Kiss Me Once, Kiss Me Twice

by Kimberly Raye

  “What’s a first down?”

  “You’re telling me you don’t know what a first down is? You’ve never even heard of it?”

  She shook her head. “Not the first or the second. Is there a second?” The question sparked a thought and she jumped to her feet. “I need to give my dog her second pill. She’s had stomach problems.”

  “You have a dog?”

  She nodded as she walked toward the bedroom. The minute she opened the door, a ball of white fluff darted past her, headed for the living room.

  “Hell’s bells, even your dog is frilly.”

  “She’s not frilly,” Skye said as she snatched up the ball of fur and headed for the kitchen. “She’s a Shih Tzu.”

  “Don’t tell me her name is Fifi or Foofoo or something girlie like that.” Clint followed her.

  “Her name is Skipper.”

  “Why Skipper?”

  “When I was a little girl, I wanted a Skipper doll more than life itself. Actually”—she retrieved the dog’s medicine from a cabinet—“I wanted a Barbie doll more than life itself, but that was out of the question.”

  “I would have thought your house would have been packed with wall-to-wall Barbies. You played with dolls.”

  “Baby dolls. Barbie was different. She was tanned, blond, with breasts out to there and legs up to here, and totally and completely politically incorrect. Barbie was and still is a poor role model for young girls according to my mother, so I set my sights on her younger, more realistic-looking sister. She still had the tan and the long blond hair, but her breasts weren’t as big and her waist wasn’t nearly as small.”

  “Did you get one?”

  “Still too close to the whole Barbie image. I got a Hippy Harmony instead. She was this doll created by one of my mother’s professor friends. She had short brown hair, chubby cheeks and an equally chubby body.” Why the hell was she telling him this? Even as the thought registered in her brain, it did little to stop the flow of words.

  “My mother had the right idea, I just didn’t see it at the time. Besides, I like this Skipper much more than any old doll. Isn’t that right, baby?” She rubbed the dog behind the ears and set her on the floor. “Look, if you don’t want the hot tea, can I get you something else? Something cold?”

  “That would be great.” He leaned against the edge of the kitchen island and waited.

  Skye turned toward the refrigerator. “Alcoholic or non-alcoholic?”

  “Non-alcoholic.”

  She retrieved two different cans. “I’ve got Diet Coke and Diet Seven-Up.”

  He glanced around, his gaze skimming the giant sunflowers painted on the opposite wall before shifting back to the island and her sunflower burner covers.

  “I like sunflowers.” “I can tell.”

  “So?”

  He glanced at both drinks and shook his head. “What the hell? Go ahead and give me something alcoholic. It’s after noon.”

  She turned around and retrieved two bottles. “I’ve got a peach-flavored Seagram’s wine cooler and a Zima.” She held up both bottles.

  “Maybe you ought to take notes after all. This is going to be a lot harder than I thought.”

  “You’re killing me, Tuck,” Clint said into the phone later that day.

  “I’m killing you? I’m the one who almost crashed and burned.”

  Yeah, but Clint was the one who had to deal with Vernon Simmons, the head of Big Tex Motor Oil and sponsor of the MacAllister Magic race team. It wasn’t going to be pretty. Vernon liked to win.

  “It was the tunnel turn,” Tuck told him. “I was trying to pass and then we went into the turn and I didn’t fall into place in time.”

  “You don’t pass before the tunnel turn. You have to do it single file. You know that.”

  “I saw the opportunity, so I took it.”

  “You should have anticipated the turn before the pass.”

  “It was the fuel system. If I’d had more power, it would have been a piece of cake.”

  “The fuel system was perfect. It was the driver who malfunctioned. You didn’t listen to the spotter.” The spotter was the team member up in the box, watching the race from above. He communicated with Tuck via a headset. “He’s your second set of eyes. He sees things you don’t.

  You have to listen to him. I know. The same thing would have happened to me back at Pocono in ’96 if I hadn’t been listening.”

