The Sex Test

But she didn’t dare. Because when she’d revealed her private moments to her about-to-be husband, Kent, months before their wedding, he’d stared at her in utter shock. He’d accused her of being sexually selfish and disturbingly obsessed with her own physical pleasure. And every time they were together after that, Kent asked if she’d caressed herself the night before. She was so haunted with guilt and shame that she hadn’t intimately touched her own body since.

“Hey, I didn’t mean to send you into shock back at the restaurant,” Zane shouted over the wind, cutting into her tortured thoughts. “Can I make it up to you by finishing the tour of my house for your interview?”

“I really don’t—” Rachel knew she didn’t dare return to the intimacy of his house at night. But with the roaring car engine and the wind whisking by, Zane didn’t hear her resist.

The Porsche zoomed through his King Kong gate and shot right to the curb in front of the mansion.

As Johnny led Rachel into Mr. Farrell’s palace, a twinge of sadness dragged at his heart. He wished he could take her to his small comfortable apartment in Santa Monica. He wanted to show her his vegetable garden. Maybe listen to a jazz CD and sip white wine while lying on pillows together on the floor.

He mentally kicked himself. Face reality, Johnny boy, he reprimanded himself. Professor Rachel Smith wouldn’t associate with a mediocre-incomed, uneducated engine fixer, even if he did have his own shop.

“Which room did we leave out last time?” Johnny asked as he removed his suit jacket and threw it on the sofa. He had to remind himself that Rachel was here to interview Mr. Farrell, not him. He was going to portray the man in neon colors. Just as long as his own street-level personality didn’t push into the frame.

“I believe you neglected to show me the master bedroom,” Rachel said. The sex questionnaire required it. But it was the room she most dreaded entering. The suggestive chamber that would surely tempt her wildest fantasies.

She lifted her chin, determined to be strong and not emotionally vulnerable again.

That is, until she hit his luxurious master suite. Her gaze settled on the exotic circular bed. The raven-black satin comforter and creamy vanilla pillows winked at her in greeting.

Zane rubbed a large palm across the softness of the glossy bedspread.

“Cool, huh?” he offered. “What does the bedroom decor say about me?”

“That you’ve got an excellent interior decorator.”

“That’s all?” he asked, sounding disappointed.

No, it wasn’t all. She envisioned herself tumbling nude with Zane into all that milky, silky satin.

She fought her fantasies and fumbled in her briefcase for her pad and pencil.

“Why did you choose a round bed?” she managed to ask as she steadied her quivering fingers to write.

Zane sat on the bed and patted the spot beside him, beckoning her to him.

“Why don’t you find out for yourself?” he suggested in a velvet murmur.

“I’d rather hear your thoughts on it,” she stated in a professorial voice. “I may interpret your bedroom accoutrements quite differently from the actual reason you purchased them. After all, what is sexy is purely subjective, isn’t it?”

“You tell me. You’re the lovemaking expert.”

His intense gaze caught and held hers. She was super-aware of being alone with him in his bedroom. Super-aware of the closeness she felt toward him. Super-aware of his circular satiny bed and wanting to make love with him.

Zane arose from the bed and approached her. “Are you afraid of me, Rachel?”

“Why should I be?” She struggled to ignore the charged currents shooting from his body to hers. She strained to get his attention off her.

“Is that your master bathroom?” she began, struggling to hold on, fighting to forget the humiliating truth about herself that she never wanted Zane to find out.

She entered the bathroom, which was the size of her entire apartment bedroom. Lavender and gray tiles. Recessed lighting. Gray porcelain Jacuzzi tub.

Her gaze stopped at the spacious clear-glassed shower stall with double chrome shower heads on either side. For two people. Scrubbing down each other’s hot dripping bodies. She bit down on her bottom lip.

Johnny followed her into the bathroom and leaned against the glass shower door. She wouldn’t even look him in the eyes. What was she hiding from? Had he said or done anything to trouble her? If he had, he’d take it back instantly if he knew what it was.

He could see her breasts heaving under the silk top. He wanted to pull her into his arms and smother his face between the softness of those warm swelling globes.

She fumbled with her questionnaire. “Have you ever taken a shower with a woman?”

“Have you with a man?” Johnny inquired. He had no right to ask, but he couldn’t stop himself. He wanted to know every intimate detail about her.

“I asked you first,” she insisted.

“I think sharing a shower with a woman can be great foreplay.”

“Is that a yes for the study?” she asked.

“Absolutely,” he replied. “Have you, Rachel?”

“Have I what?”

“Taken a shower with a man.”

She nervously flipped through the printed questionnaire without answering.

“You’re breaking our agreement,” Johnny said.

“No, I’m not.”

“I’m baring all to you. Why are you keeping secrets from me?”

“I’m as open as you are.”

“Then answer my shower question.”

“I have never shared a shower. Happy?”

“Not if I was the man in your life.”

“Well, you’re not!”

“Good!”

“Fine!”

Before she could protest further, Johnny pulled Rachel’s trembling body to his. His mouth covered her rosebud lips. He could feel her palms against his chest.

“Rachel,” Johnny whispered in a gravelly tone.