but having the right man by our side adds a heap of happiness.”

  The comment stuck in Skye’s mind over the next half hour as she watched the newlyweds. Jenny’s eyes glowed and she had this silly smile on her face that wouldn’t seem to go away. A smile that said supreme happiness and told the entire world she’d finally found a man who fulfilled the infamous Holy Commitment Trinity.

  Skye couldn’t help but want her own Commitment man.

  The hot sex had never been a problem. She was a firm believer in chemistry and she never pursued a man who didn’t press her lust buttons. Ditto for mutual respect. The men she dated were nice guys with decent jobs and big hearts. She respected them and they always respected her.

  But shared interests...

  There was the kicker because Skye Farrel was a victim of Darwin’s Theory. She tended to gravitate toward macho, he-man types. Guys who oozed testosterone.

  A man’s man.

  A man like Clint MacAllister.

  Her gaze zeroed in on him and she watched as he handed out yet another picture. She’d been honest with him. She didn’t follow NASCAR or any other male-dominated sport.

  She collected teacups and spent her off-time cruising shoe stores and trying on everything that was skimpy and sexy and high. Not that she bought any of them. Skye had a serious, professional image to maintain and so she stuck to practical. But she did like to look.

  Most certainly there were men out there who enjoyed either of her two favorite activities. The trouble was, she wasn’t remotely attracted to them. What she really wanted was a hunka-hunka man like her last boyfriend, Dirk the Fireman. And the one before him—Dwayne the Policeman. Then there was Curt the weight lifter and Brock the construction worker and Steve the high school football coach. All strong, smart, handsome and great in bed—all NASCAR fans, by the way—and not one of them had lasted longer than six months. Once the new ro- mance rush had slowed down, she’d realized they didn’t share enough interests to make things last.

  She didn’t really blame the men, though. It was the proverbial I-wouldn’t-belong-to-a-country-club-who-would-have-me-for-a-member syndrome. She didn’t want a man who collected teacups in his spare time, or who went all soft inside at the sight of a slinky pair of Anne Kleins.

  She wanted a ’til-death-do-us-part of her own, minus the license and the ceremony, of course. A man to come home to, grow old with. A man with whom she could have a committed, long-term relationship.

  Holy Commitment Trinity Nirvana.

  Since that was about as likely as Jacqueline Farrel hosting an episode of A Wedding Story, Skye settled for the next best thing.

  Another slice of cake and another glass of champagne.

  She needed a bathroom now. The six glasses of champagne she’d drunk demanded it.

  Skye eyed the line of women stationed outside the two-stall ladies’ room and frustration welled inside her.

  Why was there never a line outside the men’s room? Before she could change her mind, she pushed through the men’s room door. A quick visual sweep confirmed that the place was empty. It was small with only one stall and one wall urinal and... Yes! A lock on the door.

  After throwing the lock, she wedged herself into the stall. If only she could get the dress up and the blasted panties down . . . Ah, there.

  Her relief lasted only until she finished, stood up and tried to bend to retrieve the panties that had slid to her ankles. There just... didn’t . . . seem to be... enough... room . . . to actually... move.

  Bam, bam!“Someone’s in here,” she called out, her fingers frantic, her heartbeat furious. “Just a minute!”

  The minute turned into several before she finally managed to get the panties up and her dress down. But then she tried to turn and there was simply too much dress and not enough space.

  “Everything okay in there?” came a muffled voice, followed by another loud knock.

  Okay? Okay?

  She was tipsy and dizzy and alone and in desperate need of a cookie. Everything was far from... rippp!

  She glanced down to see a huge slash in the side of her dress where it had caught on the toilet-paper holder when she’d exited the stall.

  She blinked back a surge of ridiculous tears—she was drunk, but not that drunk. Not enough to cry over the loss of such a hideous dress.

  Bam, bam, bam—

  She threw open the door to find one of the groomsmen standing on the other side. He was twenty-something with dark hair and dimples and great eyes and... cute. He was majorly cute. Especially when he smiled at her the way he was doing right now.