  “It felt really weird not having you there,” Tuck said before an expectant silence ensued and Clint got the feeling that Tuck wanted to say more. “Not that I need you there. I don’t need anybody.”

  “You need your spotter, and don’t forget it. That’s what he’s there for.”

  “Sure thing,” Tuck said. “But I’m telling you, it wasn’t me. It was the fuel system. That and some bad juju.”

  “I’ll have Jeep go over the fuel system. You just make sure you’re focused on Sears Point this weekend. It’s a road course and it can be tricky.”

  “I’m ready,” he said, a trace of resentment in his voice. As if he had no desire to listen to Clint’s advice. “I know what to do.”

  “Good. Make sure you do it.”

  “No problem.”

  “Speaking of problems”—Clint reached for the Texas Tattle-Tale and stared at the black-and-white photo— “I’m looking at a picture of you in the paper right now. At first, I didn’t think it was you. After all, you lost yesterday, which means—if you’re sticking to our agreement— you didn’t get to go out and party it up, and you’re definitely partying judging by the shot glass in your hand.”

  “I think it was a body double. You know we all have one somewhere.”

  “You’re wearing a Big Tex cap and your racing jacket.”

  “We not only look alike, we must have the same taste in clothes.”

  “It’s you.”

  “I needed to unwind.”

  “You need to keep your focus.”

  “Not possible if you keep bringing up the past.” Clint let loose a heavy sigh. “Stay focused,” he said. “It’s all about Sunday in Sonoma from here on out.”

  “You’re going to be there, right?” Tuck seemed to think better of his question. “Not that it matters. Either way, I’ll have it under control.”

  “Make sure you do.” Clint hung up the phone and turned to Lindy, who handed him a glass of raspberry iced tea and stacked autographed pictures on the corner of his desk. The familiar CM blazed in blue ink from the corner.

  “He gave you the juju excuse, didn’t he?”

  “First you read my mind day in and day out, and now you’re reading Tuck’s.” He took a long draw of the iced tea.

  She planted her hand on her hip and glared at him. “Why do you like this guy so much? He’s cocky, pretentious and he never admits fault for anything.”

  He shrugged and sank down into his desk chair. “He reminds me of me when I first started out.”

  She seemed to think about that for a minute. “You know, you’re right.”

  “Why don’t you like this guy?”

  She slid the stack of mail directly in front of him and frowned. “Because he reminds me of you when you first started out.”

  Chapter Nine

  “Now that you’ve learned the actual parts of a woman, it’s time to learn what to do to those parts to guarantee a quality orgasm.” Skye retrieved a neatly typed sheet from her briefcase and handed it to Clint, who sat next to her on his overstuffed sofa.

  A throw pillow and at least two handspans of dark brown leather separated them. There would be no legs grazing during tonight’s lesson. No accidental brush of arms. No touching, period. Skye needed her space for adequate concentration and so she’d made sure to spread out her working tools, namely her notebook, her lesson plan and several books on the art of kissing, fondling and stirring a woman’s passion. Textbooks, not picture books—much to Clint’s dismay—to keep tonight as completely non-sexual as possible despite the fact that she was tea
ching him about—hello?—sex.

  She pulled a container of Tic Tacs from her briefcase and popped one into her mouth. Xandra had been right. The sucking took the place of chewing which had helped with her cookie cravings. Then again, she’d only been doing the mints for—she glanced at her watch—a full thirty minutes. But so far, so good. She sucked and drew a nice, easy breath.

  That’s what tonight would be. Easy. She’d given this lesson more times than she could count, and she had nothing to feel inhibited about. She certainly had nothing that might, in the least, make her feel nervous or anxious or hungry.

  And if so, she had her Tic Tacs.

  “So?” she asked him after several silent moments while he looked over the neatly typed sheet of paper. “What do you think?”

  He stared at the handout another moment. “There aren’t any positions on here,” he finally said. “I think if we’re talking orgasm, we need a good position, don’t you?”

  Yeah, baby.

  She forced the thought aside. “We’re not talking about doing the actual deed. Tonight is all about the preliminaries.”

