The Sex Diet

by Rhonda Nelson

Hank was right—things would never be the same now that he’d told her how he presently felt. Granted last night, they’d moved right along without much of a problem, but as time wore on what would happen? If things didn’t work out, would they be able to get past it? Had any couple in the history of the world successfully segued from friends-to-lovers-to-friends again?

  Hank had essentially offered her exactly what she’d always wanted, with only one small exception—she’d get him…but only temporarily, she feared. The minute she went off the sex diet, it would all be over. It would be finished. She didn’t have a single doubt about that. Her appeal would take a dramatic nosedive and he’d wonder what had happened. What had prompted his rash behavior. Then, he’d undoubtedly regret this week, and then where would they be? Sam blew out a breath as a whole new batch of uncertainties bombarded her.

  Right now Hank was at the mercy of her elevated pheromones—he didn’t know why he’d suddenly become attracted to her, but she did—and once the sex diet wore off and his attraction wore off right along with it, then there they’d be. Their friendship over, their lives forever changed. Either way, things would never be the same. She was damned if she did, and damned if she didn’t—which was all the more reason why she’d decided that she couldn’t pass up this opportunity.

  Hank was her dream come true, and though it might be selfish, she didn’t care that it had taken a sex diet to make him act on his attraction—she was still blown away by that little verbal bomb—but she just couldn’t help herself. For the time being, she was going to pretend that everything would be fine. She wasn’t going to think about what-if’s, or if-only’s or beyond the rest of this week. She was simply going to be what she’d always wanted to be—his.

  Hank had asked her to dinner tonight and, given the way his gaze had lingered on her lips as he’d issued the invitation, she knew that he fully expected to do more than feed her. A quiet shiver moved through her, pushing a smile to her lips.

  She couldn’t wait.

  Samantha couldn’t wait to say yes again—and again and again and again—couldn’t wait to explore that beautifully built body of his, learn each line and ridge, each freckle and mole, and have him do the same for her in turn. She wanted that bulge she’d felt eagerly nudging her belly last night lodged deep down inside her, wanted his mouth on her breast and his hands in her hair.

  She wanted to taste every inch of him and use every one of those damned extra-large condoms she’d brought along. Remembered heat swirled through her belly. They’d most definitely fit him. She wanted him to make love to her sweet and slow, then hard and fast and every way in between. She wanted to experience every single carnal act her mind had ever entertained. She wanted to pack a lifetime of lovemaking into what was left of this week.

  She’d always wanted him, had been in love with him for as long as she could remember. She couldn’t remember her life without Hank in it and, though she knew she might possibly have to face the rest of life without him, that was a price she’d decided she’d willingly pay. Was it too high? Maybe. Probably. But the opportunity to cash in on a lifelong dream was simply more than she could pass up.

  For this one, brief moment in time, Hank Masterson wanted her and she fully intended to have him.

  Tonight.

  The thought drew a hum of anticipation from ankle to crown, forcing her to stifle a shiver.

  Hank stepped back and looked her over and she had the pleasure of watching those sea-blue eyes darken with latent desire. “You look fantastic.”

  Though she felt ridiculous in the apron, pearls and heels, she nevertheless felt the warmth of the compliment. “Thanks.” She blew out a shaky breath. “Let’s hope my chicken passes muster.”

  “Your chicken rocks.” He frowned. “Didn’t you try any?”

  “Er…yeah. Of course,” Samantha lied, mentally wincing at the fib. No, she hadn’t. Regrettably, fried chicken wasn’t a part of her sex diet. She couldn’t sample it, otherwise it might wreak havoc with her pheromones and she didn’t dare risk that, not when she’d miraculously managed to snag Hank’s interest with them.

  She’d eaten a small breakfast this morning, then, just for added insurance, she’d popped another antihistamine and had a shrimp cocktail snack. She’d try to squeeze in another chocolate candy bar before lunch, or maybe a handful of honey-roasted pine nuts, then a fish sandwich would be on the menu. Samantha grimaced. She’d grown increasingly sick of the limited fare on this damned diet and there was no way in hell—even if she wasn’t allergic—that she’d be able to keep it up. She wanted a nice juicy steak, with a loaded baked potato on the side. In the mean time, she’d settle for seafood for dinner and Hank for dessert.