  “I’m sorry. I had to go,” she explained.

  His smile faded and his expression grew anxious. “I know the feeling.” He wedged past her and then dropped a bomb that destroyed what tiny bit of self-control she’d managed to recover. “Excuse me, ma’am.”

  She was tipsy and dizzy and alone and in desperate need of anything close to a cookie and she was a ma’am.

  Tears welled in her eyes and she blinked frantically as she started down the main hallway toward the reception. She was not going to cry. She never cried. Real women didn’t cry over their problems, they looked for answers. They acted rather than reacted. They—

  The mental spiel stumbled to a halt when Skye glanced inside an open set of double doors, into the ballroom opposite the reception area. She stared past clusters of women, to the far side of the room. On a white, linen covered table sat the answer to at least one of her problems. Mounds of chocolate-dipped strawberries topped a five-tier, fudge-frosted cake drizzled with white chocolate sauce and... yum.

  She closed her eyes and tried to calm the sudden pounding of her heart. Here she’d spent the past three hours torturing herself with low-fat whipped cream, when relief had been just across the main hallway. She should have known. Where there were celibate women, there was sure to be chocolate.

  Before she could stop herself, she made her way over to the cake, lured by its sweet promise and driven by her pounding heart and frazzled nerves. She swiped a piece and walked calmly toward the exit.

  A few seconds later, she slipped through an open pair of French doors that led to a small, isolated garden. Blessed darkness swallowed her up just as she shoved a forkful of cake into her mouth. Taste exploded on her tongue and sent a rush of pleasure through her. She took another bite and her anxiety eased enough for her to actually breathe again. Another and she actually groaned. There was nothing like dark, sweet, rich choc—

  “That must be some piece of cake.” The deep, familiar voice came from behind and sent a jolt of awareness through her. Her fingers faltered and her fork clattered to the ground as she whirled.

  She found herself face-to-face with none other than Clint MacAllister. Moonlight played over his features as he stared down at her. An amused smile curved his lips. His eyes twinkled. “Looking for another banana?”

  She swallowed the mouthful that had lodged in her throat. “Banana?”

  “I knew the picture thing had to be a put-on.” He sounded tremendously relieved. “You followed me out here.”

  “I didn’t even know you were out here.”

  “Look, you don’t have to pretend.” His eyes took on a sympathetic twinkle. “I know most women in your situation get nervous and act a little nuts, but it’s totally understandable. Still, I’m a person like anybody else. You should just come straight out and tell me what you want.”

  “The only thing I want right now is another fork.” Her stomach grumbled for more of the goodie on her plate.

  “Not that I can give you what you want. You’re good-looking and all, but I’m through with good-looking women.”

  She eyed him. “So you’re going after good-looking men now, is that it?”

  “What?” He shook his head, his expression hardening as realization seemed to hit him.
“No. Hell, no.”

  “It’s okay. I’ve got a thing for good looking men, too.” She smiled.

  And then she frowned.

  Her stomach whirled from the sudden mix of chocolate and champagne. Heat fired her cheeks and her mouth went dry.

  “Are you okay?”

  No. “Yes, I—I’m fine.” She stumbled toward a nearby wrought-iron patio chair and sank down as a wave of dizziness swept through her.

  “You don’t look okay.” He sat down in the chair next to hers.

  “I’m fine,” she murmured again as she settled the plate on her lap and waited for the ground to stop shaking. “I really am.” She blinked and swallowed and fought for a deep, calming breath. “It’s just the champagne.”

  “I’ve had several glasses myself.” He held up a flute. “And this wedding,” she went on, the words tumbling out in a rush before she could stop them. “It’s really getting to me. I’m not big on weddings and then there’s this dress and I ripped it and then this young Freddie Prinze Jr., Justin Timberlake, ‘N-Sync looking guy called me ‘ma’am’ and it’s been months since I’ve had a date, much less an actual relationship and . . .” The words trailed into a huge sob and she blinked frantically. She was not going to cry. And she certainly wasn’t going to cry in front of anyone. Particularly Clint MacAllister.

