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Even in his imagination it was a carnal miracle, and Eric took himself with a brutal grip as he remembered her sex squeezing him.
“Come,” Beth ordered inside his mind, and so he came, the heat splashing across his stomach instead of filling her up, but it still felt better than anything he’d done since that long-ago night in that anonymous hotel room.
Eric let his head fall back into the pillow and he finally felt tired. Thank God.
BETH HAD A CLASS TO TEACH on Monday, so she surveyed the store for research items when her shift was over. On Saturday night, the place was busy with couples looking for fun and groups of women who giggled over dildos before surreptitiously placing them in shopping bags. Beth had made the switch from baskets to bags to save people the self-consciousness of browsing while toting around a thirty-two-ounce bottle of lube. Some people got a little funny about that.
When she didn’t see anything particularly inspiring in the toy room, Beth went to her office to dig through the boxes there. They seemed to get a new set of factory samples every other day, and she could definitely find some inspiration in those innocuous-looking cardboard boxes.
Sure enough, she found a new model she’d never seen before and shoved the plastic box into her purse with a glance over her shoulder to see who was watching, just as if she was one of those shy customers. This self-consciousness was the bane of her existence. She could help an eighty-year-old couple pick out a set of his-and-her vibrators without blinking an eye, but she couldn’t discuss her own sex life without stammering and blushing. Luckily, Cairo wasn’t so reticent, and she was always happy to help with the classes.
Speaking of which. “Don’t forget Monday night,” she said as she waved goodbye to Cairo.
“G-spot!” Cairo called. “Got it!” Her gorgeous smile didn’t even twitch. Had she been born with that confidence? More importantly, was there a way Beth could steal it from her and make it her own?
It might be fun for a while. Beth couldn’t imagine having the sexual confidence to take on two men at a time. Hell, she was usually a disappointment one-on-one. Not that she was inadequate. It was only that men seemed to think of her as an exotic animal. The proprietress of a sex shop. The keeper of strange and shivery erotic secrets. The woman who would touch you in a place you didn’t even know you had and make your body weep liquid drops of joy.
Meanwhile, Beth was just hoping she could finally find her G-spot so she wouldn’t be a complete fraud on Monday night. But judging by the other classes she’d given, even a complete fraud could delight a store full of willing students. Beth didn’t exactly consider herself a master in the art of fellatio, either, but she’d received lots of happy emails after that little seminar.
Speaking of which…Beth ducked back into the store. “Cairo, are you doing the column for next Wednesday?”
“Yep. I’ll send it to you tomorrow.”
“Thanks. You’re the best.”
The columns. The classes. It was too much. Annabelle Sanchez, the owner of the store, was coming up with all sorts of new marketing ideas, which would’ve been fine if she weren’t on a worldwide tour to help her find her “inner goddess.”
Beth sighed as she drove her car toward home. Sometimes she wanted to kill Annabelle. She really did. Granted, Annabelle was her best friend and the owner of the White Orchid, and Beth loved her like a sister—a New Agey, slightly overbearing sister—but her world tour of self-exploration had gone on long enough. If she wanted classes given at the White Orchid, she should be the one giving them, not Beth. If Annabelle wanted a sex column written for the local alternative paper, she should write it. Because Beth certainly didn’t know enough to contribute a new topic every week.
Thank God the other girls in the shop had agreed to help. Now they split the column up amongst them, Beth edited it so that the style of each was consistent, and the column was posted under the name Ms. White.
Beth had hoped that slight remove would protect her, but her plan had backfired. Her employees had been so excited that they’d had the first column mounted and framed. And the second. And third. Now all four of the columns were hanging on the wall of the White Orchid, and Beth was widely believed to be the author of all. Her reputation for sexual knowledge was only growing, and none of it truly belonged to her.
Annabelle was supposed to have returned months ago, and if she would just come home, everything would be fine. She could lead the classes. She could write the columns. But Annabelle kept extending her trip. First by sixty days. Then ninety. Her latest stop was in Egypt, to study the sex beliefs of ancient Egyptians.
Beth was pretty sure that half of her impatience with Annabelle was that Beth wanted to be the one traveling to other countries to study their cultures. After all, her major had been anthropology before she’d transferred to women’s studies. Then again, exotic countries weren’t really her cup of tea. No doubt Annabelle was striding around the teeming streets of Egypt with complete confidence. Beth would be constantly worried about being mugged or kidnapped or simply standing out too much.
She needed to grow a pair. “Of ovaries,” she told herself. But she was trying. She was. Unfortunately, her biggest risk-taking success had been Eric, and look how that had turned out. It had been a disaster. A lovely, bone-melting, burning hot disaster.
Beth groaned and set him from her mind. It was late, nearly ten o’clock, and dark as midnight by the time she pulled up to her apartment, and she still had work to do.
Thirty minutes later, Beth was lying on her bed, staring at the ceiling in frustration, the specialized G-spot toy clutched in her hand like a broken tool. “There is no G-spot,” she told the ceiling, letting her feet slide down until her thighs touched the mattress. Guilt immediately washed over her. Whether she had a functioning G-spot or not, plenty of her friends talked about it. Could she discount the experiences of other women just because of her own experience? That was the worst kind of condescension.
Beth tossed the toy to the far side of the bed, shoved her book on female sexuality out of the way and reached for the drawer of her bedside table.
There were rows of toys inside. Models that retailed for two hundred dollars. Shapes that might make the layperson frown in confusion, but Beth ignored them all for her innocuous, unimpressive, tiny silver bullet massager. An embarrassment of riches, and all she wanted was this. Yet another boring secret.
Beth closed her eyes and touched herself, trying to relax enough to enjoy it. She needed to enjoy it. The last few days had been really crappy, thanks to Eric Donovan.
Why did he have to be the only man she’d responded to in so long? Why did he have to be the one whose touch had washed over her like electricity? His hand had slipped down her spine like a whisper when he’d unzipped her dress. He’d trailed heat everywhere he touched.
Beth arched her neck and curved her hand over her breast just the way he had, the thumb sliding over her nipple.
The electricity returned, swarming down her body to meet up with the buzz of the vibrator.
She didn’t want to think about him. She wouldn’t. She was so pissed at what he’d done. But somehow the anger just spiraled deep and made the pleasure burn brighter.
He’d been so serious. So intent. She’d worried that night, like she always did. Worried he wouldn’t be as good as she wanted him to be, needed him to be. But for once her brain hadn’t been able to keep up with her body. Because he had been good. He’d kissed her breasts, sucked at her until she’d cried out.