  “Come on,” Hank said, lacing his fingers through hers and tugging her out of the bedroom. “They’re about to start. Tina’s been on double duty, guarding your entry and scoping out the competition.”

  Samantha felt a wry smile tug at her lips. “Is that really necessary, Hank? This isn’t the Miss America Pageant.”

  “Of course, it’s necessary,” Hank insisted. “Sabotage, honey. Women are vicious. It happens all the time.”

  And he’d know, of course, Samantha thought drolly, but bit her tongue. Hank fished the walkie-talkie out of his back pocket, inadvertently giving her a sneak peek at his wonderful ass, and paged Tina. “We’re on our way. How does it look?”

  Static then, “There are a couple of contenders, but I don’t think we have anything to worry about.” She groaned miserably into the receiver. “Ugh. I’m never eating fried chicken again.”

  “Ten-four.” Hank opened the front door and they swiftly descended the steps.

  Samantha’s eyes widened. “You’ve been making her sample all that chicken?”

  “Not making her,” Hank corrected amiably. “I simply suggested that she should.”

  She’d just bet he did, Samantha thought. Hank didn’t know how to suggest anything—he ordered. Jeez, he certainly seemed to be making a big deal out of this contest. She cast him a sidelong glance and absently worried her bottom lip. She hoped he wasn’t too disappointed when she lost. She’d entered, knew that she had a miniscule shot, but she had absolutely no illusions whatsoever about winning.

  There were roughly fifty other candidates, all of them gorgeous—she’d covertly scoped them out this morning over breakfast and had been sick at her stomach by the time she’d had the opportunity to catalogue their tanned, toned perfection. In fact, if Hank hadn’t been so gung ho about the contest this morning, she would have politely withdrawn and spared herself the humiliation. Samantha expelled a soft sigh. But he had, so that had ruled that option out.

  The sand was packed with eager spectators, contestants and judges, the beach littered with towels, quilts, sand chairs and bright multicolored umbrellas. Red and white checked tables were lined across the beach, all of them laden with a sampling of chicken and iced tea from each contestant. A buzz of excitement moved through the crowd as the time drew near to judge this particular aspect of the contest.

  Feeling a bit nervous, Samantha affixed her contestant number to the damned apron and found her slot occupied by Tina.

  “Nice apron,” Tina said with a poor-you smile. “Let me guess. Hank’s idea, right?”

  “Lay off the apron,” Hank told her. “It’s going to be what tips the odds in her favor. She’s sexy, but domestic—every guy’s secret fantasy. Why do you think that French Maid costume is so popular?”

  Tina gave him a blank look. “Because men have no taste?”

  “No,” he said with exaggerated patience, “because it gives the illusion of a servant—of a woman who is there to do whatever a guy wants—and men love to be served.”

  Samantha filed that little tidbit away for future reference.

  “Whatever,” Tina said. “I’m going to find an empty piece of sand.”

  “Do it behind the judges. I want you to walkie me with any developments.” Hank, the perfectionist, adjusted the trendy tent
over her dish. “Now relax,” he told her, “and remember to smile.”

  She nodded, pulled in a shallow breath and resisted the urge to salute him. “Right.”

  Hank leaned over and brushed her cheek with a light but lingering kiss. His lips moved to her ear. “The next time you come, I want to taste it,” he murmured softly.

  Sam gasped, startled, as a shaft of heat lodged in her womb. A mental image of Sam’s blond head positioned boldly between her legs flashed behind her eyes, burned into her retinas. She blinked drunkenly. “Think about that,” he told her. “Because that’s what I’m going to do the minute this contest is over. Forget the dress…but keep the apron.”

  With that suggestive comment and everything that it implied still ringing in her ears and glaring vividly in her overwrought imagination, Hank turned and walked off. Think about that. As if she’d be able to think about anything else now, Sam thought, still essentially struck dumb. As soon as this contest was over, huh? Well, that gave her something to look forward to at least.

