by Tara Wylde
Besides us, Ronan’s Aunt Evie, who used the internet to become an ordained minister, finally says the handful of lines I’ve been waiting to hear since the ceremony started.
“I now pronounce you man and wife,” she says proudly. “Ronan, you may kiss your bride.”
Ronan doesn’t need to be told twice. He pulls me as close as the baby bump allows and kisses me with more passion than is strictly appropriate for a wedding ceremony.
I try to return his ardor, but the sudden, mind numbing pain of every single muscle in my lower belly contracting nearly makes my knees buckle.
I cling to Ronan and gasp for breath.
“Oh my,” his Aunt Evie cackles. “Talk about extraordinary timing.”
Ronan grips my upper arms and stares down at me with panic filled eyes. “What’s wrong?”
Before I can answer, Evie leans over the beachside wedding alter we had made for today and taps his shoulder. “You’d better get your girl to the hospital. ASAP.”
“What?” The blood drains from Ronan’s face. “Why?”
I take a step away from him and look down. The size of my baby bump makes it impossible to see what the front of my maternity wedding dress looks like, but it feels even wetter than the front of Ronan’s pants.
“Because my water just broke.”
“Aren’t you just the sweetest little thing?” I whisper to my brand-new daughter. I place a kiss on the top of her head before sliding my gaze sideways to where Ronan is sitting on the chair the nurses moved beside the bed. He looks exhausted. “I can’t believe we still don’t know what to name her.”
Before Ronan can answer, someone knocks on the door.
“Come in,” I call out.
The door swings open and Evie pushes Sally’s wheelchair into my hospital room.
“We wanted to give you two some time to get used to being a family,” Evie says. “But Sally here just couldn’t wait to meet her new niece.”
Ronan straightens in his seat. “I’m surprised you waited this long.” He gently slides our daughter out of my hands and holds her so that Sally and Evie can get a good first look.
“This is what Baby Bump really looks like?” Sally tilts her head to one side and studies her red-faced niece. “I thought she’d be bigger. And prettier.”
I gape at her. “What did you call her?”
“Baby Bump,” Sally says in a clear voice. “That’s what you and Ronan decided to name her.”
“I was thinking about something more traditional, like Amelia or Constance,” I say. “Why do you think her name is Baby Bump?”
“That’s what you and Ronan are always calling her,” Sally explains. “Baby Bump made Cassie puke. Baby Bump saved our lives. Baby Bump is going to be a pilot just like her mommy and daddy.”
Ronan’s startled glance meets mine. After a moment he starts to laugh. “She’s got a point,” he chuckles.
I look at Evie, who grins at me. “Face it, Cassie. You can name her anything you like, but since it looks like we’ve all gotten into the habit of calling her Baby Bump, it’s going to be her nickname for the foreseeable future.”
Realizing that I have no real control over it at this point, I relax and simply decide to bask in the love and laughter filling the small, private hospital room.
Part II
The O Coach
My dirty little secret slipped out.
I’ve never had an “O”…
Now a mysterious stranger is making me an offer…
And I can't wait to say: Yes!
My name? Mr. No “O.”
I specialize in women's secrets.
No shame. No guilt. No rules. Well… One rule.
No touching.
I can't risk being hurt again.
I'll get you off. That's a promise. But only through the phone.
You'll never see me, never know who I am.
But that's what makes it so good.
I learned Erin's secret along with the rest of the world,
And promised to help her.
The closer Erin gets, the closer I come to forgetting my grief.
Maybe I deserve be touched…
Maybe t’s time Erin screamed my real name.
Mr. Oh-Oh-Oh My God…
Prologue
Erin
“Damn, damn, and double damn.”
I glance at the watch strapped around my left wrist. “Damn,” I say one more time.
I spent a small fortune on the timepiece because, in addition to looking good and keeping accurate time, the watch does everything from monitoring my heart rate, to calculating my daily calorie intake, to letting me know exactly how many steps I’ve taken during the day. The one thing it can’t do is turn back time so that I’m not late for my date.
