“I can make you come right now,” Hank told her. “Just say yes.”
Oh, God, how Sam wanted to. She pushed her aching nipple farther into his palm and whimpered when he thumbed it through her shirt.
“I’ll take you to the edge, as many times as you want, I promise.” He licked her neck, creating a blaze of sensation. “Starting right now. All you have to do is tell me…”
Hank found her mouth and kissed her deeply. His hand left her breast and slowly moved lower, slipping beneath her waistband, then beneath her panties. At the first brush of those talented fingers, a startled cry broke from her lips.
His hot breath fanned against her ear. “All you have to do is say yes…” he whispered.
A shiver shook her. Ahhh, this felt good, Sam thought. But the warm tingling feeling had only just started when Hank moved his hand, making her inhale sharply, bringing her instantly to the peak.
“Yes, yes, yes!” Sam cried, reveling in the waves of exquisite sensation as her first ever orgasm ripped through her.
Dear Reader,
When the idea behind this book first came to me, it really struck a chord. I think at some point in our lives we all go through an ugly-duckling stage—and some of us stay in it longer than others! Let’s face it, the things we go through during those awkward years are enough to make any woman question her self-worth. After all, we live in a world where the words thin and perfect are synonymous with beauty.
But it isn’t right. And so, in The Sex Diet, I’m taking authorial license to write about things the way they should be. My heroine, Samantha McCafferty, is the ultimate ugly duckling. Only, she’s not going to take it lying down…at least, not yet. First, she has a plan. She’s going to do whatever it takes to have Hank Masterson, her first and only love, right where she wants him—in her bed! And if she’s lucky, she might even be able to keep him there.
I hope you enjoy Hank and Samantha’s story. And for those of you thinking about trying the sex diet themselves, watch out for allergies!
Happy reading!
Rhonda Nelson
P.S. Be sure to visit me at my Web site, www.BooksByRhondaNelson.com.
Books by Rhonda Nelson
HARLEQUIN BLAZE
75—JUST TOYING AROUND…
81—SHOW & TELL
115—PICTURE ME SEXY
HARLEQUIN TEMPTATION
973—UNFORGETTABLE
THE SEX DIET
Rhonda Nelson
This book is dedicated to a wonderful woman whom I love and respect, a loyal friend, confidante and kindred spirit, a cousin by relation, but a sister of the heart—
Sheila Pierce Sherrod. My life is so much richer with you in it.
Contents
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
Epilogue
1
“YOU HAVE GOT TO BE KIDDING.”
The perky receptionist behind the counter of Clearwater Bed and Breakfast smiled uncomfortably. “Er…no. I don’t have a reservation in your name, Ms. McCafferty.”
Samantha McCafferty absently scratched her arm and squelched a vicious stab of irritation. The damned antihistamine was wearing off and if she didn’t get another dose soon, she’d undoubtedly break out in ugly red hives from head to toe. That would certainly negate any appeal she might hope to garner through this sex diet, Samantha thought as she pictured her swollen, hive-covered face wearing a seductive smile. Ugh. Not pretty. She squeezed her eyes tightly shut. She didn’t have time for this inconvenience. She needed that medicine now.
“Look, I don’t care whether you’ve got my name in your system or not,” Samantha told her, making a valiant effort to keep a note of annoyance from her tone. “I have a standing reservation. I’ve been vacationing here since I was a child, and have continued the tradition into my adulthood.” She smiled sweetly. “The first week of September, in the Oleander Suite. Put me there.” Before I turn into one giant red blob, Sam thought, covertly scratching her side. Oh, the pains one endured to be attractive.
The receptionist—Tina, according to her name tag—winced regretfully. “I’m afraid that room is already booked.”
“What?” Samantha felt the first stirrings of genuine alarm and leaned forward anxiously. That couldn’t possibly be right. This had to be a mistake. Her entire plan—Operation Orgasm—centered around this vacation. She was three days into the sex diet—the one guaranteed to make her attractive to the opposite sex—for pity’s sake and, if the way the guy in seat B2 on the flight down had been acting had been any indication, it was definitely beginning to work. She couldn’t afford for things to get screwed up now. Annoyed, she scratched her thigh.
“It’s booked,” Tina said apologetically and lifted her shoulders in a small shrug. “Everything is booked. Has been since they announced the Belle of the Beach contest.”
Oh, no! Samantha mentally wailed. This could not be happening. Everything could not be booked. Surely Hank wouldn’t do this to her. He couldn’t have. Not this time, dammit. She’d kill him.
Samantha had been so busy pondering the everything-is-booked statement that it took a moment for the rest of what the clerk had said to filter through her turbulent thoughts, but when it did her brow furrowed. “The Belle of the Beach contest?” It sounded vaguely familiar, she thought. Had Hank mentioned it?
Tina gestured a manicured hand at a flyer on the wall. “Yep. It’s this weekend. The winner gets an all-expense-paid trip to the Bahamas, as well as a new SUV and ten grand in prize money.”
Samantha whistled low, gazed at the glitzy flyer. She could certainly use ten grand. She’d been steadily setting aside a nest egg since she’d graduated from college for a down payment on a future house, but living expenses combined with her student-loan debt had hindered her progress.
