by Rebecca York
###
Amanda stared at the phone, wondering when Beth was going to call again. She went back to the stack of letters, hoping to have something to report besides one letter answered.
Maybe she couldn’t make self-pleasuring the whole theme. Maybe she should go with a good mix of questions.
There were so many.
Dear Esther,
I have a new boyfriend. He’s a lot more into foreplay than the last guy I went with. Anyway, last night we were fooling around. He started stimulating my breasts, and all of a sudden, I had an orgasm. I mean, all he was doing was kissing me and playing with my nipples and I went off like a firecracker. Is that normal? I was embarrassed.
Kara in Ohio
Amanda shifted her shoulders, her own nipples now painfully tight.
Damn. Maybe she should take a tranquilizer before she opened any more letters. The assignment would get easier, she told herself. It had to get easier. It would be like the summer she’d taken a job scooping ice cream at the Big Dipper. The employees could have all they wanted. At first she’d gobbled up a lot of Raspberries & Cream and Mint Chocolate Chip on her break.
But after a few weeks of gorging herself, dipping up ice cream had become as exciting as dipping up barbecued beans. Hopefully, this overdose of sex would turn out the same way.
She went back to the missive she’d just read, gripping her lower lip between her teeth as she tried to frame an answer. Why did women get defensive so easily? Why did they always think something was wrong with them? Really, the lady with the sensitive breasts was lucky. She had a guy who wanted to turn her on. She was highly sensual. And she wasn’t really inhibited.
“Kara, there’s nothing wrong with you. Be glad that you are so sexually responsive. A lot of women would envy you. There are all kinds of ways for a female to reach orgasm. Some women feel that there’s something wrong with them if they don’t climax during intercourse. But each one of us needs to experiment and find out how she functions best.”
She stopped, arching her back as she moved her bottom in the seat. How far should she go here? Should she enumerate all the ways a woman could reach climax? Maybe she should look at some of Esther’s old columns to see how much she expanded on each topic. But at least she had the crux of an answer.
She got up and went to the bookcase where she’d stored several notebooks that Beth had given her. In them were ten years of Esther’s sexual advice columns, and part of Amanda’s job was to make sure she didn’t write about any subject that had been covered recently. Or at least, if she did, she’d need to find a different angle.
Instead of staying in the living room, she carried the books to the bedroom where she could spread them out. Climbing on the bed, she picked up one of the books and began thumbing through the pages. Sentences and topics leaped out at her.
Two years ago, a woman had asked if bondage was a normal part of a sexual relationship.
Esther had answered:
“If both partners are interested in trying bondage games, there’s nothing wrong with experimenting in this area. But one partner should never force the other. And if one partner keeps pushing the subject when the other is turned off by it, you should wonder why he or she is making it so important.”
Bondage. That was a little extreme she thought, circling one wrist with her thumb and forefinger. On the other hand, she silently admitted, there was something very sexy about putting yourself into another person’s power. Of course, it had to be someone you trusted implicitly. Because if you picked the wrong guy, you could get into serious trouble.
There was nobody she’d met like that. She’d never played bondage games. Actually, there were a lot of things she’d never done.
But it was interesting to think about them. The concept of a bond of trust like that with a very special man was quite sexy.
She piled the books on one side of the bed and lay back against the pillows, getting comfortable.
She’d been working hard. There was no reason she couldn’t take a break and explore her own sexuality. She’d get rid of the tension she was feeling and get back to the letters.
She closed her eyes, imagining a man beside her on the bed instead of a pile of notebooks.
What man? Somebody great looking. With a great body. Clever hands. A man who was as interested in pleasing his partner as in pleasing himself.
She wanted to give him a face, and Beth’s description of Zachary Grant came back to her. Dark hair. Dark eyes. Thick, sooty lashes. Tanned skin. Very sensual lips. A blade of a nose. A guy with the physique of a mountain climber or something.
That was all Beth had seen. But what about his cock? What was that like? Just letting herself contemplate that question raised her temperature a few notches.
She’d silently pretended she wasn’t interested when her friend had extolled his virtues over the phone. Now that she was alone in her bedroom, she could admit that he sounded yummy.
And since she was in charge of her own fantasies, she could make him into anything she wanted. He’d be an excellent lover. That was her most important requirement, not the size of his cock, she decided, as she let her hands hover teasingly over her breasts, then lowered them to brush the hardened tips.
A jolt of sensation went through her. Nice. That was nice. She knew what she liked, knew how to give herself maximum pleasure. She brought her hands lower, lifting her breasts, kneading them gently before letting herself return to the centers.
Her breath was coming in little bursts as she pulled up her tee shirt and repeated the caresses she’d enjoyed earlier—this time on her naked skin.
She’d never climaxed just by breast stimulation, but she got pretty hot that way.
It took only a few moments before she was opening the drawer next to her bed and bringing out her vibrator.
Laying it beside her on the bed, she skimmed her shorts and panties down her legs and kicked them off.
She had just turned on the vibrator when the doorbell rang.
