The Sex Diet

by Rhonda Nelson

  His hot breath fanned against her ear. “Say yes,” he whispered. A shiver shook her. Ahhh, her first ever eargasm, Sam thought dimly. But the thought was no more born than abandoned, when Hank shifted a smidge and his fingers found her pulsing clit. She inhaled sharply.

  “Yes!” Sam cried as the real thing instantly flooded through her. She arched her neck, felt her eyes honest-to-God roll back her in head—proof that it wasn’t just an expression—as wave after wave of the most exquisite sensation she’d ever felt whipped through her. She sank her teeth into her lip, her knees all but buckled, and if Hank hadn’t been leaning against her, she would have undoubtedly slid to the floor in a boneless satisfied heap at his feet.

  Hank continued to softly stroke her, milking the sensation for all it was worth. A satisfied chuckle sounded against her ear. “If that’s all it takes, baby, then I’m one lucky guy.”

  An unpleasant tingling surfaced behind her ear. She frowned absently, dragged reluctantly from her postorgasm euphoria and scratched until the irritation subsided.

  Hank nipped at her earlobe. “Samantha…you’re scratching again.”

  “Mmm?”

  “You’re scratching again,” he repeated, his voice a deep, sexy rasp.

  A flag of warning waved in her thoughts, but her mind was too foggy to discern much less heed the alarm. She turned her head and found Hank’s mouth again, fed from it until her senses whirled and his lips weren’t enough. She kissed his jaw, the vulnerable side of his neck and then tugged at his earlobe, subjecting him to the same sort of provocative tongue-treatment he’d just given her. His breath came out in a harsh, startled gasp, then a soft wicked chuckle rumbled lightly from his smiling lips.

  Samantha felt her own lips curl as she snuggled even closer to him, licked a path up down the side of neck and back up over his jaw. Hank had kindled a fire in her loins and every part of her ached for more. She wanted another orgasm and right now seemed like just as good a time as any. The back of her leg tingled with a determined itch, dragging her momentarily from the swaddling sugar-spun haze of desire. She grimaced, angrily lifted her leg to scratch her calf—and accidentally kneed Hank in the groin.

  Hank’s startled eyes all but crossed, a guttural groan tore from his throat, the color leached from his face and, hands clutched protectively over his crotch, he crumpled to the floor.

  Horrified, Samantha gasped, scratched her leg and dropped to her knees beside him. “Oh, God, Hank,” she moaned miserably. “Omigod, omigod, omigod. I’m so sorry!” She wanted to touch him, help him—anything— but was utterly helpless, at a complete loss. Who knew what kind of first aid one needed to administer in such a situation?

  Hank’s face was contorted in pain and he curled into the fetal position. “No…problem,” he squeaked brokenly. Veins stuck out on his neck. “I’ll…be all right…in a…minute.”

  Samantha fidgeted miserably, worriedly chewed her bottom lip. “I’m so sorry.”

  “Quite…all right,” he assured breathlessly. “What’s…with the…damned scratching?”

  Scratching? Samantha wondered. Oh, hell. Her antihistamine. She’d forgotten to take it after dinner, and she’d eaten enough shrimp to bankrupt Bubba Gump. She’d meant to take it when she got back, but they’d been running late and Hank had beaten her to the kitchen. Then he’d started that whole I-want-you bit and kissed her and she’d had her first ever orgasm…

  And it had been the last thing on her mind.

  Hell, who was she kidding? Samantha inwardly snorted. It hadn’t been anywhere near her mind, she’d been completely out of her mind. Hank’s tongue had been in her ear and his big warm hand had been playing at her breast, then in her panties and every coherent thought—every intellectual tendency—had fled from her brain.

  Jeez, how could she have been so stupid? How could she have let this happen? She’d finally managed to dredge up a little sex appeal—had finally—miraculously—gotten Hank Masterson to confess his latent desire—and she was going to blow it by being an absentminded moron. She needed professional help. She really did.

