The Sex Diet Page 6

  Jamie, thank God, seemed to find Hank’s blustering behavior only mildly amusing, and didn’t appear to be the least bit put off, yet—in fact, though Hank didn’t know it, they’d decided to meet for drinks after dinner—but Samantha couldn’t count on that particular attitude to continue. The simplest thing to do was have a much-needed chat with Hank and make him back off.

  The jealous boyfriend act—when she knew he didn’t have any such feelings—was going to have to stop.

  Aside from being unequivocally, provokingly annoying given the pains she’d gone to in order to plan this week, it was also unexpectedly painful. A curious knot formed in her throat. It made her think of what might have been, what she wished for but knew she’d never have—him.

  She’d resigned herself to that end long ago, but her foolish heart, she supposed, would never truly stop hoping. Unfortunately her heart and her brain weren’t in agreement. While her heart wished to hope, her brain told her the futility of that emotion and longed to channel that energy to a more productive—attainable—goal.

  Like having a much-needed rite-of-passage orgasm.

  If Hank continued to circle her and paw the ground like a snorting bull, she didn’t have a prayer of finding a guy, then achieving her goal. Every sexual feminine part of her cried out in rebellion of that thought. An achy, itchy sort of heat rolled through her body, concentrated in her nipples and her womb, making her squirm with sexual frustration. Her body hungered for release, craved that intimate physical contact she’d never had. She couldn’t wait any longer, she simply couldn’t, Samantha thought suppressing a silent wail.

  She wanted.

  Her sex diet, the ultimate secret weapon for the unremarkable, was definitely working. In fact, were she not allergic to the seafood, she would undoubtedly keep it up permanently. Not only did she seem to be emitting enough pheromones to attract every guy in a ten-mile radius, the diet had the unexpected bonus of making her feel beautiful, confident and desirable. She felt sexy, a singularly wonderful sensation, particularly since she’d never felt that way before.

  It also sharpened the edge of her need, which quite honestly had been lethal before she went on the diet. If she got any more horny—any more desperate—she was liable to skip the preliminaries, snag the next guy she saw and drag him off to have her wicked way with him.

  Ironically Hank chose that exact moment to walk out the door.

  Samantha ducked her head and chuckled under her breath.

  “What’s so funny?” he asked. Looking more handsome than any man had a right to be, he strolled over to the swing and sat down beside her. Samantha sneaked a covert glance at his profile, traced the angular planes of his achingly familiar face, let her gaze linger on that sexy, perpetually smiling wicked-looking mouth. His smell, a seductive combination of beach, male and a cool, clean cologne wafted around her. He’d changed out of his customary trunks and dressed in a pale yellow linen shirt and comfortable white cargo shorts. A pair of leather sandals rounded out the casual outfit and everything about him exuded sexy, effortless confidence.

  Would that it could be so simple for her, Samantha thought enviously. She’d changed her entire appearance, had gone on a sex diet, for pity’s sake, all for one week out of thousands in her life to have what he took for granted—sex appeal—and she knew that the moment she went off the diet, her tiny run in the hot department would be over. Finis.

  Which was all the more reason why she had to make this week work.

  “Nothing’s wrong,” Samantha told him, feeling her heart rate jump into overdrive at his nearness. God, did he have to be so gorgeous? Those heavy-lidded clear blue eyes were startlingly beautiful set beneath his pale brows. “I was just appreciating a little irony.”

  He arched a brow. “Oh? How’s that?”

  She gave her head a small shake. “It was nothing. Are you about ready?”

  Hank pulled in a deep breath, savoring the late-afternoon breeze as she had, then released it with a long whoosh. His arm brushed hers, sending little sparklers of heat dancing up her arm. “Yeah, I’m starved. How about Lambert’s?”