She jumped—startled by the sudden interruption. She was almost naked—her shorts and panties at the end of the bed, her tee shirt pulled up to her neck.
“Go away,” she whispered.
The doorbell rang again, and she ignored it. But the mood was broken, and she switched off the vibrator. She’d been enjoying herself in a very adult activity. Now she felt like a little girl caught doing something naughty.
Several seconds passed, and she figured whoever it was had gone away. Next to her, the phone on the bedside table jangled, and her nerves were so frayed that she snatched it up and shouted, “Yes? Who is it?”
“This is Zachary Grant.”
When she didn’t answer, he said, “I think Beth Cantro told you about me.”
She grimaced. Not him of all people. Not now. “Yes, she said you wanted to do an interview. But I’m not—”
He interrupted before she could finish the sentence. “That’s okay. I’m right outside your house. You didn’t answer the door, but your car is in the driveway, so I decided to give you a call. I’d like to come in and talk to you.”
God no, was all she could think, feeling her face flame as she pictured him standing on her doorstep like a mountain climber ready to tackle Mt. McKinley.
What she said was, “I’m not dressed; give me a minute.”
“Sure.”
Why had she told him that?
Slamming down the phone, she reached for the shorts and panties she’d discarded on the end of the bed. Quickly she pulled them on, then ran to her closet and took down the bra hanging over one of the clothing hooks. With her tee shirt still around her neck, she shoved her arms into the bra straps and hooked the clasp in back. Then she ran into the bathroom and splashed cold water on her face.
Daring to lift her gaze, she looked into the mirror. Her face was still flushed, and her eyes were bright. What the hell was he going to think she’d been doing?
Well, that was none of his business.
S
he ran her brush quickly through her hair, then she started back through the bedroom. When she glanced toward the bed, she saw her vibrator lying in the center of the spread.
With a small moan, she shoved it under the pillows. Then she stood in the middle of the room, taking several deep breaths before she marched down the hall toward the front door.
Chapter Two
Amanda stared through the peephole in the door. As she’d known it would, the fish-eye lens distorted the image of the man waiting on the other side of the barrier. About all she could tell was that he had dark hair and dark eyes, a big nose and a long chin.
Steeling herself, she flung the door open, then blinked. In reality, the guy standing on the porch looked a lot like Beth had described him. The dark hair was just a little long around the edges, but the shaggy look suited him. The dark eyes were framed by sooty lashes. If they’d been on a woman, Amanda would have assumed they’d been enhanced with mascara. But she was willing to bet this guy had never been close to a mascara wand.
“Amanda O’Neal?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Zachary Grant.”
From the far side of the threshold, he was staring at her with such intensity that she felt her cheeks go hot, and she had to stifle the impulse to look down and make sure she really was wearing a bra.
Lord, there was no way he could figure out what she’d been doing a few minutes ago. But it sure felt like he’d caught her about to dip her hand into the cookie jar.
He gestured toward the interior of the little house. “Can I come in?”
She wanted to say “no.” But Beth was expecting her to talk to this guy. Probably she wanted some publicity for the magazine, although, come to think of it, Amanda wasn’t sure how that was going to work, since the real identity of Esther Knight had always been a secret. What was she supposed to do, give details of her background and attribute them to Esther? Well, she guessed she’d find out. She stepped aside and gestured toward the living room, then took the opportunity to study him from the back as he walked down the short hall. He was informally dressed in chinos and a dark polo shirt that did a great job of showing off his broad shoulders and beautifully muscled, tanned arms. And the slacks curved seductively around his nice tight butt.
Which she shouldn’t be staring at, she told herself. His physical attributes were nothing to her.
###
Zach stood looking around the living room, keeping his back to Ms. O’Neal. No, he’d better remember it was Dr. O’Neal. He’d met a lot of PhD’s who were touchy about the title, and he didn’t want to set up a confrontational situation.
Of course she didn’t look like a doctor—or much like the picture her editor had given him, for that matter.
In her tight little shorts and tee shirt, she seemed much younger. More like a graduate student than a professor.
And she seemed a lot more vulnerable than the woman in that picture. Prettier, actually. And several degrees more nervous.
He’d had a good deal of training in reading people, and his instincts were excellent. From the moment she’d opened the door, he would have said she was being evasive. Was she into something illegal? Or was she just uptight about being in the house alone with a guy she had just met? Some women were like that, he knew. But she hadn’t asked to see his identification. Probably because her editor had vouched for him so to speak
Which was good, because his own nerves weren’t too steady at the moment. He usually sensed within a few minutes how to approach an interview. He had considerable skill at putting people at ease and then getting them to spill stuff that they had planned to keep to themselves. Over the years, he’d developed a number of roles that he played during a question and answer session—depending on what he judged was going to work best.
He could be Joe Friday from that old television series. Just the facts, ma’am. He could be kindly old Uncle Zach who was on your side—until you told him that you’d murdered grandma and dumped her in the river. He could be the naive, unsure kid who’d bumbled into a detective assignment and needed the person he was interviewing to help him out.