  Samantha blew out a small breath. “Mosquito bites,” she lied. Her gaze searched his pain-racked face and she winced. “Oh, Hank, I’m so sorry. So very, very sorry. Can I get you an ice pack—”

  His eyes widened in horror.

  “—or anything?” she finished quickly. “Anything else?”

  He cut her a crafty look and a wicked gleam danced in his still-hurting gaze. “There is…something,” he said consideringly.

  Samantha leaned forward. “What? Anything.”

  He managed a faint grin. “You could kiss it and make it better,” he murmured silkily.

  Samantha felt a flush of heat start at her ankles, race to her hairline and tried to tell herself it was embarrassment. She might have pulled it off, too, if she hadn’t been struck momentarily dumb by the image of doing just that to him. Pulling every inch of him into her mouth and tasting him until he roared with satisfaction.

  Somehow she conjured a droll smile. “Anything else?”

  Hank’s hopeful smile faded, but his eyes twinkled all the same. He groaned and shifted gingerly into a sitting position. “How ’bout helping me up?”

  With her help, he lurched to his feet and leaned against the island. His tight lips were white with pain and beads of sweat dotted his forehead.

  “I’m so sorry,” she repeated again.

  “I’ll, uh, be fine.” Hank shifted, winced, but a faint satisfied smile clung to his lips. “So…are you through considering?”

  She’d say, Sam thought. It would sort of be like shutting the barn door after the cow had gotten out at this point. Still, a part of her wanted to hesitate. In less than ten minutes, thanks in part to this sex diet, she’d been given the opportunity to have her heart’s desire—Hank Masterson. But should she do it? Any more than she already had? Granted he’d been right when he said their relationship had just changed. There had been no doubt about that, and there was no doubt that the orgasm he’d just treated her to would forever change the dynamic of their relationship.

  But there was a vast difference between a little finger action—albeit climactic action—and sex. She was in for the penny…but didn’t know if she was ready to ante up the pound. There was a great deal at stake—namely her heart. And when she went off this sex diet, undoubtedly Hank’s mind would clear, he’d wonder what the hell had happened, why he’d acted on this attraction now when he never had before, and they’d never be right again. They’d become strangers overnight, awkward and miserable. Years invested in a friendship that would be too flawed to survive. Did she want that? Could she live with it? Better still, could she refuse what he’d offered?

  She knew the answer to that as well as she knew her own name. Samantha heaved an internal sigh and her gaze slid to where Hank stood. Need and affection broadsided her, and a lump inexplicably formed in her throat even as her womb filled with an achy, needy, desperate heat.

  No, she couldn’t refuse. Wouldn’t despite the possibly disastrous consequences. She’d wanted Hank longer than forever, more than her next breath, and tonight he’d given her everything she’d ever wanted.

  To be wanted—by him.

  To be kissed—by him.

  An orgasm—by him.

  And not only that, but he’d promised her more. Every kind of orgasm she could imagine, as many as she wanted. Should she put a stop to this madness? Most definitely. Would she? Most definitely not.

  She finally nodded. “I’m through considering.”

  “And?”

  She steepled her fingers beneath her chin. “Are you sure you want to go through with this?”

  Hank exhaled slowly. “Sure that it’s not a mistake? No. Sure that I want you anyway? Yes.”

  He’d summed that up neatly, Sam thought, because that was precisely how she felt as well. At least they were on the same page. Though trepidation shook her tummy, she nevertheless felt a hesitant smile quiver on her li
ps. Her gaze tangled with his. “Then I say…yes.”

  Hank chuckled, drew her to him. “If I remember correctly, you already did.”

  Sam blushed. Indeed she had. And she looked forward to saying it again and again.

  9

  DESPITE THE FACT that hours had passed and indecision and doubt over his actions still plagued him, despite the knowledge that he’d permanently altered possibly the most important friendship in his life, and despite the fact that his nuts had been shoved a good foot up into his abdomen, Hank didn’t regret kissing Sam, making her come, didn’t regret finally telling her the truth about how he felt.

  He couldn’t, not when nothing had ever felt more right.