  Samantha inwardly winced. She’d like nothing better than a trip to Lambert’s—the café served true southern fare and had the distinct reputation for throwing rolls to patrons rather than simply handing them out. Her trip was never complete until she’d had a hot yeast roll hurled at her from across the room, or a helping of their legendary pass-around’s, but regrettably, it would have to be a tradition they forewent this go ’round. Samantha suppressed a sigh. Her diet had to be followed to the letter, and unfortunately fried okra, pinto beans, and sorghum molasses weren’t a part of it. She’d be having seafood for dinner and some sort of chocolate dessert.

  In addition to containing components which helped stimulate the transmission and conduction of nerve impulses, chocolate was also an organoleptic food, or a food in which the sensual texture, color and scent helped put a person in the mood. As far as that part of it went, Samantha was there—she couldn’t get any more in the mood. Still, it was part of the diet and she didn’t dare take the chance of going off it for even one meal. She exhaled a small breath. Tonight oysters were on the menu.

  Samantha winced and shook her head. “Er… I was kind of hoping we could head over to Captain Jack’s.”

  His brow folded in perplexity. “The oyster bar?”

  “Yep.”

  Looking somewhat bemused, Hank nodded amiably. “Er…sure, we can do that.”

  Obviously he hadn’t remembered her seafood allergy and she wondered how much longer it would be before that little memory surfaced. She’d readied an explanation. Still…

  Hank nudged the swing to a halt, then unfolded his six-foot frame from the seat and offered her a hand up. His calloused palm connected with hers and the simple contact made her entire body warm and tingly, made her blood sing in her veins. Not good, Samantha thought. Pre-diet, that tingly sensation would have only extended to her shoulder. Presently, her entire body sang like a tuning fork. Jamie had helped her out of the pool this afternoon and she’d barely felt a vibe in her palm, nothing compared to the sexual energy Hank instilled with a mere brush of his fingers.

  Samantha refused to consider the negative implications of that thought and gave herself a mental kick for even allowing herself to compare the two. She couldn’t have Hank, dammit, so there was nothing to compare.

  Hank was off-limits.

  But she could have someone else—deserved someone else—possibly Jamie, which was the reason for this dinner in the first place, Samantha thought, preparing herself for the hour ahead. She dreaded the coming conversation with Hank—knew he’d undoubtedly blow a gasket when she essentially told him her plan. She had no intention of telling him about the sex diet—he’d think it was foolish, she knew—but their relationship had always been based on honesty, on trust, and she’d decided to come clean about her quest for an orgasm.

  Given his recent reactions to the idea of her having sex, having sexual thoughts, etc…Sam had decided that a little plain-speaking was in order. Whether he realized it or not, she didn’t have a Y chromosome—she was a woman, one that had needs. He could like it or lump it. A grin rolled around her lips. She had a feeling a little lumping would be in order.

  Regardless, the ultimate decision was hers and she’d put too much time and effort into having this week for herself to let his head-in-the-sand mentality stop her. One way or another, his blinders were coming off.

  SHUCK ME, SUCK ME, EAT ME RAW.

  She’d just had to buy the damned T-shirt, Hank thought in miserable frustration as he imagined her doing those very things to him. Quite graphically. It wasn’t enough that she’d sat there beneath a sign emblazoned with the same sexually provocative slogan all through their dinner—that he’d watched her savor each and every bite of her oyster platter—now he had to endure this as well.

  Not only had she brought the T-shirt, she’d gone into the bathroom and put it on. Hank’s fin
gers twitched with irritation and longing. Now, shuck me, suck me, eat me raw was written across her new delectable breasts and it was sheer hell, because that’s precisely what he’d like to do to her. What he’d wanted to do to her for years.

  Keeping the attraction in check had been a monumental undertaking as it was, but over the years he’d learned to deal with it. He’d had to, otherwise he’d have gone insane. Initially he’d remained in Tuscaloosa, rather than returning to Orange Beach. It had been hard at first, but under the circumstances, he’d felt like the decision had been the right one. Then Sam had moved to Aspen, which had given him the opportunity to really get his head together. Since then, the buzz of awareness had been his constant companion—anytime he thought of her, talked to her, or saw her—but he’d always been able to keep it in check, had always remained in control.

