The O Coach

by Tara Wylde

  The O Coach

  Tara Wylde

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Epilogue

  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 repeats. “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 d
ifficult time measuring up to Garret Holden.

  Chapter One

  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 Tracy 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.”

  “It’s not the guys, at least I don’t think so.” I drill my fingernails against the desk. I’ve come this far, I might as well tell Tracy everything. I suck in a deep breath, mustering up my courage while simultaneously preparing myself for humiliation. “It’s me.”

  “You,” Tracy responds. “What do you mean?”

  “I can’t,” I gesture to my body, “you know.…”

  Tracy shakes her head. “Believe it or not, you’re going to have to be more specific.”

  “I can’t get off during sex in bed.” The words come out in one short burst, each one sliding into the other.

  Tracy’s jaw drops. “You’re kidding.”

&nbs
p; “God, I wish I was.” I prop my elbows on the desk. “I’ve never had an orgasm when I’m with a guy.”

  “What about when you’re …” Now it’s Tracy’s turn to blush. “You know. Alone.”

  “Sometimes, a little one maybe, but not very often. What about you?”

  “Always, when I’m doing it myself,” Tracy says. “And there’ve been one or two times when I was with a guy that I had to fake it.” Her nose wrinkles. “You really don’t? Not ever?”

  “Never,” I confirm. “It’s gotten to the point that, more often than not, I end things before we even start taking off our clothes. Hell, half the time I don’t even invite them in. I just send them off with a kiss good-bye and an ‘it was fun’ speech. What’s the point of getting them all excited when I’m only going through the motions?”

  I’ve been fighting this for so long that the whole idea of having sex following a date has become something I dread doing, which is why most of my relationships don’t make it past the get-to-know-you drink. The only reason Dan and I made it to date number three at all was because on paper he was everything I’d ever wanted. Intelligent, attentive, successful, great personality. The whole package. Thinking things might be different, I’d invited him into my house and up to my bedroom.

  And nothing.

  Dan had some good moves, but no matter how much I tried, I just couldn’t get into it. So, once he finished, I’d gotten dressed, requested that he do the same, and then ended the relationship.