She made a good living as a dietician at one of Aspen’s posh spas—Cedar Crest—but the cost of living was staggering and, for reasons she didn’t fully understand, she’d recently decided it was time to return to her southern roots, move back to Orange Beach, Alabama, where she’d grown up.
Samantha had lost her parents at sixteen—victims of a drunk driver—and had moved in with her grandmother, her only living relative. Then, sadly, two years later, Gran had passed away, leaving her completely orphaned. Were it not for Hank Masterson—her longtime friend and, lamentably, the unrequited love of her life—and his parents, Samantha didn’t know what she would have done. The Mastersons were her godparents and had done everything they could to help make her way easier. She’d appreciated their help, but staying in Orange Beach and attending community college just hadn’t seemed right, particularly after Hank had moved away to Tuscaloosa.
Four years older than her, Hank had graduated from the University of Alabama the year she’d graduated from high school. Samantha had fully expected him to return to Orange Beach—had been particularly hurt that he hadn’t—and, when he’d decided not to come home, Samantha had decided it was time for her to leave as well.
The decision had been difficult, but one that she didn’t regret. She’d needed the space, the change in scenery. She’d traded sea and sand for mountains and snow and could honestly say that the move had been just the therapy she’d needed at the time. She’d moved to Colorado, attended college and made yearly pilgrimages back to Orange Beach, back to the Clearwater B&B where she’d spent so much time as a child. But over the past several years, each time she’d come home, it had grown increa
singly harder to make the trip back out west.
Because Hank had returned.
He now owned the old B&B. Samantha had literally spent years of her life here in this old ante-bellum house snugged against the Gulf of Mexico. She loved it here, loved the salty breezes and the squish of sand between her toes. She sighed a wistful breath, clawed at a place behind her ear. She couldn’t wait to move home, but knew that until she had a substantial down payment for a house, that dream would simply have to wait. She’d take a significant cut in pay when she did make the move and she didn’t want a giant mortgage hanging over her head when that time came. Unless a windfall landed in her lap, a few more years in Aspen would be in order.
Samantha smirked wryly. And that would undoubtedly be the case, she thought as she eyed the Belle of the Beach poster. She had about as much of a chance to win that heaving bosom, bronzed-body contest as she did to land Hank with this crazy sex diet—nil.
Like most men on the planet—with the exception of one painfully poignant moment years ago when he’d been drunk and she’d been stupid—Hank didn’t seem to realize that she existed.
A sad smile drifted over her lips as she recalled that almost-kiss. She could still feel the butterflies in her belly, could still remember the frantic, desperately hopeful beat of her heart, the rush of anticipation…then the subsequent burn of humiliation when his eyes had widened and he’d stopped just short of settling his lips over hers. He’d sworn, then apologized, and Sam had pasted a brave smile on her face and pretended like the rejection hadn’t hurt. But it had. Dearly.
He had no way of knowing it, of course, but that almost-kiss had been a favor in many ways. It had forced her to come to a hard truth, had forced her to realize that no matter how desperately she might want him, he would never want her. She’d resigned herself to be content with their friendship. Did she love him? Without a doubt. Would she always love him? Most definitely. But what good was love that wasn’t returned? She’d turned her focus else-where—her career, then more recently on Operation Orgasm and making herself attractive.
To put it in the gentlest of terms, Samantha had been a late bloomer. She’d been a frizzy-headed, rail-thin, freckled, bespectacled wreck and she knew it.
Pictures didn’t lie.
Thankfully over the past year, she’d found a good stylist and had learned how to tame her curly strawberry-blond locks, she’d gotten contacts and, by supplementing her diet with high-calorie protein milkshakes—science could put a man on the moon, but no cure yet for brain freeze?—she’d packed on twenty solid pounds in the past year. She actually had curves and had increased her bustline a full cup size, a feat she was most proud of. Sure, the contacts were a plus, and her new hairstyle was certainly flattering, but the breasts…now they were powerful. All she had to do was draw her shoulders back a little and bam!—self-confidence surged through her. Remarkable.
A woman had to strike while the iron was hot and luckily, she’d inadvertently stumbled upon the one thing she sincerely hoped would guarantee her success—a sex diet.
Several months ago, Samantha had accidentally found what she suspected was the perfect combination of foods to heighten sex appeal, stimulate the emission of pheromones and rejuvenate lumbering libidos. Her gaze turned inward as she remembered that bizarre day. She’d planned her menu, balanced nutritional values just like she always had. But this one week, in particular, had resulted in heightened sexual arousal in the woman and, more important, reciprocated interest in the men.
That week, trendy Cedar Crest—which prided itself on social graciousness and decorum—had all but turned into an orgy of sexual depravity that would have made the legendary parties at the Playboy mansion seem tame by comparison. The lodge had practically vibrated from the lusty sounds of sex.
Samantha had been astounded with the results and, just to make sure that it hadn’t been a fluke, a month later she’d served the same menu plan to a completely new batch of clients—with the same results. She’d decided that if it could work for the Viagra set, it could certainly work for her.