He was feeling unsure now. In fact, he didn’t know how to play this interview at all. Maybe because it was intimidating questioning a woman who knew a lot about sex. And a woman who attracted him—all rolled into one.
Really, how many guys would be comfortable dating a lady who knew how long foreplay was supposed to last and who knew what technique was best on the clitoris?
He was really sorry that thought had jumped into his head because it made it tough for him to turn and look her in the face. Instead, he kept glancing around the room. Dr. O’Neal had only been in this house for a few weeks. In fact, he knew she’d rented it furnished. Yet she’d made it her own.
He could tell she was a professor. The bookshelf was crammed with big volumes that looked like they came from a university library. All neatly arranged. Probably in alphabetical order by the author. Or maybe she used the Dewey decimal system.
Despite the fact that she had taken over a corner of the living room as an office, the space wasn’t all business. There were lots of individual touches that hinted at a very interesting and varied background.
Like, for example, she was either well-traveled or she’d spent a lot of time at import shops. Several decorative Spanish-looking plates were propped on the mantelpiece, along with a family of eight-inch-tall dolls that had probably come from Latin America. The beige fabric of the sofa was enlivened with a brightly woven throw. And a figure that looked suspiciously like a fertility god sat on the coffee table.
Not your usual art object. The thing was only six inches tall, but it appeared to have a two-inch penis.
As he gazed at that ceramic penis, he was thinking he’d never started off an interview feeling more off-balance. Casting around for somewhere else to rest his eyes, he turned to the desk where her laptop computer sat next to a pile of letters. It looked like a lot of people were writing to Esther Knight for advice. A regular cottage industry.
“I guess you were working,” he observed.
“Yes,” she answered, her voice very thin, and he had to wonder again what was making her nervous. Was there something in that pile of letters she didn’t want him to see? Something personal.
The top one was on blue stationery with a wavy edge. Unable to stop himself, he walked over and picked it up, then read the rounded, feminine handwriting.
My boyfriend says that making love with me is no fun. He says that my vagina is so big that he might as well wave his penis out the window as put it inside me. I don’t want to lose him. Is there something I can do to make myself tighter?
“Jesus!” he said aloud.
She’d been standing in back of him where he couldn’t see her. Now she came charging across the room like he was about to pocket the damn letter. Before he could take a breath, she snatched it out of his hand.
Looking down at the words on the page, she slid her thumb over the signature. “That’s confidential! You can’t just go around reading what people have written to Esther.”
It didn’t matter to him who had written the letter, as long as it wasn’t to Dr. O’Neal personally. However, he came up with, “Sorry. But that woman’s boyfriend sounds like a jerk.”
“Yes.”
She stepped around him and laid the notepaper face down on the stack.
He should probably drop the subject, but he found himself asking, “Is there something she can do about her physical problem?”
“The Kegel exercises. The same exercises that are used for incontinence. They’ll tighten her vaginal muscles if she does them regularly.”
“And if the exercises don’t work?”
“She might need surgery. Or a guy with a bigger penis.” The last part was uttered almost under her breath. But he heard it.
“You think penis size has something to do with it?”
“It could. I don’t know the woman or her boyfriend.”
Yeah
, and what would you do if you met him, ask him to drop his pants? Instead of coming out with that sarcastic comment, he asked, “Then how can you answer her question?”
She sailed into her reply. “I have to make judgments when I answer questions. I have to try and write a response that will be helpful to that particular reader and also to other readers.”
“Like how?”
“I’ve looked back at Esther’s columns. One thing she’s tried to get across is that sex should be in the context of a relationship.”
“Oh. And what are you trying to get across?”
“Well, the message about relationships is important. I also want to help people feel comfortable with their own sexual functioning.”
Right, he thought. Suppose he told her the problem he’d been having for the past year. Could she make him feel comfortable about that? Yeah, sure.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to lecture,” she said, breaking into his thoughts.
“No. I mean, that’s okay. It’s interesting,” he managed to say, thinking that he was probably holding the most sexually explicit conversation he’d had since his marriage had crashed and burned. Maybe the most sexually explicit ever. He’d never been good at talking about what went on behind closed bedroom doors, although he’d always thought he was pretty good at doing it. Until recently—anyway.
Now the circumstances had given him permission to engage in secondhand intimacy. As long as he could say just about anything he wanted to a woman who didn’t mind giving answers, he asked, “Can you give me an example?”
She thought for a moment. “Well, a common . . . circumstance with women is that they can’t climax during intercourse. They need more direct stimulation. That’s likely to make them feel like they’re doing it wrong. I want them to know that’s perfectly all right.”
He found that information startling. And pretty close to home. For a fantasy moment he thought about asking her what she thought about a man who couldn’t climax during intercourse. Was that okay, too? And exactly how many men suffered from the problem? And what could they do about it? Before he could ask something too revealing, he suppressed the questions. He wasn’t here to get personal sexual advice.
