if I were a different person. I’ll settle for pretending to be you for a while. Plus I picked up some books.”
“You’re reading about sex? Jeez, Beth.”
“What can I say? That’s me.”
“You underestimate yourself. You’re a sensual person. Look at you in your silk pajamas.”
Beth rubbed the smooth, cool fabric that covered her legs. “Yeah? So?”
“And look around. Your living room has deep colors and tons of textures.” Sara gestured at the framed weavings—complex fibers in teal, silver and burlap-brown. “Plus, you love music—that whole wall is filled with CDs. Scented candles are all over the place in, what do you call them, aroma groups? Aroma groups, for God’s sake. Fresh flowers in every room. And look what you did to our simple snack. Not only did you make a lovely frappé instead of breaking out the Diet Coke, but you added whipped cream to my Oreos for a taste nirvana.
“You’ve got all the senses fired up—sight, touch, taste, smell, sound.” She counted them off on her fingers. “Of course, sex does all that and more. It’s a sensory jackpot with moans for music. You’ve just been neglecting that angle.”
“I suppose so.” Beth had worked hard to make her home comfortable and satisfying. She noticed she was still fingering the pillow fringe for the simple pleasure of the feeling.
“You just need a guy who can tap into all that sensuality and, ba-da-bing, you’ll be as hot as your column.”
“Believe me, if I find this mythical guy, you’ll be the first to know. For now, let’s go back to Rick’s magic tongue. Would you say the secret is in the actual swirl, the heat and moisture of the tongue, or the pressure of the tip?”
“Good Lord, Beth. You need a man.”
THE NEXT MORNING, Beth hurried her dogs back from their walk, anxious to get started on her column, her head full of Sara’s sexploits and her own doubts. Sara was right that her column would be stronger if it were based on her own experiences, and it would be nice to meet a guy with racy techniques like Rick’s tongue swirl, but what were the chances of that happening anytime soon? Blaine hadn’t even been much of a kisser, alternating a thin-lipped maneuver with an open fish-mouth.
But they’d had fun together, she reminded herself, not wanting to malign her good memories. He’d stayed up on trends, loved going with her to check out new restaurants, bars and after-hours spots. He’d been a good conversationalist and had appreciated all the lovely touches she’d provided to their times together. They’d seemed completely compatible.
Until he left. With her confidence.
Oh, and her savings. But she tried not to think about that. Too humiliating.
Inside the house, her dogs extracted their personal favorites from the large wicker basket of dog toys, while Frick and Frack observed the doings from their positions on their tall scratching pole. Beth tossed the toys and looked around her living room, thinking about what Sara had said about her place.
She’d only intended to create a comfortable haven for her and her pets, but the result was a feast for the senses, now that she thought about it. And she’d done it on a shoestring budget, too. The overstuffed sofa was as comfortable as a glove, but with an appealing rough weave. The cherrywood cocktail table and matching end tables were deeply stained and gleamed like liquid, and the carved wooden upright lamp was as curvaceous as a living form. These were amazing steals from an estate sale. The framed weavings Sara had admired were vibrant against the wall she’d painted an accent plum color. She’d worked out a trade with the artist—doing some publicity brochures and newsletters for her.
In contrast to the soft warmth of most of the room, elegant glass vases of various shapes, colors and heights filled her knickknack shelf. Treasures from garage sales and eBay. She varied the scents of the candle clusters based on her mood, which Sara teased her about.
She breathed deeply of the white gardenias, red hibiscus and yellow honeysuckle blooms she’d arranged in vases in her living room, dining room and kitchen. They were all from her yard. The aroma and bright colors made her feel good. She extracted a bloom and stroked her cheek with its petals, shivering with the delicious tickle. Maybe she was a sensualist, after all.
Her previous lovers hadn’t tapped into her sensual side, that was certain. Not that she’d slept with many men in her twenty-seven years—three, counting Blaine. They had all been good intellectual matches for her, which seemed more important than sex, which she’d viewed simply as part of the package. Maybe she was wrong.
Maybe she would explore sensuality versus sexuality in her column. Which she had to get to work on. Now.
“Enough, guys,” she said, refusing the ninetieth slobbery delivery of Ditzy’s rubber newspaper, Spud’s cloth monkey and Boomer’s battered playground ball. She headed into the second bedroom, which served as her office, her canine pals trailing her, disappointed but resigned.
Her revision on a camper top manual for Thompson Manufacturing was due this week, but her column scared her, so it came first.
She turned on the desktop water feature—a miniature waterfall that spilled over three layers of rounded pebbles into a frosted glass bowl—lit two energy-boosting peppermint candles, limbered her back and arms with yoga stretches, then sat in her specially outfitted chair.
After three slow, deep breaths, she tilted her lamp minutely to be certain the glare wouldn’t tire her eyes, then clicked the start button on her computer.
Her animals assumed their work posts. Spud rested his chin on her insteps, Boomer lounged to her left and Ditzy curled up in her lap, chewing on her toy. Hopefully, its squeaker would give out before Beth went nuts from the wheezy creak.
Taking a deep breath and blowing it out, she rested her fingers on the keyboard and began her adventure.
Your “On the Town” reporter, who has faithfully detailed the latest dance clubs and restaurants, greatest wine-by-the-glass value and most intriguing after-hours venues, will now turn her attention to the rest of the evening. After all, while my date and I are savoring the saucy bouquet of our cunning cabernet, we’re wondering what we’ll do after the last jazz set at The Phoenician and the ginger Crème Brûlée with pumpkin seed lace at Lon’s at the Hermosa Inn. Will we be intimate? And how will we decide?
Not a bad beginning, she thought, reading it over. Could she be Sara for the next part? Deciding to have sex based on whether the guy made her laugh, could dance, smelled good or, hell, wore a tie she liked?
That wasn’t Beth’s way. Beth waited to have sex until the relationship was solid and they were comfortable enough around each other to minimize the fumbling awkwardness of the first time.
And she did her best to make it special—perfect lighting, alluring music, erotically scented candles, something tastefully sexy to wear, wine beside the bed and an after-sex snack awaiting them in the fridge. And then she hoped for the best.
Her entertainment column was all about ambiance and turning everything, even a cup of coffee, into a celebration. Her column elevated the ordinary to the extraordinary. And now she wanted to do something like that with sex.
Sara, on the other hand, didn’t care a bit about elegance. She liked sex in whatever way it came, so to speak. But couldn’t sex be lovely, lyrical and hot? Surely Beth