It had to, because being chronically, perpetually, miserably sexually frustrated was slowly driving her mad. If she didn’t have an orgasm soon, she’d undoubtedly need a little padded cell devoid of sharp objects.
But how could she not be sexually frustrated when everywhere she looked there was another reminder of her nonexistent sex life? Movies, books, commercials, television, the Internet. Hell, you couldn’t thumb through a magazine without seeing a half-naked woman or a ripped guy with six-pack abs. And why? Because sex sells. And why did sex sell? Because, with the exception of very few, everyone wanted it, most especially herself. Young, old, rich or poor, mankind had that one thing in common—the desire, the need, the drive to procreate. Samantha’s own desire had been steadily humming for a while now, but in recent months had begun to screech and wail.
She’d grown tired of reading about/watching romance and never having any for herself—it was torture. Weary of the achy feeling in her chest when she saw couples holding hands or stealing a kiss—more torture. Tired of that hollow unfulfilled sensation deep in her belly when she found herself locked in the tight jaws of unrelieved sexual frustration. Which was woefully often. She expelled a heavy breath.
In short, she was tired of never having sex, of being an OV—orgasm virgin.
But by the end of her vacation, if this diet progressed the way it should—and she had no reason to suspect that it wouldn’t—that at least would be one less thing for her to be weary of.
Granted when the week was over she might still be alone…but at least she wouldn’t be pathetic, for pity’s sake. At least—provided she found a skilled lover—she would have had a real honest-to-goodness back-clawing, earth-shattering, screaming orgasm. The one and only time she’d ever had sex, it had been a miserable, awkward experience, which had lasted less than a successful bull ride. The combination of alcohol, loneliness, curiosity and screaming hormones had perpetuated the rash decision and, ultimately, she’d wasted her virginity on a bumbling, overzealous nerd who didn’t know any more about the act than she did.
She wouldn’t make that mistake this time—this time she was prepared.
Using her inherent Type-A tendencies, Samantha had planned this vacation down to a T, knew precisely what she wanted and how to go about getting it. Between the combination of the sex diet, her newly improved looks and a beach full of single horny men, surely to God she could find one interested in having a little recreational sex with her. Find one who would know how to do the business properly, so that she would at least be satisfied when it was over. Her lips curled into a slow smile.
Hopefully multisatisfied.
Her gaze strayed to the flyer once more and a prickle of irritation strummed across her frazzled nerves. Just her luck that the one week she’d have the added bonus of diet-induced sex appeal, the beach and B&B would be crawling with tanned, toned and thonged competition.
“Would you like me to call and try to arrange other accommodations for you?” perky Tina asked.
Samantha blinked out of her reverie. “No,” she said, exasperated. “I would like to have the accommodations I reserved.”
Her smile faltered. “I’ve told you—”
“I don’t care what you’ve told me,” Samantha interrupted tightly. She clawed at her belly, an insistent reminder that she needed those antihistamines now. Her ace-in-the-hole sex diet had one distinctly uncomfortable disadvantage—it primarily consisted of seafood…which she just happened to be mildly allergic to. But desperate times called for desperate measures.
She’d invested—and ingested—too much to turn back now.
Her entire plan hinged on this vacation. She blew out a frustrated breath. “Where’s Gladys?” Samantha asked impatiently. Gladys would take care of this snafu and all would be well.
“Somewhere on the Pacific Ocean.”
Sam blinked. “What?”
“She got married last week. She
’s on her honeymoon.”
Gladys got married? Crusty old Gladys snagged a husband? Hank had definitely not mentioned that, Samantha thought absently as she managed a sick smile. That she would have remembered.
Sam contemplated that disheartening little revelation and wished that she were a big enough person to be happy for Gladys without feeling sorry for herself, but apparently she wasn’t, because all she could think was how more pathetic her life seemed now that even Gladys had gotten married.
That settled it, Samantha thought determinedly—she’d get laid this week and have a damned orgasm, or die trying.
“Well, that’s nice,” Sam finally managed weakly. “What about Hank?”
Another prickle of irritation surfaced. Quite honestly, she’d wanted a minute to freshen up before she saw Hank—a moot point since he didn’t care what she looked like—but she couldn’t help but look forward to seeing his reaction to her new-and-improved self. She didn’t expect him to turn into a lust-crazed maniac—she wasn’t stupid enough to even so much as hope that would happen—but a flicker of surprise would be nice. Vain? Yes. But after the effort she put into making herself more attractive, she thought she deserved a little gratification.
Tina blanched. “H-Hank?”
“Yes, Hank,” Samantha replied slowly, intrigued by Tina’s oh-hell expression.
“Er…he’s not here at the moment.”
Samantha’s eyes narrowed as she watched Tina gnaw nervously on her bottom lip. “I can see that,” she said patiently. “Where is he?”
Tina paused, heaved a protracted sigh with a roll of her eyes. “He went to fish a sand crab out of the pool,” she admitted begrudgingly, and lifted a small walkie-talkie from the desk. “I’ll call him.”
From the tone of her voice, a pelvic exam conducted by Captain Hook held more appeal.
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