Kiss Me Once, Kiss Me Twice
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Synopsis
For Skye Farrel, sex is a business, and her sexual fulfillment seminars are very popular. However, her own love life is lacking. But when sexy Clint MacAllister enters, things begin to change. Original.
Release date: September 3, 2007
Publisher: Grand Central Publishing
Print pages: 288
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Kiss Me Once, Kiss Me Twice
Kimberly Raye
Chapter One
“Welcome to Girl Talk. For the next few hours we’re going to learn the ins and outs of sex. Literally.”
The moment the words left Skye Farrel’s mouth, a wave of giggles floated through the enormous living room of the downtown Dallas high-rise that was overflowing with party attendees. Tonight’s hostess, a corporate attorney who headed one of the biggest law firms in the city, navigated through the maze of women with a vegetable tray in one hand and a bottle of Ranch dressing in the other.
“Remember,” Skye went on, “tonight is about expanding your arsenal of sexual knowledge. Nothing is taboo, from erotic fantasies to basic hand techniques for mind-blowing masturbation.” Another wave of laughter rolled through the sea of women, but Skye wasn’t the least bit intimidated.
“To get the party rolling,” she went on, “we’re going to focus our attention on tonight’s guest of honor. This”—she picked up the plastic replica sitting on the expensive cherry wood coffee table—“is Dinah the friendly vagina.”
Skye watched as several faces fired a bright red. Sympathy washed through her. Once upon a time she had been just as uncomfortable. Six years ago to be exact, when she’d led her first Girl Talk workshop. By the time the evening had ended, she’d morphed into the poster girl for a sunburn ad.
A crazy reaction for a woman who’d learned early on from her Harvard-trained sexologist mother that sex was a natural experience and a woman’s body, whatever size and shape and color, a beautiful thing.
“I say friendly because a vagina is nothing to be frightened of. It’s a natural part of a woman’s body.”
“Can women really learn how to have multiple orgasms?” The question came from a redhead wearing tailored black slacks and a matching jacket. “I mean, I know it’s possible,” she rushed on, “but I never have. Even with my husband. We’ve been married for five years and he’s really great in bed. He always waits for me and everything, but the minute it happens, he turns into Old Faithful.”
“I have note cards for questions,” Skye started, bolting to her feet and reaching for the stack of blank cards to her right. Normally, her assistant passed these out and collected the written questions so that Skye could review them during the breaks and give intelligent, thoughtful responses once the workshop resumed. But Jenny, her trusted sidekick and the only woman other than Skye’s two sisters who could recite every Kama Sutra position without benefit of notes, had been MIA since her morning coffee date with Do-Right Duke the Dietician. She’d left only a voice mail a few hours ago stating that she was running late. “Let me just pass these around—”
“Mine, too,” another woman blurted, mindless of the card Skye thrust into her hand. “I used to have multiple orgasms before I married my husband, but now he’s so quick on the trigger that it’s a miracle if I have one at all.”
“I swear, it must be something in the water because my guy does the same thing...”
The comments echoed around the room as the women started to open up about their own experiences and express their needs. It was just such a conversation seven years earlier that had prompted the idea for Skye’s wildly successful Dallas-based sex education company. Despite a master’s degree in human sexuality education, she’d been barely scraping by as an assistant sociology professor at a nearby junior college when she’d been invited to a Home Interior party given by one of her colleagues.
She’d been eyeing the dècor and munching cheese balls when she’d noticed something interesting. Rather than discussing the latest home fashions, the party attendees had been dissecting one particular woman’s failing relationship, and none too successfully.
Skye had known then and there that Tupperware and Pampered Chef were a thing of the past. To foster a healthy relationship with a man in today’s society, a woman needed more than domestic knowledge. She needed to know how to sexually satisfy her man and herself, and so Girl Talk had been born.
No subject was off-limits, although Skye did tailor her talks to each individual group by handing out questionnaires ahead of time to make sure that she addressed everyone’s hot topics.
Tonight’s group ranged from twenty-somethings to a few women in their mid-forties. Most were well-educated, attractive professionals who’d made it in the boardroom and were now eager to succeed in the bedroom, as well.
“. . . Bernie’s quick on the draw himself,” one of the women was saying. “We’ve tried Viagra and everything, but it doesn’t help anything except the size of his you-know-what. Surely there’s something to help the hardness last.”
“There has to be,” another woman said. “What about vitamins? I hear they can do wonders.”
Skye held up a blank sample card. “I know you all have lots of things to ask, so please jot down everything rather than calling out. We’ve got a lot to cover and the cards will keep us on track.”