  But he grimly suspected that wouldn’t be the case anymore. Be it her new breasts, or her quest for sex, or simply the end of his rope, he didn’t know. He only knew that he couldn’t let her shag a guy right under his nose—hell, most likely under his roof. It was blasphemous.

  Hank needed her to be his friend more than he needed her to be his lover—that’s why he’d put a stop to that near kiss. That’s why he’d never tipped his hand. Lovers were a dime a dozen, but a true friend was rare. He knew that, and yet he was suddenly hit with the inexplicable urge to be both to her.

  Which was out of the question.

  His gaze slid to Samantha who walked silently beside him and something peculiar, not altogether unpleasant, moved through his chest. Would that things could be different, Hank thought. That she wanted him as well. There used to be a time when he suspected that, like him, her feelings were more than platonic, but if that was the case, he hadn’t seen a glimmer of the sentiment in years. She seemed completely happy with the status quo, had never done anything to make him think otherwise. And her showing up here, packing condoms like a traveling salesmen definitely didn’t inspire any reason to suggest otherwise.

  Still, he would have thought that over the years she would have found a guy, would have settled down with a dependable husband and a passel of kids. He’d been expecting the call, but it had never come. Why? Hank wondered now. Were men blind in Aspen? Was she too picky? It didn’t make any sense.

  As for himself, Hank knew the reason he hadn’t found someone else—Sam. He could blame it on not having enough time to put into a relationship, or not willing to invest emotionally, but the bottom line was he knew no other woman would do, and any other woman would be a substitute for the real thing. Furthermore, that substitute wouldn’t permit the sort of friendship he and Sam shared, and he’d rather have that friendship and a string of faceless lovers than a poor man’s Sam.

  Captain Jack’s Oyster Bar was located on a gorgeous stretch of sand just east of Ono Island. A light-lined boardwalk meandered down to near shore and, though it was almost seven o’clock, day still edged out night in a beautiful display of purple and orange color. Music from the bar wafted with her fruity scent, creating a curiously intimate haze around his head. God, she smelled fantastic, Hank thought. Tantalizing.

  They’d decided to take a stroll before returning to Clearwater and Hank was glad. He’d laid his “poor, tired, overworked me” trap and was simply waiting for her to walk into it. As far as a plan went, it wasn’t the best, but anything was better than the alternative.

  Conversation over dinner had moved smoothly, like it always did. They’d talked about movies they’d seen, ones they’d like to see as well as current events and mutual acquaintances. Hank had sprinkled in enough complaints about being tired, overworked and understaffed to pave the way to ask Samantha to help out. He hated that it had come to this—that he’d have to essentially wreck her vacation to save his sanity—but it couldn’t be helped.

  At the end of the boardwalk, Samantha slid out of her shoes, then stepped into the sand and curled her toes. “Ah,” she sighed with a smile. “Heaven.”

  Hank grinned, poked his tongue in his cheek. “Doesn’t take much to please you, does it?”

  Her lips curled into an endearing smile and another bolt of heat zapped his groin. “Pathetic, isn’t it?”

  “Nah, it just means you’re happier than most people.”

  She mulled that over for a minute, then gave him a curious look, as though he’d uttered some profound statement. “You’re right. I am. Come on,” she told him. “Let’s get our feet wet.”

  Hank followed her down the surf. A wave licked at her feet and he watched another silent sigh slip past her lips. The wind played with her long strawberry-blond curls, alternately sweeping it away from her face, then sending it swishing across her cheeks. She curled her toes into the sand once more. “Now, this is what I miss the most about coming here.”

  “What? Not me?” Hank asked, mockingly wounded.

  Something dark flickered in her gaze, but she covered it with a laugh so quickly that Hank was inclined to believe he’d imagined it. “Ah. Does your ego need stroking, poor baby?” she teased.