  With effort, Sam directed her attention to the contest. Judges had commenced with the sampling. There were ten judges—Samantha had counted them—and each judge took five contestants.

  Each judge would then pick a winner out of their allotted contestants, then narrow the contestants down to ten. When Samantha’s judge, a squat chunky man who was built like a fireplug, got to her batch, she smiled a wholesome June Cleaver sort of smile and drew her shoulders back so that her breasts were shown at their most flattering angle. Her judge smiled back, took up the glass of tea, selected a chicken leg and took a generous bite.

  While Samantha was trying to decide whether or not she should bat her lashes, or do any of that other coy crap she’d seen some of the other contestants try, she heard an ominous part-wheeze, part-rattling sound several contestants down and to her left. Her gaze shifted and, in the split second it took for her eyes to tell her brain what she was seeing, she’d vaulted over the table, raced down the beach—which was damned difficult in the heels Hank had insisted she put on—grabbed a choking judge around the middle and performed the Heimlich maneuver.

  A series of startled gasps moved through the crowd, ending with one huge collective inhalation as a hunk of chicken the size of a golf ball exploded from the judge’s mouth, arced through the air and landed with a plop in a pitcher of iced tea.

  The man bent double at the waist and dragged in a long, much needed gulp of air. Other judges, contestants, and spectators hurried forward, Hank among them.

  “Walter, are you going to be all right? You want me to call the paramedics?” Hank asked, his voice shaky. Concern lined his brow and he clapped a hand on the older gentleman’s shoulder.

  Walter shook his head. “Jesus,” he wheezed, eyes streaming. “I thought for sure I was a goner.” His watery gaze found Samantha’s. “Thank you, young lady. I’m…much obliged.”

  Samantha didn’t know when she’d ever been so shaken. She nodded. “Y-you’re welcome.”

  When it was clear that Walter was all right, everyone returned to their post, Samantha included, and the contest continued. To her surprise and delight she made the final round. Hank whooped with triumph, gestured for her to smile wider. Samantha kicked the grin up a notch and resisted the urge to roll her eyes.

  Each of the judges came through for another sampling, Walter being more careful this time, then they huddled together to make their final decision. A buzz of anticipation moved through the crowd.

  Finally the huddle broke apart. Walter doled out the ribbons and, as each contestant was placed, Samantha grew more and more nervous. Hank’s gaze caught hers again and he smiled an endearing, encouraging smile. God, how great it was to have him in her corner, Samantha thought, heartened by that sexy grin. She knew the last thing she should be thinking about right now was a happily-ever-after, because that was nowhere in their immediate future, but oh how she wished it were. How she wished that this contest was over, and that they were locked away in his room—specifically, in his bed—and never had to think about coming out or the consequences of their actions.

  Thinking about that bed and Hank brought a whole new host of images to mind, a whole new kind of anticipation racing through her blood. That needy place between her thighs tingled with warmth and her breasts puckered behind the stupid cherry apron she wore. A hum of need buzzed through her entire body and it occurred to Samantha that she didn’t know whether she could wait until the contest was over, didn’t know if she’d have the patience to get through the rest of this contest when she knew the reward she had coming immediately afterward. How on earth—

  “—and first place goes to Samantha McCafferty!” Walter wheezed as loudly into the microphone as his tortured vocal cords would allow.

  Startled, Samantha blinked, jerked back into the here and now. What? First place? She’d been so caught up in her Hank fantasy, she’d zoned out completely.

  “Congratulations, young lady,” Walter told her. “You certainly know how to prepare your poultry…and you think quick on your feet,” he added, eyes twinkling with warmth.

  Hank rushed up behind her, whirled her around and planted a long, hot victory kiss on her lips that ignited an inferno in her already burning loins. His entire body vibrated with excitement and his eyes danced. “That’s my girl. I told you that you had it in the bag, didn’t I?”

  “I—”

  “One win down, one to go,” Hank told her, ridiculously elated over her chicken victory. That sea-blue gaze glinted with confidence, with the invitation to sin, with untold pleasures she longed to experience. He jerked her forward. “Come on. I’m hungry.” The growl in that low sexy baritone left little doubt as to what he was hungry for—and it damn sure wasn’t chicken.