I slam my feet into my favorite pair of high-heeled strappy sandals and grab my purse off the table. “Don’t wait up for me,” I yell over my shoulder, not caring that the large dog I share my apartment with can’t understand my words. Saying them out loud makes me feel less lonely.
I take advantage of the elevator’s mirrored interior to spread some bronze eyeshadow on each lid and freshen my mascara. The elevator comes to an abrupt halt and the doors slide open, revealing the lobby, as I dig through my purse for my favorite tube of lipstick.
“Come on,” I mutter to myself as I keep digging through my purse and step off the elevator and into the lobby. My fingers sort through packs of gum, Chapstick, a pair of reading glasses, a book, and a pair of chopsticks. But no lipstick. “I know you’re in there somewhere.”
Without breaking stride, I bend my head closer to the purse’s opening, hoping to spot the dark plastic tube. “There you are!”
Just as my fingertips brush against the smooth, cool plastic, my forward progress slams to a halt as I careen into a wall of muscle.
“Umph,” I yelp as my body bounces off the wall. I crash to the floor, landing in an undignified heap.
“Are you okay?” Warm hands reach for me, stroking along my arms and running down the length of my back. Little bursts of electrical current shimmy along my skin in the wake of his touch, making me want to lean into the owner of those hands and explore what would happen if there wasn’t a dress between us.
I force myself to ignore the strange sensations that are warming my blood, and make a quick assessment of my legs, ass, and head. I’ll probably have a few interesting bruises tomorrow, but nothing seems broken, sprained, or twisted.
“I’m fine.” I glance at the person I crashed into and my stomach instantly ties into a knot. Figures! Of all the people who live in the Dovetail Apartment Building, the one I’d run into is Garret Holden. The same Garret Holden I’ve been crushing on since I first laid eyes on him. The only man who can make me tongue-tied and weak-kneed with just a glance.
Garret Holden who stood out from the rest of the men who inhabit the Dovetail, not only because he always wears faded t-shirts and ass hugging jeans instead of the business suits and because his dark hair is far longer than current fashion trends dictate, but also because he has the most smoldering eyes and best body I’ve ever seen.
Each time I catch a glimpse of him, my knees go weak and I forget how to breathe.
I drop my gaze down to his left hand. The platinum wedding band is still wrapped around his finger. It catches the overhead light and I look away. It’s just my luck, the hottest, sexiest man I’ve ever met already has a wife.
Even though I’ve yet to catch a glimpse of Garret’s wife, that ring means he’s off limits—but that doesn’t keep my hormones from doing all sorts of crazy things whenever he’s around.
“I’m so sorry.” Garret’s voice drags my thoughts away from the strange reaction my body has to his nearness and back to the present.
“Huh.” The sound, which is little more than a grunt, makes me wish the floor would open up and swallow me whole. Normally, I’m quite articulate and have an extensive vocabulary.
“I’m sorry,” Garret rep
eats. “I didn’t mean to knock you down.”
“Oh, that.” I place the flat of my hand on the cool floor tiles and start to push myself up and off the floor. If I’m going to embarrass myself while having a conversation with Garret Holden, I’m damned well going to do so while standing on my own two feet.
Garret’s massive hands cup my upper arms, sending more electric signals to all sorts of interesting places as he helps me up.
“You don’t have to apologize.” Hey! Look at that! My mouth can form words and my brain can turn them into complete sentences! “This was completely my fault. I wasn’t looking where I was going.”
“You’re sure you’re okay?” Garret asks one more time.
I nod and bend my mouth into a nervous smile. “Oh yeah. Nothing damaged but my pride, and that usually bounces back pretty quickly.”
Trying to be nonchalant, I lean just a little closer and breathe in the scent of his aftershave. I don’t know what brand he uses, but it’s my new favorite scent: it’s both spicy and fruity with just a hint of—I take another sniff—motor oil?