  “But you said orgasm.”

  “Quality orgasm,” she corrected.

  “That’s right. And if we’re talking quality orgasm, we need a quality position. One that insures deep penetration.”

  The words slid into her ears and vibrated along her nerve endings and Skye swallowed. Easy, she told herself as she popped a Tic Tac. So the man had said penetration. Big deal. It was just a word.

  One she’d heard many, many times.

  One that had never before conjured a very vivid image of Clint leaning over her, cowboy hat shading the upper half of his face. Hands stroked down her sides and her thighs opened to accept him. Her legs wrapped around his waist and he slid inside in a smooth move that guaranteed maximum penetration...

  She popped one, then two mints into her mouth. It was a word. Just a word. And she was not hungry.

  “That’s the next lesson,” she managed, licking her lips. His dark eyes followed the action and her stomach hollowed out. “Tonight, um, isn’t about the actual sex act,” she said again. “It’s about foreplay.”

  She fixed her attention on her notes, mentally skimming the high points. “So what are your thoughts on the subject?” She glanced up at him. Glancing was okay so long as she didn’t let her gaze linger, or shift to certain, more nerve-wracking territory such as his mouth, or the strong column of his throat, or the small dip just above his black T-shirt where his Adam’s apple bobbed.

  She retrieved another mint and popped it into her mouth. The peppermint settled on the inside of her cheek and the scent filled her nostrils, temporarily blotting out the smell of warm male coupled with faint cologne coming at her from his side of the sofa.

  He set the handout aside, leaned back and stretched his legs out, hooking his worn brown cowboy boots at the ankles. His arms slid into a fold beneath his head. “To be honest, I’m usually too hot to think.”

  “Most men usually are, which is why lack of adequate foreplay is the chief complaint among women.” A truth she’d fallen victim to several times in her own past.

  It seemed that the men who bragged the most about their ability to satisfy a woman were the fastest. Not that she’d actually read a study on the subject.

  Her gaze slid to Clint. He liked to brag about everything which meant, based on her own past history, that he was probably very quick on the draw. The notion should have killed her fantasies.

  It didn’t.

  “To really satisfy your woman,” she went on, “it’s not what you do after you enter her that counts, such as the position or the speed of your stroke. It’s what you do before. If you’ve worked her up adequately, you won’t have to pace yourself as much.”

  “Makes sense.”

  “But a man who really wants to give his woman pleasure will do both. He’ll rev her engine and then he’ll just drive around for awhile.”

  “Driving’s what I do best.”

  “We’re not talking a fast finish like one of your races. Pleasuring a woman should be like a leisurely scenic cruise around the block. It’s about the trip itself and the sights and sounds along the way, not how fast you get to where you want to go.”

  He eyed her. “So how long is this trip? Just give me a ballpark figure.”

  “It depends on the woman, but from a professional standpoint you should aim for at least an hour.” As soon as the words left her mouth, surprise registered in his gaze. “I’m assuming your goal usually isn’t an hour.”

  “Fifteen minutes usually works.”

  “Fifteen minutes is a coffee break. We’re talking a fully satisfying lunch here. Anything quicker than that and you run the risk of leaving her behind, and that is a definite no-no.”

  “An hour.” He seemed to think. “Does that include foreplay?”

  “It may, or it may not. It depends how serious you are about setting off the fireworks. A really hot lover will start the foreplay hours before the actual act. He’ll draw it out over an entire day sometimes, building the anticipation until the object of his desire is practically steaming.” Speaking of steaming ...

  Skye shifted her position. The lower part of her thighs stuck to the leather and she made a mental note to wear slacks to the next lesson.

  Clint’s gaze went to her legs and something dark and completely inappropriate gleamed in his eyes.

  “There,” she blurted, determined to stay on track and keep their attention focused on the lesson itself. “That look is exactly the sort of look you should use when looking at your lover. It says heat and hunger and I want you bad.” She swallowed what was left of her current mint and popped another. “Hot looks can add tremendously to a healthy love session.”