  His ego was fine, but he could think of something else that could use a little stroking, Hank thought, imagining her small capable hands wrapped around his rod. He mentally swore. “Go ahead and make fun,” he told her, essaying a laugh. “You know I miss you when you’re gone.”

  She shot him a probing look. “And just how am I supposed to know that?”

  “Because I’ve told you.”

  She chuckled and sidled farther down the beach. “Er…no you haven’t,” she said matter-of-factly.

  He hadn’t? Hank wondered, taken aback. “Well,” he hedged uncomfortably. “It’s understood.”

  She laughed again, the sound hearty and melodious. “Translation: Guy Speak for ‘you’re under-appreciated and I should have told you.’ Or, ‘I meant to tell you, but I didn’t because I’m a thoughtless man.”’

  Did she honestly not realize how much he cared for her? How much he valued her friendship? If so, that would be rectified before she went back to Colorado. In fact, he’d start now. “Thoughtless behavior duly noted,” he told her, forcing a lighter note into his voice. “And for the record, I miss you when you’re gone.” He blew out a breath, shoved his hands into his pockets, kicked at a nonexistent rock at his feet. “With Mom and Dad in Alaska, it feels more like home when you’re here.”

  “Thanks,” she murmured softly. “Clearwater feels like home.” She paused and her twinkling gaze tangled with his. “I’m planning on moving back here, you know.”

  Unexpected delight settled in his chest. “You are? When?”

  She bent over and picked up a shell, inspected it before slipping it into her pocket. “As soon as I can save up enough money for a down payment for my own little piece of sand.” She shrugged lightly. “I’ve been stashing a little here and a little there, but I’m still several thousand away.” She cast him a sardonic glance and poked her tongue in her cheek. “Of course, I could always win that Belle of the Beach contest, and be back before Halloween.”

  “It’s not out the realm of possibility, you know,” Hank told her. And it sounded absolutely perfect, he thought, unreasonably pleased. Having Samantha back in Orange Beach would be fantastic. No more solo evenings spent at home during the off-season—she’d be there to share them with him. And during the busy season, she could help him. Hell, she knew as much about running his business as he did, Hank thought as the idea gained momentum. In fact, he’d implemented several of her ideas. The cabana bar and grill out by the pool had been her brainchild. She had a real knack for making people feel at home, for making them feel special. She would be a true asset to his business.

  Samantha snorted indelicately, bent over and splashed water up over her legs. “Yeah, right.”

  “You do,” Hank insisted. “You’re gorgeous.”

  She stilled, seemingly startled, then briskly straightened and managed a shaky laugh. “Well, thanks. It means a lot coming from you.”

  Hank frowned ove
r the “coming from you” comment. It should have felt like a compliment…but for some reason it didn’t. “What do you mean coming from me?”

  She gave him an adorably droll smile. “Because we both know how ugly I was.”

  “You were not ugly,” Hank denied automatically.

  She shot him a pointed look. “Please.”

  His cheeks flushed and he shoved his hands into his pockets once more. “You were…awkward at times, but never ugly.” She hadn’t been ugly. Not to him, anyway.

  “Thank you. That’s a very charitable description.”

  “I’m not being charitable, smart ass,” Hank insisted, mildly annoyed. “I’m being honest. You were not ugly.”

  “Whatever.” Her eyes twinkled. “It hardly matters now, seeing how gorgeous I am.”

  “That’s right.” He shot her a look, hesitated. That was the opening he’d been waiting for. “Speaking of which, there’s something I’ve been wanting to talk to you about. I—”

  “Oh, me, too,” she interrupted, and waved her hand airily. “But you go first.”

  Hank grimaced. What did she want to talk to him about? he wondered, then forced the thought from his mind. He needed to focus here. There was a fine line between delicate and direct. He had to walk it carefully, otherwise he’d piss her off.

  Hank rubbed the back of his neck, cast her a look and charged ahead. “Look, Sam, I don’t know whether you realize it or not…but you’re sending out a vibe.” He knew perfectly well that she knew it, he’d just needed some way to broach the subject.