“What about a cock ring?” one woman asked. “I’ve heard it can squeeze the blood and hold it in the member so that the erection lasts longer?”
So much for staying on track.
“Or one of those penis pulsers,” another voice added. “Don’t they do pretty much the same thing?”
“Actually, they do—ugh.” Skye bit her lip against a sudden burst of pain as she stubbed her toe on the way back to her chair. Her foot throbbed.
“There are many techniques,” she managed to go on, limping the last few feet in her no-nonsense, low-heeled black pumps before sinking down, “to help excite you quicker and push you to the brink earlier, as well as some things you can do to draw out your man’s pleasure.” She grabbed her notes and zeroed in on the next part of the program.
Sex didn’t make her nervous.
Questions about sex didn’t make her nervous.
It was being caught off-guard that made her stomach jump and her mouth water for the chocolate chip cookies sitting just to her right.
Not just store bought ones either. These were the homemade kind—big and bumpy and overflowing with chocolate chips, with an imperfect shape and slightly browned edges and—
Don’t do it, her conscience whispered. Think of all the sexy lingerie samples sitting in your briefcase. Teachers teach by example. Cookies and thongs can be a deadly mix.
It wasn’t as if she actually wore thongs in her own everyday life. No woman wore such skimpy underthings for the sake of comfort. They were sexy, period. Skye’s job was all about sex, so she promoted thongs to her clients as a seductive tool.
Skye summoned the courage to resist a cookie and forced a steady breath. She had a cup of Earl Grey in front of her, as well as a plate of wheat crackers and carrot sticks. Life was good. Painful with her throbbing toe, but she could deal with it.
Slipping off her shoe, she drew in a deep breath. “We’ll explore as much as we can tonight,” she went on, “but before we can learn how to drive the car, we have to know a little about how it runs. Now”—her gaze shifted around the room—“who can tell me the most important aspect of a woman’s sex life?”
A forty-something woman wearing a severe navy blue suit rose to her feet. “Grace Philburn, here. Defense counsel for Walker and Hughes.”
“Loosen up, Gracie,” the woman next to her said. “We’re not in court.”
Grace ignored the comment and focused her gaze on Skye.
“Yes,” Skye prompted.
“Why did you name the vagina Dinah? Couldn’t you call it something like Margaret or Elizabeth or Gretchen?”
“I suppose you could call it anything you want. Dinah just happens to be my choice. It seems very upbeat and sex should be fun. Not to mention, it rhymes.”
“Oh.” The woman nodded and sank back into her seat. Skye took a sip of tea and smiled. “Okay, now what is the one thing that every woman must have in order to experience great sex?”
“A husband who doesn’t spend every waking second watching the Outdoor Channel.”
“A babysitter who’ll pull an all-nighter with the kids.” “A guy who doesn’t ask ‘Who’s Your Daddy?’ ” “A Junior Jelly Number Five with a rotating tip.” “Brad Pitt.”
Skye smiled. “All very good answers, but believe it or not, the most important aspect of great sex for a woman is a positive body image.” The comment met with a surprised murmur. “The better you feel about yourself, the better you’ll feel about sex, and the better sex will feel.”
She went on. “The ultra hot spot for any woman is always the—”
“Is it made in Japan?”
Grace’s voice rang out and halted Skye mid-thought. “I beg your pardon?”
“The vagina. Where is something like that made? Probably overseas. They have a much freer sense of self over there. Why, in a lot of countries I hear that they don’t even have to wear clothes in public.”
Who cares? Skye bit her lip against her first thought as her brain scrambled for an answer. “Actually, it’s made right here in America by a company called Wild Woman, Inc. They’re famous for erotic toys, but they also do educational models for workshops such as these.”
At Grace’s nod, Skye re-directed her attention back to Dinah and the... What had she been saying? Yes, the hot spot. “Okay, the clitoris is the ultimate pleasure point and it’s located right—”
“Does it come with a warranty?”
“Thirty days,” Skye replied. “Satisfaction guaranteed or your money back.” If there were this many questions about the small plastic model in her hands, the place would go nuts when she pulled out the three dozen rubber penises packed in her briefcase. “Now, about the—”
“What about replacement parts? Do they make those?” Grace’s voice rang out again and Skye’s stomach gave a traitorous grumble. Her nostrils flared and the delicious aroma of chocolate chips baked to their finest stirred her senses.
Maybe she would have one teeny, tiny cookie after all.
Skye had managed to limit herself to small nibbles and was only on her third cookie when Jenny finally arrived a half-hour into the program.
Skye had passed out the penises and was giving the women a chance to get acquainted with their new friends when her assistant collapsed on the sofa next to her.