  She shifted again. “Now, if she’s really on fire, you can probably go a little quicker with the actual act. But not too quick. You have to wait for her.”

  “Easy for you to say.” He glanced at the noticeable bulge in his jeans. “He sometimes has a mind of his own.”

  Like now.

  She forced the thought away. Maybe she noticed him more because his pants were tighter tonight. A rip in the jeans gave her a glimpse of one hair-roughened thigh and she had the insane urge to lean over and touch her lips to the spot to see what he actually tasted like. To feel the tickle of hair against her lips.

  “Focal point,” she blurted. “When things get a little hot.” She tugged at the collar of her light blue silk blouse. “You just choose a focal point and concentrate.” Her attention fixed on a trophy just over his left shoulder. “It’s all a matter of mind over body. You’re an athlete. I’m sure you’ve been in situations,” such as this one, “where you have to push yourself to do something extremely difficult.”

  “Like doing an extra lap at the track.” He leaned just to the left, blotting out her view of the trophy and drawing her attention to the sparkle of his eyes.

  He really did have great eyes. So deep and blue, fringed with dark lashes.

  Her stomach grumbled and she shifted. The sofa groaned, masking the sound and she sent up a silent thanks. While she knew she was having trouble, he didn’t have to know.

  Trouble? No, she wasn’t having trouble. She was focusing, concentrating, sucking.

  “I remember days when I’ve been dead tired after a race and all I want to do is pack it up and go home,” he went on. “But I knew a win on the following Sunday would be impossible if I gave up too soon.”

  “So what did you do? How did you keep going?”

  “I listened to the roar of the engine and let all that power feed the need inside me.”

  “Sex is no different. It’s all about finding a focal point and staying fixed on that one thing. For instance, what are you thinking about when you’re having sex?”

  He grinned and her heart did the traitorous double thump. “I’m thinking that it feels damned good.”

  “Because you’re fixated on the sensation, which increases
the sensation, which brings on a climax. But what if you think about something else?”

  “I generally do, but that doesn’t help matters.”

  “I’m not talking about someone else, as in the typical fantasy. I’m talking about something else that doesn’t involve your own penis. For instance, fixate on your partner’s eyes or her mouth or the sound that she makes when you slide a little deeper.”

  “That usually draws a scream.”

  The naked cowboy image rushed to the front of her mind and her cheeks burned.

  Hello? You’re not in grade school. You’re all grown up now and you’re a professional. This stuff doesn’t embarrass you anymore.

  “I’m serious.”

  “So am I.”

  That’s what she was afraid of, almost as much as the sudden urge to find out for herself. “The point is, you need a focal point other than your own pleasure. You know you’re going to come. That’s always a given.” A thought struck her and she eyed him. “It is a given, right? Your only problem is lack of knowledge, not a matter of plumbing?”

  The question wiped the grin from his face. “My plumbing works just fine.”

  “Good.” Great, a voice whispered and she popped yet another mint. “Then for you and sixty-two percent of men your age, achieving an orgasm is a given. But what about the woman? Sometimes she does and sometimes she doesn’t.” She looked straight at him. “Think how good your ego will feel if you make sure that she does. Then you’ve got an emotional rush along with the physical elation, and bam, you’ve doubled your own pleasure and satisfaction while giving your woman a good time, as well. Slowing down and working a little harder isn’t the sacrifice that most men think. It’s a win-win for everyone.”

  “Sounds good to me.”

  “Good. Now.” She drew in a deep breath. “Kissing is one of the main elements of great foreplay, and great foreplay usually guarantees an equally great orgasm.”

  “Kissing?”

  “Most men don’t think of kissing as a part of the actual sex act. Of course, they often kiss during sex, but it’s not mandatory for them. Women, on the other hand, rarely climax if it’s their genitals alone that are stimulated. They need all-over stimulation to really get going. That’s why it’s very important to understand the basics of kissing and the various sorts of kissing.” Just saying the word drew her attention to his mouth.