Garret nods again. He bends and starts picking stuff up from the floor.
I glance down and a fresh wave of humiliation rolls through me. Slipping wasn’t enough. I also dropped my purse and the contents have spilled all over the floor. Without a word, Garret tucks each item, including the tube of lipstick that started this whole disaster, back into my purse.
Still, it could be worse. At least my tampons are still zipped securely into the interior pocket.
“Thanks,” I mutter as he hands the bag back to me. I hook it over my shoulder and search my brain for something witty and kind of flirty to say. After all, the ring and wife mean he’s off limits, but that doesn’t mean I can’t flirt. Right?
Before anything springs to mind, he bends and picks up one more item.
Garret hands the purse to me before reaching for one last thing that has slid farther across the floor than the other items. It’s the paperback romance novel I snagged from the rack at the grocery store. The one that caught my eye purely because of the obviously naked hunk on the cover.
I burn with embarrassment as Garret studies the cover for a second before handing the book to me.
“Is it any good?” he asks with a pointed glance at it.
My mouth opens, fishlike, a few times. I shove the book into the bag and stumble backwards a few steps.
“Um. I don’t know.” I mentally roll my eyes. Great, more witty conversation. “I have to go. I’ve got a date.”
Before Garret has a chance to respond, I turn and hurry out the door and into the parking garage, knowing full well that tonight’s date is going to have a difficult time measuring up to Garret Holden.
Chapter 52
Erin
I shift in my seat and send a furtive glance around my office, making sure no one has snuck in before I direct my full attention to my laptop’s screen. If anyone does happen to peek through the window, they’ll assume I’m hard at work.
Not getting off when your partner does? Don’t feel bad. You’re in good company. Recent studies indicate that a whopping seventy-two percent of the female population has had one (and often more) experiences when their male partner climaxed without them. These women report that once he was happy, no additional attempt was made to help her reach the big O.
And the stats don’t end there.
Sixty-seven percent of women who recently participated in a research project reported that they faked their O just so their man feels like a stud.
I let out a low whistle. Granted, there’s nothing about how many women participated in the project, but sixty-seven is still a high percentage. I wonder how many of them fake having an orgasm every single time they have sex.
And the most heartbreaking stat of all is that while ninety-five percent of recently polled men told researchers that they always have an orgasm when they have sex, only fifty-seven percent of the women who participated in the same study said they always reach the Big O.
If you find yourself relating to the forty-three percent who seldom or never climax during sex, you can stop worrying.
Here at No O, we have the knowledge, tools, resources, and experience needed to teach you (and your partner) how to make sure the Big O becomes a routine part of your sex life.
Intrigued, I click my mouse on the link at the bottom of the webpage, causing the introductory stats on the landing page to disappear, replaced by a lengthy description, complete with detailed illustrations, discussing the differences between a clitoral and vaginal orgasm.
Thirty-five percent of women report that if their partner would devote more time to clitoral stimulation during sex, she’d climax, but since her partner doesn’t, she’s left unfulfilled at the end of their sexual encounters. This really isn’t surprising considering that 833 male undergrad students who participated in a 2005 study incorrectly identified the clitoris when they were shown an anatomical photo of a woman’s feminine parts.
“Hey, Hot Stuff. Ready to pitch your amazing idea to a bunch of burly mechanics?” Tracy Bellamy, my extraordinary business partner—and one of my best friends in the whole world—opens my office door without so much as knocking and walks in.
I yelp and jump in my chair, knocking my knee against the side of my desk and nearly sending my laptop crashing to the floor.
“Sorry,” Tracy says, not sounding at all contrite. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”
The intoxicating scent of the pizza and cup of hot chocolate she’s carrying cause my stomach to rumble. She holds them up. “Want some?”