  Cripes, what was she doing?

  Reality hit and she swiped at her eyes as embarrassment flooded her. “I’m sorry.” She sniffled. “You don’t want to hear any of this.”

  “Sure I do.” He sounded so nice and sincere, that she actually believed him. Or maybe she was just drunk and her judgment slightly impaired.

  “You should be inside with your family and your fans.” She sniffled again.

  “True.” He reached into his pocket, pulled out a handkerchief and offered it to her. “But a guy can only take so much.”

  “Thanks.” She dabbed at her eyes.

  He downed the rest of his champagne. “Don’t get me wrong. I love my family, but I get tired of hearing, ‘It’s time for you to settle down, Clint,’ and the ever-popular ‘You’re not getting any younger, son.’ I know all of that, that’s why I’m trying to do something about it.”

  “Aren’t they happy about you getting married?” “They don’t exactly know about it yet. I was waiting until we ironed out a few details.”

  “Until you set a wedding date?”

  “Until she actually says yes.”

  “You haven’t proposed yet?” The ground settled and her face started to cool.

  “Actually, I have. She said no, but that’s just temporary. We have a few issues to work out, then she’ll say yes. We were made for each other. She knows as much as I do about racing and she wants a big family. I want the same.”

  “It sounds like you have a lot in common. That is so important, and so hard to find. I’ve got it covered on the hot sex and the mutual respect, but it’s the common interests where I keep coming up short.”

  Now why had she said that?

  Because she was going on a full thirty-six hours with hardly any sleep and she’d just had the most stressful, unbelievable day of her life. She’d worn the most god-awful purple dress and endured Jiles and chugged six glasses of champagne and now she was sitting next to none other than Cowboy MacAllister, NASCAR wonder boy. It was unbelievable, all right. Downright crazy, even, and Skye didn’t react well to crazy.

  Or to such a quiet, serene ambience. The only light drifted out from the double doors just off to their left and small twinkling lights situated throughout the garden.

  Crickets buzzed and the sound of music filtered out from far away. Everything seemed so... distant. As if she were far removed from reality and caught in a dream. And so it didn’t matter what she said.

  “Do you know that I didn’t recognize you at all?” she told him. “You’re a NASCAR icon, and I had no clue. I’m single and thirty-three and I haven’t got a clue when it comes to men. Sure, I know them biologically, but that’s it. I don’t know what they think. What they like. No wonder I’m alone with nothing but a dog for companionship. I’ll never have a real relationship if I can only ace two of the Holy Commitment Trinity.”

  “I think I saw something about that Trinity thing on TV.”

  “It’s been on the news, on talk shows. It’s even been mentioned on Will & Grace, which really boosted my mother’s popularity.”

  “Your mother?”

  “Jacqueline Farrel. She’s the one who came up with the theory when I was two years old. She’s been preaching it ever since. She hosts her own late-night segment called Get Sexed Up.”

  “I’ve seen that show. The doctor’s really your mother?”

  “The one and only.”

  “She’s a little stiff.”

  “She’s just strong in her beliefs. And she firmly believes the Trinity is the way to ensure a successful relationship.”

  “My parents have been married for over fifty years. They’ve got ten kids and lots of respect for each other, and they do both love golf.”

  “There you go. The awesome threesome in action, minus the marriage part. My mother doesn’t do marriage. Neither do I. But I would like to have one special someone in my life. I just can’t seem to find someone who likes the things I like. Not that I would want someone who likes the things I like, anyway. I want a guy who likes guy stuff. Stuff like football and wrestling and racing.”

  “That shouldn’t be too hard to find. I know a few dozen of them myself.”

  “They’re not hard to find. The problem is, I don’t have the same interests. The only thing I’m good at is shopping and spotting rare pieces of china—namely tea cups. And sex. I’m great at sex, but then it’s my job.”