Jenny’s face glowed and her eyes danced and she looked anything but deathly ill.
“I thought you were sick.”
“I never said I was sick. Just that I was going to be late.”
“I assumed you were sick. You’re never late.”
“I was right in the middle of something that couldn’t wait.” Her gaze caught Skye’s and she smiled. “Guess what Duke did?”
“Let’s see...He finally worked up the nerve to hold your hand.” Skye savored the last nibble of her cookie and rubbed her hands together. That was it. She was done. She’d fallen off the wagon, but now she was climbing back up into the driver’s seat. Jenny was here and it was business as usual.
“He did that weeks ago,” her assistant said. “This is better.”
“He kissed you on the cheek.” Skye started gathering crumbs from her tailored cherry red suit and placed them in her napkin.
“Last week, and it’s much better.”
“He kissed you on the lips.”
“Day before yesterday.” Jenny smiled. “Better.”
“He French-kissed you.”
“Yesterday and way better.”
“Okay, I’m going to throw all my cookies onto Duke’s plate and give him a great big vote of confidence. I say he finally found his nerve and felt you up either above or below the waist. Maybe both.”
Longing filled Jenny’s gaze. “If only.” She shook her head and excitement brightened her eyes again. “Still, this is much, much, much better.”
“If he’s barely put a hand on you upstairs or downstairs, I’m sure this next answer will be wrong, but what do I know?” Skye was riding a chocolate chip high, her nerves buzzing so pleasantly that she hardly felt her aching toe. “Maybe you two got really creative and actually had sex.”
When Jenny gave her a get real look, Skye added, “I know the whole waiting for sex thing seems romantic, but this is the twenty-first century. Don’t you think his reluctance screams major hang-up?”
“You’ve been a sexpert too long. You’re too analytical. It’s the way he was brought up. He’s got certain standards and beliefs, that’s all.”
“Or maybe he’s got a limp willy.”
“He calls it Captain Long Dong, and believe me, it’s not limp. Now, come on and guess. I’m dying here.”
“Just tell me.”
“That spoils the fun. Guess.”
“Okay, he talked to you about having sex.”
“Better.”
“He wrote you a letter asking you to have sex.” Jenny gripped Skye’s hand and blurted, “He asked me to marry him.”
“He—he what?”
“We’re getting married.” Jenny dropped Skye’s hand and stared dreamily at her ring finger, which glittered with a rock the size of Gibraltar.
“Married?” Skye’s stomach churned. “You’re getting married? Married?”
“In two months.” Jenny shrugged. “I know marriage was never really my thing, but then the right man never asked me until today.”
“Married, as in walking down the aisle and saying ‘I Do’?”
“Can you imagine me in a white dress? With pink roses. I have to have lots of pink roses.”
“Pink?”
“A soft, dewy pink, not the Pepto-Bismol kind. With lots of tulle. Tulle looks so elegant and moves so beautifully during ballroom dancing.”
“You don’t ballroom dance.”
“Duke and I are going to take lessons. Ballroom dancing is so romantic and we want the older people at the wedding to feel comfortable. We’ll have a big band. Maybe even an orchestra. And a sit-down dinner with assigned seating and one of those waterfalls flowing with champagne and an ice sculpture shaped like a cauliflower.”
“A cauliflower?”
“Duke being a dietician and all, I want something that says healthy, and cauliflower is one of the healthiest vegetables in the food group.”
“I didn’t know that,” Skye murmured, eyeing the remaining platter of chocolate-chip satisfaction.
“And guess what else?”
“I can’t imagine.” She didn’t want to. She was already in a state of shock. Jenny. Single-loving, let’s-play-180-Ways-Around-the-Bedroom-on-the-first-date Jenny was actually getting married.
“You’re going to be my maid of honor. Isn’t that wonderful?”
“I . . .” The words died on her lips and Skye did the only thing a single woman with a deep-seated aversion to weddings and an even greater fear of pink tulle could do.
She reached for the cookies.
Chapter Two
Two months later . . .
“The wedding is off,” Skye declared. “Over. Finis.”
“You can’t do that. You’re the maid of honor, not the bride. She’s the only one who can call it quits.”
“But I can’t wear this.” Skye stared at her massive reflection in the mirror. Massive because Jenny had decided to go with a traditional southern theme, complete with hoop skirts and parasols. “I look ridiculous.”
“You don’t look ridiculous. You just look . . .” Xandra Farrel swept a gaze from Skye’s head to her toes and back up again. “Purple,” she finally declared. “Very purple.”