“Desperately.” I glare at her, putting all the frustration I’ve been dealing with the past few weeks into my expression. Tracy isn’t fazed. “But I’m dieting. Remember?”
“Yeah.” Tracy settles in the chair on the opposite side of my desk, kicks off her shoes, and props her feet on the edge of my desk. “But the whole point of dieting is cheating.”
I study her right big toe, which is poking through a hole in her stocking, and float a brow. “Comfortable?”
“Extremely,” Tracy says.
“Trace, what’s the point of paying fifty bucks for a pedicure only to wear holey stockings?”
Tracy wiggles her toe at me and grins. “I think of it as a warning.”
I blink. I’ve known Tracy for several years, we’re closer than most siblings, yet she still manages to say things that surprise me. “What kind of warning?”
“That I’m the walking, talking definition of unpredictability.” Tracy flips open the Styrofoam container holding her pizza. My stomach clenches, reminding me that it’s been several hours since breakfast when I’d practically inhaled an apple and appetite-controlling oatmeal, neither of which did much to take the edge off my hunger.
Tracy rattles the box, causing the slices of fully loaded pizza to slide from side to side. “What do you say? I had Tino throw in an extra slice just for you.”
God, Tracy has no idea how tempted I am. I almost reach out for the box, my fingers actually twitch, but at the last second, I catch myself. “No.” I shake my head. “I’m trying really hard to be good.”
“Suit yourself. Leaves more for me.” Tracy balances the box on her thighs. “Not that I understand why you think you need to diet. Your curves are gorgeous.”
I roll my eyes and turn my attention back to my computer. “Says the woman who weighs less than the average gnat and who hasn’t met a calorie her metabolism can’t burn in the blink in the eye. Sometimes, I really hate you. Just the smell of that pizza is putting five pounds on me.”
Tracy snorts and pops a piece of pepperoni into her mouth. “You’re delusional. You look great. You might not like your curves, but most women would give their right arm, and probably their left one too, to have them.”
I give her the side eye but don’t respond. We’ve had this conversation, or a variation of it, more times than I can count. It almost always ends in an argument.
But Tr
acy isn’t about to let it drop. “And if you don’t believe me, look at how many hits your Tinder profile gets. I do okay, but you’re the only woman I know who manages to have a date every single night of the week if they want. Confidence is an aphrodisiac, honey. Just a shame they don’t sell it in a jar like powdered tiger cock…”
Her words remind me of the last night’s scene and I grimace. Tracy’s eyebrows climb toward her hairline. “Uh oh. I saw that. How’d the date with Doctor Dan go? It was the all-important third date, right?”
I twist my fingers together. Heat floods my face. “Yeah. It was.”
Tracy’s eyes sparkle with interest. “And how was the delectable Doctor Dan? Please tell me he’s at least almost as good in bed as he looks.”
I bite my lip and stare down at my desktop. The last thing I want to do is talk about last night’s date. Truthfully, I’d rather tell her about my pre-date encounter with Garret Holden, but I’ve always been reluctant to mention my secret crush.
Tracy’s pizza falls back into the box with a dull thud. “Oh no. I know that look. What happened this time?”
“I dumped him.” I don’t know why I hate saying those words so much, but I do.
“Right.” Tracy eyes me. “So, this year alone, you’ve gone out with, what, seven? Eight guys? And you’ve ditched each one after a handful of dates. I’ve seen these guys, even met a few, and each one seems wonderful—not to mention drop-dead freakin’ gorgeous, so I’ve got to ask. Why?”
“The truth?”
She nods. “As long as it’s nice and juicy.”
“Sex.”
Tracy nearly doubles over laughing. She scrambles to catch the to-go box full of pizza before it tumbles from her lap.
“That’s definitely juicy,” she says when she finally composes herself. “What about the sex? I can’t believe they were all bad. I mean, both Doctor Dan and that guy you brought to the New Year’s party look like they could more than hold their own when it comes to burning up the mattress.”