  In fact, though he’d never been prone to sentiment, had never been what one could call the romantic type, Hank had been curiously affected—some unnamed emotion had swelled into his chest even as a bolt of white-hot heat had shot to his loins—and he’d been hit with the almost overwhelming realization that this was what he’d been waiting for, this had been what he’d unwittingly needed.

  The moment he’d pressed his lips to hers he’d felt it. Her sweet breath had sighed into his mouth, then she’d sagged against him and from that point on, his cognitive thinking had evaporated and pure animal instinct had taken over. Had she not kneed him in the groin—what in God’s was with that infernal scratching? Hank wondered irritably—he would have undoubtedly set her on top of the kitchen island, spread her delectable thighs and plunged in and out of her until they both screamed with the force of release. He wondered if she realized that’s what he would have done if she hadn’t incapacitated him, if she had any idea that what he felt for her went well beyond typical lust, need and desire.

  It wasn’t a question of him wanting her now—he had to have her.

  And she had to win this damned contest. Rather than continuing what they’d started, they’d fried chicken. Hank grinned. Not what he’d wanted to do, but it hadn’t been unpleasant, either, because he’d been with Sam. Nothing was ever unpleasant with Sam.

  Though he wasn’t ready to dig around his brain in search of an explanation as to why he was so desperate for her to move back—an emotional revelation he wasn’t quite ready to deal with would undoubtedly surface should he do too much excavation—Hank desperately wanted her to move back here. He’d been unexpectedly delighted when she mentioned moving back, but that delight had morphed into outright necessity within a matter of seconds, then into full-blown need within a minute.

  He wanted her here. With him.

  Right now he had to focus on making that happen and he’d sort the why of it out later. Action now, think later. Sounded like a plan. Probably not the best one, but it was all he could come up with at the moment. A short ironic laugh burst from his throat. Hell, given what he’d been through with her over the past twenty-four hours, it was nothing short of a miracle that he could string two thoughts together.

  In addition to being emotionally fried, the majority of his blood had been pooled south of his waistband. His brain was dehydrated. Hank speared his hand through his hair, rubbed his eyes with the flat of his palms until he saw little black stars dance behind his lids.

  “Correct me if I’m wrong, but isn’t there a gorgeous woman in your bed?”

  Hank looked up and blinked, gratefully accepted the longneck Jamie handed in his direction. “Yeah, she’s there.”

  “And yet you’re here.” With a sigh, Jamie settled himself into the chair next to Hank. “You want her, so what gives? Let me guess. Noble second thoughts.”

  Hank shook his head. There was nothing noble about his thoughts. “Not second thoughts, just thoughts,” Hank clarified.

  “What’s there to think about?”

  Hank tipped his bottle up and all but drained it. “Like whether or not it’s a good idea to sleep with your best friend.”

  Jamie’s chuckle sounded in the darkness. “I’m flattered, Hank, but let me make it easy for you—I’m not interested.”

  “I wasn’t talking about you.” He snorted. “Arrogant bastard,” he muttered, unable to quell a laugh.

  Jamie laughed. “Personally, I think that you’ve been thinking about this entirely too long. You’ve thought it to death. Do it already.” He grunted under his breath. “Hell, she’s obviously crazy about you.”

  It was utterly pathetic how his heart jumped. Hank stilled, affected a you’re-full-of-shit expression. “What makes you say that?”

  Jamie shrugged. “It’s simple, really, and if you’d been paying closer attention you would have noticed. You’re all she talks about.”

  “Maybe to you, but I’m all the two of you have in common,” he argued. “It’s only natural that she’d talk about me to you.”

  “No,” Jamie hedged, giving his head a hesitant shake. “It’s more than that. If I had to guess, I’d say she’s been carrying a torch for quite some time.”

  Hank mulled that over and tried to make the theory fit. Could Jamie be right? Could Samantha have secretly had a thing for him all these years and him never know it? Up until this week, he would have scoffed at the idea, would have insisted that he knew Samantha better than anyone and, had there ever been any sort of romantic feelings on her part, he would have noticed.