Skye stared pointedly at her youngest sister, who sprawled in a nearby chair. Wearing faded blue-jean overalls, worn tennis shoes and a baseball jersey, Xandra looked more like a Little League coach than the owner and head designer for Wild Woman, Inc., America’s leading manufacturer of erotic toys and sensual aids for women. It was a fashion statement that had started back in grade school when Xandra had been chubby, and one that had continued despite the fact that she’d slimmed down and shaped up over the years.
She had her long, thick blond hair, a shade darker than Skye’s, stuffed up under her favorite Houston Astros ball cap. A pair of Ray-Bans perched on the hat’s brim.
Xandra shrugged and smiled. “Okay, so you look a little ridiculous. But it’s for a good cause. Not to mention, five other women will be wearing the same thing, so you won’t look ridiculous all by yourself.”
“Yeah, right.” Skye gave her sister a look. “Actually, the dresses are all different colors. Each custom-dyed to match a specific fruit featured in Fresh Fruit Fantasy. I’m the grape.”
“Fresh Fruit Fantasy?”
“From Potent Produce, this vegetarian diner near Jenny’s gym. One day, she ordered the Fresh Fruit Fantasy, but they got the topping wrong. Jenny went to complain and this man walked up holding a plate of the same thing, only with her topping. It was Duke. He’d gotten her order and she’d gotten his. So she’s using Fresh Fruit Fantasy as her wedding colors, since it’s their favorite dish and how they met.”
“Well, you make one knockout grape.” Xandra blew out a deep, frustrated breath. “Boy, I could use a cigarette.”
“You can go out into the mall.” They were at the Galleria in the heart of downtown Dallas. “I think they have a designated smoking area somewhere near the garden quad.”
Xandra shook her head. “I’m trying to stop. I went cold turkey, but that didn’t do it, so I’m trying the patch.”
“That must have been awful. How long did you do the cold turkey thing?”
Xandra glanced at her Nike sports watch. “About an hour this morning. I’ve been doing the patch”—she lifted the sleeve of her T-shirt—“about two hours now.”
“Two hours. I’m impressed, not to mention I can see you much more clearly without the usual pack-a-day fog hanging around.”
“You’re funny.”
“I’m trying to ease the pain.”
“Nothing but a Camel and a lighter could do that.” “Nonsense. You’re strong. You’re fearless. You’re a Farrel.” Skye turned back to the mirror and gave herself another once-over. “I look like Barney.”
Xandra narrowed her green gaze, the exact same shade as Skye’s. “You know, you sort of do.”
“You’re here to make me feel better, remember?” “Actually, I’m here because I’m the boss and I can take a few days off to fly from Houston to Dallas on a moment’s notice. Otherwise, you’d be on your own.”
“You’re here for a convention. That’s why you’re staying at a hotel and not at my place. Because it’s the convention hotel and you’re running a booth.”
“True, but I’m also doing you a favor by being your date for the wedding since there’s no hot male prospect in your life right now.”
“I don’t even have a cold one,” Skye grumbled. Her last relationship had ended over five months ago, and at thirty-three, she’d outgrown the one-night stand phase.
“Exactly. You need your baby sister to keep you company, which I’m happy to do when I’m not working. But if you want a side order of moral support with the date, it’ll cost you.”
“I’ll buy you dinner.”
“I’d rather be included in your will.” She grinned. “Because at the rate you’re going, you’re liable to die of a heart attack before you make it out of the boutique. Your face is red and you’re breathing much too heavily.” She grinned. “Relax, Sis. Just think of this as a new experience. A grand adventure. Like picking an exotic locale off the top of your head and rushing off for the weekend.”
But that was the problem. Skye didn’t rush anywhere for the weekend. She researched. She planned. She prepared for her weekends, and every day in between.
And it didn’t help that the dress was for a wedding. Not that she had anything against a good celebration. It was the ritual itself and what it stood for that gave her the heebie-jeebies. From this day forward. Forever and ever. ’Til death do us part... Bye, bye freedom.
No, thank you.
A woman didn’t have to sell her soul and sign a piece of paper to guarantee a lasting relationship. Her mother and her father—a quiet, conservative sociology professor and conservationist—had been together for over thirty-six years. They had a mutually gratifying, committed, monogamous relationship and three healthy daughters. A formal license hadn’t figured in, and never would.
As if on cue, Jenny floated into the room wearing bike shorts, a tank top and running shoes. She took one look at Skye and her lips curved into a huge smile. A huge, silly, dreamy smile. The sort of look reserved for teenage girls who spend their class time pining away for the captain of the high-school football team.
A tear slid down Jenny’s cheek and Skye’s heart pounded even faster.
“What’s wrong?” she asked.
