The Sex Diet

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 pilgrpImages** 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 increasingly 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.

Tina depressed the call button and spoke into the black-and-neon-green gadget. “Hank, could you come to the front desk please?”

Static, then, “Is there a problem, Tina?”

Jeez, Samantha thought, just hearing his voice made the fine hairs on her arms stand on end, forced her to repress a shiver. A current of electricity zinged up her spine, tingled her nipples and buzzed her sex with warmth.

Hank Masterson was the epitome of the quintessential beach bum—tall, tanned, built, blond and gorgeous. He had the clearest, most beautiful sea-blue eyes and a lazy, slumberous smile that made a woman’s brain melt and her blood simmer. He exuded easy, effortless charm and had cornered the market in sex appeal. In addition to being absolutely gorgeous, he had a great personality and a brilliant head for business. Hank was the total package and if a woman ever managed to hook his attention even for a little while, she had better net him while she could. Men like Hank were few and far between.

And, Samantha thought with a grim, melancholy stab of regret, completely out of her reach.