  “What?”

  “Not job as in having sex. Job as in talking about sex. Teaching it. I own Girl Talk. I give private parties and conduct lectures that teach women how to find the ultimate pleasure. Jenny’s my assistant.”

  “Duke mentioned something about Jenny working for an educational company, but I was thinking more along the lines of academics. Not that I can’t see the need for a sex company. I can. Sex can be a tough subject. I’ve spent all these years more focused on quantity, only to find out it’s more about quality.”

  “You’re having quality control problems?”

  His shoulders squared and he seemed to stiffen. “I wouldn’t exactly call it a problem. More like a few unanswered questions. I know I’m good in bed.” He seemed to think about his statement. His voice grew deeper and he added, “At least, I thought I was good in bed. Everybody I’ve ever been with said so, but how does a guy really know? I thought the sex was good between me and Darla—not that it happened very often with my busy schedule and the fact that I only raced Daytona twice a year, which means I only saw her twice a year—but she obviously didn’t think so.”

  “She won’t marry you because of the sex?” When he cleared his throat and muttered yes, she smiled. “That’s lucky for you.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Sex is important, but it’s the least worrisome of the Holy Commitment Trinity. You can learn how to have great sex. I teach women how to achieve the ultimate sexual pleasure in a simple four-part workshop.”

  Teach.

  The word stuck in her head and an idea sparked. A crazy, ridiculous idea that didn’t seem nearly that crazy or ridiculous while sitting outside in a huge purple dress.

  Instead, it seemed the answer to both their problems. Skye smiled as she murmured, “Have I got a proposition for you.”

  Chapter Five

  “So do you want to be on top, or on bottom? Personally, having the woman on top is my favorite position, but I like missionary, too.”

  “Who is this?” Skye demanded as she held on to the phone while struggling into an upright position.

  Not an easy feat for a woman still wearing last night’s purple dress and nursing a monster of a headache. She pushed and pulled at her favorite three-hundred th
read count, cream-colored linen sheets and did her best to ignore the pounding in her temples and the sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. Meanwhile, Skipper barked her dissatisfaction with being upended off the edge of the dress where she’d fallen asleep.

  “Clint,” the deep, masculine voice declared. “Clint MacAllister.”

  NASCAR’s finest and the star of last night’s hot dream. He’d been naked except for his cowboy hat and Skye was naked except for a pair of red stiletto heels that would have done Barbie herself proud. They’d touched and kissed and had wound up facing each other on the back of a giant mechanical bull.

  “There’s always doggie style. That’s a personal favorite, too.”

  Skye forced the sexual image aside and tried to concentrate on his words. Not very easy since it was his voice itself that sparked the image. He sounded so deep and sexy, as if he were this close, whispering a few naughty suggestions in her ear.

  “But I’m open to new positions,” Clint went on. “I know this is supposed to be a learning experience.”

  She blinked away the fog and focused on reality. “What are you talking about?”

  “Our agreement.”

  The minute he said the word, the past night rushed full force through her head.

  The men’s bathroom.

  The garden.

  Her proposal.

  His acceptance.

  The exchange of phone numbers.

  The stop at the twenty-four-hour Get-N-Go around the corner from her apartment for a bag of Chips Ahoy.

  Her gaze shot to the nightstand and the empty bag. Crumbs littered her dress and the sheet and she knew beyond a doubt that she hadn’t been dreaming. She’d actually propositioned Clint MacAllister.

  Worse, she’d eaten a whole bag of cookies.

  “Hello?”

  “I’m here. Sort of. Could you hold on for a second?” Before he could reply, she reached for the half-empty Diet Coke sitting on the nightstand next to a mangled purple napkin with Jenny and Duke printed in rainbow foil.

  She chugged the lukewarm contents. There wasn’t enough caffeine to clear the cobwebs and so she shook her head and blinked her eyes several times.