“Nothing. It’s just so...”
Awful.
Overdone.
Wrong.
Skye awaited the response she knew would come. After all, Jenny was a. . .
“Welcome to Girl Talk. For the next few hours we’re going to learn the ins and outs of sex. Literally.”
The moment the words left Skye Farrel’s mouth, a wave of giggles floated through the enormous living room of the downtown Dallas high-rise that was overflowing with party attendees. Tonight’s hostess, a corporate attorney who headed one of the biggest law firms in the city, navigated through the maze of women with a vegetable tray in one hand and a bottle of Ranch dressing in the other.
“Remember,” Skye went on, “tonight is about expanding your arsenal of sexual knowledge. Nothing is taboo, from erotic fantasies to basic hand techniques for mind-blowing masturbation.” Another wave of laughter rolled through the sea of women, but Skye wasn’t the least bit intimidated.
“To get the party rolling,” she went on, “we’re going to focus our attention on tonight’s guest of honor. This”—she picked up the plastic replica sitting on the expensive cherry wood coffee table—“is Dinah the friendly vagina.”
Skye watched as several faces fired a bright red. Sympathy washed through her. Once upon a time she had been just as uncomfortable. Six years ago to be exact, when she’d led her first Girl Talk workshop. By the time the evening had ended, she’d morphed into the poster girl for a sunburn ad.
A crazy reaction for a woman who’d learned early on from her Harvard-trained sexologist mother that sex was a natural experience and a woman’s body, whatever size and shape and color, a beautiful thing.
“I say friendly because a vagina is nothing to be frightened of. It’s a natural part of a woman’s body.”
“Can women really learn how to have multiple orgasms?” The question came from a redhead wearing tailored black slacks and a matching jacket. “I mean, I know it’s possible,” she rushed on, “but I never have. Even with my husband. We’ve been married for five years and he’s really great in bed. He always waits for me and everything, but the minute it happens, he turns into Old Faithful.”
“I have note cards for questions,” Skye started, bolting to her feet and reaching for the stack of blank cards to her right. Normally, her assistant passed these out and collected the written questions so that Skye could review them during the breaks and give intelligent, thoughtful responses once the workshop resumed. But Jenny, her trusted sidekick and the only woman other than Skye’s two sisters who could recite every Kama Sutra position without benefit of notes, had been MIA since her morning coffee date with Do-Right Duke the Dietician. She’d left only a voice mail a few hours ago stating that she was running late. “Let me just pass these around—”
“Mine, too,” another woman blurted, mindless of the card Skye thrust into her hand. “I used to have multiple orgasms before I married my husband, but now he’s so quick on the trigger that it’s a miracle if I have one at all.”
“I swear, it must be something in the water because my guy does the same thing...”
The comments echoed around the room as the women started to open up about their own experiences and express their needs. It was just such a conversation seven years earlier that had prompted the idea for Skye’s wildly successful Dallas-based sex education company. Despite a master’s degree in human sexuality education, she’d been barely scraping by as an assistant sociology professor at a nearby junior college when she’d been invited to a Home Interior party given by one of her colleagues.
She’d been eyeing the dècor and munching cheese balls when she’d noticed something interesting. Rather than discussing the latest home fashions, the party attendees had been dissecting one particular woman’s failing relationship, and none too successfully.
Skye had known then and there that Tupperware and Pampered Chef were a thing of the past. To foster a healthy relationship with a man in today’s society, a woman needed more than domestic knowledge. She needed to know how to sexually satisfy her man and herself, and so Girl Talk had been born.
No subject was off-limits, although Skye did tailor her talks to each individual group by handing out questionnaires ahead of time to make sure that she addressed everyone’s hot topics.
Tonight’s group ranged from twenty-somethings to a few women in their mid-forties. Most were well-educated, attractive professionals who’d made it in the boardroom and were now eager to succeed in the bedroom, as well.
“. . . Bernie’s quick on the draw himself,” one of the women was saying. “We’ve tried Viagra and everything, but it doesn’t help anything except the size of his you-know-what. Surely there’s something to help the hardness last.”
“There has to be,” another woman said. “What about vitamins? I hear they can do wonders.”
Skye held up a blank sample card. “I know you all have lots of things to ask, so please jot down everything rather than calling out. We’ve got a lot to cover and the cards will keep us on track.”
“What about a cock ring?” one woman asked. “I’ve heard it can squeeze the blood and hold it in the member so that the erection lasts longer?”
So much for staying on track.
“Or one of those penis pulsers,” another voice added. “Don’t they do pretty much the same thing?”