  Now, however, he wasn’t so sure. He rolled the idea around his brain. Hank supposed Jamie could be right. There certainly hadn’t been any doubt about her wanting him. Between that kiss and the subsequent instant screaming orgasm, he knew she wanted him. Come to think of it, she’d never denied wanting him. And there had been something so sweet, so reverent in the way that she’d initially clung to him. The moment had lasted but a second, but he’d noticed it all the same. Then she’d been on fire, had kissed him with more needy enthusiasm than he’d ever experienced.

  Of course, that could have simply been the result of her admittedly neglected hormones. Who was to say that if Jamie had kissed her, she wouldn’t have reacted in the exact same way? The thought didn’t sit well, so rather than ponder it, Hank beat the notion out of his head. He couldn’t think about her kissing Jamie or being with Jamie in any capacity—with any man—which was what had prompted him into telling her how he felt in the first place, what had prompted him to overthrow years of cautious behavior and promise her countless orgasms.

  The iced tea and fried chicken bake-off was tomorrow at noon, then the actual Belle pageant would be hosted in the evening. Hank fully intended for her to win—was almost desperate enough to pull a few strings to ensure that very end. Sneaky and underhanded, yes. But if it brought her back to him, then the end would justify the means, right? As it happened, he knew both of the secret judges. He filed the idea away for future consideration because another more tantalizing thought had pushed into his mind—the ultimate celebration.

  He’d asked Samantha to dinner tomorrow night, and had planned something really special for her. If there were any lingering doubts as to his sincerity—as to how much he wanted her—they would be swiftly dispelled tomorrow evening after that pageant because he fully intended to give her a night she would never forget.

  “THIS IS STUPID,” Samantha hissed, batting Hank away from her as he tried to wrestle her into a frilly apron. “I’m not wearing it.”

  “It’s not stupid, it’s genius.” He pulled the garment over her head, whirled her around and tied the sash. “It’ll make you stand out.”

  “It’ll make me look like an idiot. I’m not supposed to wear this.” The Belle contestants had met with the pageant director this morning. They’d been encouraged to dress casually, like they would at home for this particular part of the contest. Samantha glanced down at the apron Hank had found for her and stifled the burgeoning need to scream. She’d never wear this.

  Before she could argue with Hank any further about the ridiculous cherry-printed apron, Samantha was distracted by a curious weight around her neck and the tantalizing brush of Hank’s fingers over her nape. She repressed a shiver, then reached for her throat and
gasped. Pearls? “What the hell are you doing?”

  “Trying to help you, dammit,” Hank snapped. “Now hold still. You’ve only got a few minutes before you have to present your plate and drink to the judges.”

  “They’re not going to like the taste of my chicken any better if I look like a June Cleaver reject,” Samantha said through gritted teeth.

  “Wrong. Packaging is everything—including how we package you. You want to win, right? There,” Hank said, finally securing the clasp. He shoved a pair of red pumps at her. “Now put these on.”

  Samantha shook her head. Oh, no. Not no, but hell, no. “Hank, I—”

  “Put them on.”

  She glared at him, heaved a long-suffering sigh and did as he told her. Honestly, she didn’t know what had come over him. Last night when they’d finished up in the kitchen, he’d seemed pretty calm compared to what he’d been since she’d gotten into town. Even after The Orgasm—her toes involuntarily curled at the reminder—and the subsequent groin accident, while there had been a wee bit of tension between them, it hadn’t been as a result of what had happened between them, but rather what hadn’t happened. Not an awkward sort of tension, but sexual tension.

  Ironically she’d missed an itch she’d been desperately waiting to scratch over an itch that could have been prevented if she’d only taken her damned antihistamine. The idea made her want to throw her head back and wail. Stomp her feet and moan and cry.

  Samantha knew it had probably been for the best—she’d needed to think about what Hank had said, what he’d offered and the conclusion she’d drawn as a result of that conversation. Now, hours later, though the taste of him still lingered on her lips and the pleasant hum of release still lingered in her sex, she was still not sure that she’d made the right decision.

  But it felt right and she had every intention of seeing it through.