  He hurried her into the house, walkied Tina and told her that he would unavailable for the next few minutes, then closed the door with a definite click.

  “Only a few minutes,” Sam teased, though truth be told she was a smidge disappointed. “I wouldn’t have figured you for the quickie type.”

  Hank stalked toward her. “Who said anything about a quickie?”

  Sam frowned. “But I thought—”

  “That was your first mistake,” he said. He unzipped the dress, then tugged it off her from the shoulder down. “I don’t want you to think—I want you to feel.” He removed her bra and panties in the same ingenuous fashion, leaving her in nothing but the apron. Her breasts peeked about the top, played hide and seek with the lacy edge. Before she had the time to feel the least bit underdressed, Hank bent and pulled her breast into his hot mouth.

  Sam gasped as pleasure arced though her. Her knees turned to jelly, which made the fact that she’d somehow been maneuvered close to the bed all the more fortuitous. She fell backward, bringing him with her. He toyed with the other breast, played at the nipple while he worshipped the other. Operation Orgasm indeed, Sam thought dimly. She got it! She finally got it! This had to be one of the most wonderful things that had ever happened to her. The sensation was incredible. No wonder there was power in a woman’s cleavage. Clearly Hank loved feeding at her breasts as much as she loved having his hot mouth upon her. She tunneled her fingers in his hair, arched up and pushed her achy breast farther into his mouth. Heat slickened her folds, and she pressed her legs together in a vain attempt to stem the flow of pleasure ebbing through her.

  Hank, though, as usual, had other ideas. “These have been quite tasty, however, I’m not…satisfied.” And with that loaded statement, he slid down her belly, hooked her legs over his shoulders, then fastened his mouth upon her.

  A silent scream formed in the back of her throat and the small of her back bowed from the initial shock of pleasure. Hank lapped at her, flicked his tongue against that sensitive nub nestled at the top of her folds, then slid his finger deep into her channel. The blood beat hotly between her thighs and she tensed, recognizing the heady signal of beginning climax. It was different this time, sharper, keener somehow. The throb
built and built, pushed her higher and higher until Sam was sure she’d fly into a million pieces if he didn’t stop soon. It was torment and pleasure, a glimpse of heaven in the pit of hell. She bucked beneath him, desperate for him to deliver her there, to lift her up and, just when she thought she couldn’t possibly take it anymore, couldn’t stand another moment of his wicked torture, her breath caught and lights burst behind her lids, and she quivered from the inside out.

  She felt Hank sigh against her. “Mmm. Now that satisfied. For the time being.”

  He gently disentangled himself from her, then stood. His gaze raked her from head to toe, lingered on her mouth, breasts, between her legs. Need shimmered around him and she could tell that every muscle was locked rigid—particularly one located directly behind his strained zipper. He winced regretfully. “I hate to do this, but I’ve got to go. Duty calls.”

  Sam nodded, flung an arm over her forehead. She still hadn’t altogether recovered. “I understand.” In fact, she needed to get back on that reservation system. Not that she had any driving need to help him, but she’d need something to take her mind off—her gaze drifted over him once more—sex. Or, more accurately, sex with Hank. She’d had two orgasms since last night, but not one of them had been with him between her thighs.

  Where she wanted him.

  And poor Hank hadn’t found release yet, an error she fully intended to rectify as soon as this damned contest was over.

  Hank moved to the door. “I’ll see you later.” A promise, Sam noted, not a goodbye. He stopped short. “Oh, and I got you something. It’s, uh, in the closet.”

  With that enigmatic statement, he let himself out.

  He’d gotten her something? More June Cleaver-wear flashed through her brain, drawing a wince. Oh, hell. Intrigued nonetheless, Sam gingerly stood and made her way to the closet.

  Her eyes widened and she clasped her hand to her mouth. Tears swam before her eyes. “Oh, Hank,” she murmured, touched beyond words. Her heart inexplicably swelled and a splash of something wet hit her cheek. He’d always had her heart, Sam thought, but for the first time since she’d truly given it to him, it was at risk because by sharing herself with him, she’d unwittingly given him the power to break it.