“Actually, they do—ugh.” Skye bit her lip against a sudden burst of pain as she stubbed her toe on the way back to her chair. Her foot throbbed.
“There are many techniques,” she managed to go on, limping the last few feet in her no-nonsense, low-heeled black pumps before sinking down, “to help excite you quicker and push you to the brink earlier, as well as some things you can do to draw out your man’s pleasure.” She grabbed her notes and zeroed in on the next part of the program.
Sex didn’t make her nervous.
Questions about sex didn’t make her nervous.
It was being caught off-guard that made her stomach jump and her mouth water for the chocolate chip cookies sitting just to her right.
Not just store bought ones either. These were the homemade kind—big and bumpy and overflowing with chocolate chips, with an imperfect shape and slightly browned edges and—
Don’t do it, her conscience whispered. Think of all the sexy lingerie samples sitting in your briefcase. Teachers teach by example. Cookies and thongs can be a deadly mix.
It wasn’t as if she actually wore thongs in her own everyday life. No woman wore such skimpy underthings for the sake of comfort. They were sexy, period. Skye’s job was all about sex, so she promoted thongs to her clients as a seductive tool.
Skye summoned the courage to resist a cookie and forced a steady breath. She had a cup of Earl Grey in front of her, as well as a plate of wheat crackers and carrot sticks. Life was good. Painful with her throbbing toe, but she could deal with it.
Slipping off her shoe, she drew in a deep breath. “We’ll explore as much as we can tonight,” she went on, “but before we can learn how to drive the car, we have to know a little about how it runs. Now”—her gaze shifted around the room—“who can tell me the most important aspect of a woman’s sex life?”
A forty-something woman wearing a severe navy blue suit rose to her feet. “Grace Philburn, here. Defense counsel for Walker and Hughes.”
“Loosen up, Gracie,” the woman next to her said. “We’re not in court.”
Grace ignored the comment and focused her gaze on Skye.
“Yes,” Skye prompted.
“Why did you name the vagina Dinah? Couldn’t you call it something like Margaret or Elizabeth or Gretchen?”
“I suppose you could call it anything you want. Dinah just happens to be my choice. It seems very upbeat and sex should be fun. Not to mention, it rhymes.”
“Oh.” The woman nodded and sank back into her seat. Skye took a sip of tea and smiled. “Okay, now what is the one thing that every woman must have in order to experience great sex?”
“A husband who doesn’t spend every waking second watching the Outdoor Channel.”
“A babysitter who’ll pull an all-nighter with the kids.” “A guy who doesn’t ask ‘Who’s Your Daddy?’ ” “A Junior Jelly Number Five with a rotating tip.” “Brad Pitt.”
Skye smiled. “All very good answers, but believe it or not, the most important aspect of great sex for a woman is a positive body image.” The comment met with a surprised murmur. “The better you feel about yourself, the better you’ll feel about sex, and the better sex will feel.”
She went on. “The ultra hot spot for any woman is always the—”
“Is it made in Japan?”
Grace’s voice rang out and halted Skye mid-thought. “I beg your pardon?”
“The vagina. Where is something like that made? Probably overseas. They have a much freer sense of self over there. Why, in a lot of countries I hear that they don’t even have to wear clothes in public.”
Who cares? Skye bit her lip against her first thought as her brain scrambled for an answer. “Actually, it’s made right here in America by a company called Wild Woman, Inc. They’re famous for erotic toys, but they also do educational models for workshops such as these.”
At Grace’s nod, Skye re-directed her attention back to Dinah and the... What had she been saying? Yes, the hot spot. “Okay, the clitoris is the ultimate pleasure point and it’s located right—”
“Does it come with a warranty?”
“Thirty days,” Skye replied. “Satisfaction guaranteed or your money back.” If there were this many questions about the small plastic model in her hands, the place would go nuts when she pulled out the three dozen rubber penises packed in her briefcase. “Now, about the—”
“What about replacement parts? Do they make those?” Grace’s voice rang out again and Skye’s stomach gave a traitorous grumble. Her nostrils flared and the delicious aroma of chocolate chips baked to their finest stirred her senses.
Maybe she would have one teeny, tiny cookie after all.
Skye had managed to limit herself to small nibbles and was only on her third cookie when Jenny finally arrived a half-hour into the program.
Skye had passed out the penises and was giving the women a chance to get acquainted with their new friends when her assistant collapsed on the sofa next to her.
Jenny’s face glowed and her eyes danced and she looked anything but deathly ill.
“I thought you were sick.”
“I never said I was sick. Just that I was going to be late.”
“I assumed you were sick. You’re never late.”
