This is a great month to read about a sexy cure for hot flashes and passion as blazing hot as a blast furnace. Two reader favorites are now on sale for $0.99 each.
If you’ve already read them, why not buy one for a friend? Tell them Book 1 of each series is still free at their favorite ebook retailer. Happy reading!
* * * * *
Ben walked through the house in his underwear and picked up the paper that had been slipped through the mail slot of his front door. On page seven, there was a three-column spread of him holding Regina in his arms. Ben studied the paper, too bemused to be upset. Anyone with eyes could see Regina wanted nothing more than to be held by him.
Seeing Regina almost in ecstasy confirmed for Ben what he had suspected was there every time he held her in his arms. It wasn’t his ego making him feel the way he did about the woman, just some innate sense he had about what they could bring each other.
And whatever it was, he wanted it as much as she did. The expression on his face in the photo told a more complex emotional story, but his intentions toward Regina were clear to anyone with eyes. His arms held her tightly. The possession in his face slightly surprised him, but not much.
Without a thought to how it would look to anyone, he’d gone tearing out of the restaurant after Regina, fully intending to stop her from running away from him. He’d have also gone home with her in a flat minute if she had said yes to his pleas. He wasn’t sure what someone like Alfred saw in the photo, but when Ben looked at the picture of them, he saw two people who wanted to be together so much they couldn’t hide it from the world or themselves.
Then Ben noticed the headline under the picture: Lonely Widower Seeks Help From Famous Sex Therapist. The article spun a story about him seeing Regina professionally. It had nothing to do with the truth even though the picture was spot on. The story was such fiction Ben couldn’t even find the energy to be offended.
He cut the picture out and put it on his refrigerator door, using magnets to hold it in place. Then he threw the rest of the paper in the trash, not bothering to read the full article. Instead, he finished dressing and went to work like always.
When he got the first call that morning from a tabloid paper, Ben was calm enough to be polite and went back to his work without a problem.
By the fifth call, he was angry but firm.
By the time Ben lost count of the calls, he was heading out the door on his way to Norfolk to see Regina.
Somewhere in the middle of the harassing calls, he had made a decision. If he was going to go through hell for daring to want a notorious woman, then he damn well was going to have all of her he wanted, not just a desperate clinch in front of a restaurant.
* * * * * *
Carrie snorted and laid her head on the seat rim of the toilet. She could laugh only because she knew that not even the worst man would seduce a woman who was retching every couple of minutes. Michael was lecherous by her standards, but he wasn’t that horrible.
“I was married twice. I know what men are like. It was just the irony of throwing up while thinking about. . .never mind. I think the sickness is passing now. You can let me go,” Carrie told him, taking the washcloth from Michael’s hand and wiping her entire face. “It would help if you got me a glass of ice water so I can take the nausea medicine.”
Michael ran a hand down the back of her short cap of brown hair and flipped the cloth on her neck over to a cooler side. “Sure. I don’t mind taking care of you. I want you to ask me to help when you need help.”
“So you keep saying,” Carrie retorted, sighing and nodding, keeping her face and expression hidden in the washcloth. “I’m going to start crying again if you don’t leave right now. Niceness seems to activate the water works.”
Michael slid away from her and used the sink to pull himself up. “Stay down there until I get back.”
Rolling her eyes, Carrie pulled the washcloth away from her face and watched Michael Larson’s very attractive back and rear disappear quickly through the now open bathroom door. His dark hair was loose from sleep, and she marveled again that it hung longer than most women’s. What would have been effeminate on many men only enhanced the masculinity he seemed to exude without even trying. Memories of her hands in his hair had arousal tugging at her even through the waves of nausea.
“And that feeling, you stupid, hormonal woman, is exactly how and why you got yourself knocked up again by the man. You never learn, Carlene,” she lectured herself.
Her words echoed softly in the empty bathroom as she sniffed the next bout of fresh hot tears away.
Using the toilet for leverage, Carrie pushed to her feet and walked to lean limply against the sink. She wet both cloths with cold water again. The one behind her neck really was helping. The urge to throw up was lessening every second.
Carrie rinsed her mouth and gently brushed her teeth, having learned that too much toothpaste only made the nausea worse. She rinsed her mouth several times until the mint flavor was gone. Then she walked carefully back to the bedroom and crawled into the bed.
When a fully dressed Michael with hair restrained behind him came back with a glass of ice water, Carrie was propped up on pillows. She sighed in relief that she wasn’t going to be tortured with a nearly naked version of him again.
Day one of being alone with the man in his house was going just about as badly as she had envisioned, including having to confront the humiliation of still wanting him every bit as much as she ever had. The illusion of getting over him just kept crashing and burning every time she turned around and saw him.