Page 3 of The Nanny and the Beefcake
Seventy-sixdays ago, she wouldn’t have believed raging, yoga, and bitch could coexist in one sentence, let alone inside a human being. But they could. Oh, they could because it wasn’t just her balanced chi that had high-tailed it out of town.
She’d lost herO.
Yes, thatO.
Theoh, yes, don’t stoperotically cathartic climactically superb orgasm. Once her chi had gone off the rails, her O had skipped town like a thief in the night. One day, it was there. The next, adios apex of desire. Sayonara, glorious gratification. And bye-bye, blazing bolt of heady bliss.
Had she tried to recover her lost O?
Hell yes!
Over the last seventy-five days, she’d amassed quite a stash of vibrators and clitoral stimulators. Big or small. Buzzy or pulsing. No matter how hard she tried—and she tried and tried and tried—there was no sign of her O. Not a glimpse. Not a quick catch of breath. Not a dreamy sigh to be had. She’d gone full-on Sahara downtown. Dry and deserted, if she didn’t figure out her no-go O, she wouldn’t be surprised if buzzards started circling.
And she hadn’t only relied on sex toys. She’d racked up more than a few one-night stands over the last six billion four hundred eighty million milliseconds.
Libby Lamb was a free spirit. She followed her intuition. She read her aura. She was a woman in charge of her body and her sexuality. And most of all, she enjoyed consensual sex.
She wasn’t looking for Mr. Right.
Heck no!
Her energy migrated toward Mr. Right Now.
She didn’t want a boyfriend, period, end of story.
She had her brothers, her best friends, and her yoga. Maintaining a steady guy in her life wasn’t in the cards. And if life had taught her one thing, it was that she knew better than to trust a man with her heart.
But never in her wildest dreams did she think one roaring, inconsiderate beefcake of a man could get under her skin so thoroughly and so incessantly that it would shred her chi and drive her O out to pasture. Not to mention, get her fired from a few yoga studios. Okay, not a few. Eight out of the nine studios she taught at had sent her on her merry way with a namaste followed by the slam of a door.
She couldn’t blame them. Everything set her off these days. If she caught yoga participants whispering, she’d remove her mini gong from her bag and bang it like she was auditioning for the part of a fire alarm.
If she noticed someone glancing at their phone during class, she banged the gong.
It was safe to say she was having gong issues.
Yep, that was a thing.
She’d turned the meditative healing tool into a menace to society.
She’d become the yoga version of the glowering Miss Trunchbull character.
In the past seventy-five days, she’d had a little trouble—no, a lot of trouble—keeping her cool which was why everything was riding on today.
She dropped her phone into her yoga bag and spied the golden mini gong tucked next to her mat.
She could almost hear it whispering to her.
Grab the mallet and strike like there’s no tomorrow, sister.
You know you want to do it.
Maybe if you bang me hard enough, you’ll be able to bang that British beefcake out of your head.
She blinked and looked away from the bag as the tightness returned to the base of her neck with a vengeance.
If any gal on the planet needed an earth-shattering orgasm to loosen her up and set her chakras right, it was Libby Lamb.
And it wasn’t for lack of trying.