“I was right in the middle of something that couldn’t wait.” Her gaze caught Skye’s and she smiled. “Guess what Duke did?”
“Let’s see...He finally worked up the nerve to hold your hand.” Skye savored the last nibble of her cookie and rubbed her hands together. That was it. She was done. She’d fallen off the wagon, but now she was climbing back up into the driver’s seat. Jenny was here and it was business as usual.
“He did that weeks ago,” her assistant said. “This is better.”
“He kissed you on the cheek.” Skye started gathering crumbs from her tailored cherry red suit and placed them in her napkin.
“Last week, and it’s much better.”
“He kissed you on the lips.”
“Day before yesterday.” Jenny smiled. “Better.”
“He French-kissed you.”
“Yesterday and way better.”
“Okay, I’m going to throw all my cookies onto Duke’s plate and give him a great big vote of confidence. I say he finally found his nerve and felt you up either above or below the waist. Maybe both.”
Longing filled Jenny’s gaze. “If only.” She shook her head and excitement brightened her eyes again. “Still, this is much, much, much better.”
“If he’s barely put a hand on you upstairs or downstairs, I’m sure this next answer will be wrong, but what do I know?” Skye was riding a chocolate chip high, her nerves buzzing so pleasantly that she hardly felt her aching toe. “Maybe you two got really creative and actually had sex.”
When Jenny gave her a get real look, Skye added, “I know the whole waiting for sex thing seems romantic, but this is the twenty-first century. Don’t you think his reluctance screams major hang-up?”
“You’ve been a sexpert too long. You’re too analytical. It’s the way he was brought up. He’s got certain standards and beliefs, that’s all.”
“Or maybe he’s got a limp willy.”
“He calls it Captain Long Dong, and believe me, it’s not limp. Now, come on and guess. I’m dying here.”
“Just tell me.”
“That spoils the fun. Guess.”
“Okay, he talked to you about having sex.”
“Better.”
“He wrote you a letter asking you to have sex.” Jenny gripped Skye’s hand and blurted, “He asked me to marry him.”
“He—he what?”
“We’re getting married.” Jenny dropped Skye’s hand and stared dreamily at her ring finger, which glittered with a rock the size of Gibraltar.
“Married?” Skye’s stomach churned. “You’re getting married? Married?”
“In two months.” Jenny shrugged. “I know marriage was never really my thing, but then the right man never asked me until today.”
“Married, as in walking down the aisle and saying ‘I Do’?”
“Can you imagine me in a white dress? With pink roses. I have to have lots of pink roses.”
“Pink?”
“A soft, dewy pink, not the Pepto-Bismol kind. With lots of tulle. Tulle looks so elegant and moves so beautifully during ballroom dancing.”
“You don’t ballroom dance.”
“Duke and I are going to take lessons. Ballroom dancing is so romantic and we want the older people at the wedding to feel comfortable. We’ll have a big band. Maybe even an orchestra. And a sit-down dinner with assigned seating and one of those waterfalls flowing with champagne and an ice sculpture shaped like a cauliflower.”
“A cauliflower?”
“Duke being a dietician and all, I want something that says healthy, and cauliflower is one of the healthiest vegetables in the food group.”
“I didn’t know that,” Skye murmured, eyeing the remaining platter of chocolate-chip satisfaction.
“And guess what else?”
“I can’t imagine.” She didn’t want to. She was already in a state of shock. Jenny. Single-loving, let’s-play-180-Ways-Around-the-Bedroom-on-the-first-date Jenny was actually getting married.
“You’re going to be my maid of honor. Isn’t that wonderful?”
“I . . .” The words died on her lips and Skye did the only thing a single woman with a deep-seated aversion to weddings and an even greater fear of pink tulle could do.
She reached for the cookies.
Chapter Two
Two months later . . .
“The wedding is off,” Skye declared. “Over. Finis.”
“You can’t do that. You’re the maid of honor, not the bride. She’s the only one who can call it quits.”
“But I can’t wear this.” Skye stared at her massive reflection in the mirror. Massive because Jenny had decided to go with a traditional southern theme, complete with hoop skirts and parasols. “I look ridiculous.”
“You don’t look ridiculous. You just look . . .” Xandra Farrel swept a gaze from Skye’s head to her toes and back up again. “Purple,” she finally declared. “Very purple.”
Skye stared pointedly at her youngest sister, who sprawled in a nearby chair. Wearing faded blue-jean overalls, worn tennis shoes and a baseball jersey, Xandra looked more like a Little League coach than the owner and head designer for Wild Woman, Inc., America’s leading manufacturer of erotic toys and sensual aids for women. It was a fashion statement that had started back in grade school when Xandra had been chubby, and one that had continued despite the fact that she’d slimmed down and shaped up over the years.
She had her long, thick blond hair, a shade darker than Skye’s, stuffed up under her favorite Houston Astros ball cap. A pair of Ray-Bans perched on the hat’s brim.
Xandra shrugged and smiled. “Okay, so you look a little ridiculous. But it’s for a good cause. Not to mention, five other women will be wearing the same thing, so you won’t look ridiculous all by yourself.”
“Yeah, right.” Skye gave her sister a look. “Actually, the dresses are all different colors. Each custom-dyed to match a specific fruit featured in Fresh Fruit Fantasy. I’m the grape.”
“Fresh Fruit Fantasy?”
“From Potent Produce, this vegetarian diner near Jenny’s gym. One day, she ordered the Fresh Fruit Fantasy, but they got the topping wrong. Jenny went to complain and this man walked up holding a plate of the same thing, only with her topping. It was Duke. He’d gotten her order and she’d gotten his. So she’s using Fresh Fruit Fantasy as her wedding colors, since it’s their favorite dish and how they met.”
“Well, you make one knockout grape.” Xandra blew out a deep, frustrated breath. “Boy, I could use a cigarette.”
“You can go out into the mall.” They were at the Galleria in the heart of downtown Dallas. “I think they have a designated smoking area somewhere near the garden quad.”
Xandra shook her head. “I’m trying to stop. I went cold turkey, but that didn’t do it, so I’m trying the patch.”
“That must have been awful. How long did you do the cold turkey thing?”
Xandra glanced at her Nike sports watch. “About an hour this morning. I’ve been doing the patch”—she lifted the sleeve of her T-shirt—“about two hours now.”
“Two hours. I’m impressed, not to mention I can see you much more clearly without the usual pack-a-day fog hanging around.”
“You’re funny.”
“I’m trying to ease the pain.”
“Nothing but a Camel and a lighter could do that.” “Nonsense. You’re strong. You’re fearless. You’re a Farrel.” Skye turned back to the mirror and gave herself another once-over. “I look like Barney.”
Xandra narrowed her green gaze, the exact same shade as Skye’s. “You know, you sort of do.”
“You’re here to make me feel better, remember?” “Actually, I’m here because I’m the boss and I can take a few days off to fly from Houston to Dallas on a moment’s notice. Otherwise, you’d be on your own.”
“You’re here for a convention. That’s why you’re staying at a hotel and not at my place. Because it’s the convention hotel and you’re running a booth.”
“True, but I’m also doing you a favor by being your date for the wedding since there’s no hot male prospect in your life right now.”
“I don’t even have a cold one,” Skye grumbled. Her last relationship had ended over five months ago, and at thirty-three, she’d outgrown the one-night stand phase.
“Exactly. You need your baby sister to keep you company, which I’m happy to do when I’m not working. But if you want a side order of moral support with the date, it’ll cost you.”
“I’ll buy you dinner.”
“I’d rather be included in your will.” She grinned. “Because at the rate you’re going, you’re liable to die of a heart attack before you make it out of the boutique. Your face is red and you’re breathing much too heavily.” She grinned. “Relax, Sis. Just think of this as a new experience. A grand adventure. Like picking an exotic locale off the top of your head and rushing off for the weekend.”
But that was the problem. Skye didn’t rush anywhere for the weekend. She researched. She planned. She prepared for her weekends, and every day in between.
And it didn’t help that the dress was for a wedding. Not that she had anything against a good celebration. It was the ritual itself and what it stood for that gave her the heebie-jeebies. From this day forward. Forever and ever. ’Til death do us part... Bye, bye freedom.
No, thank you.
A woman didn’t have to sell her soul and sign a piece of paper to guarantee a lasting relationship. Her mother and her father—a quiet, conservative sociology professor and conservationist—had been together for over thirty-six years. They had a mutually gratifying, committed, monogamous relationship and three healthy daughters. A formal license hadn’t figured in, and never would.
As if on cue, Jenny floated into the room wearing bike shorts, a tank top and running shoes. She took one look at Skye and her lips curved into a huge smile. A huge, silly, dreamy smile. The sort of look reserved for teenage girls who spend their class time pining away for the captain of the high-school football team.
A tear slid down Jenny’s cheek and Skye’s heart pounded even faster.
“What’s wrong?” she asked.
“Nothing. It’s just so...”
Awful.
Overdone.
Wrong.
Skye awaited the response she knew would come. After all, Jenny was a. . .
We hope you are enjoying the book so far. To continue reading...
Kiss Me Once, Kiss Me Twice
Kimberly Raye
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