Page 4 of The Nanny and the Beefcake
Along with amassing an army of vibrators, she’d had a decent amount of sex.
She’d had big cocks and little cocks. Guys who went to town downtown and men who could thrust and buck like world champion bull riders. And still, her ability to meet sweet release was nowhere to be found, thanks to the muscled creep. Like a patient flatlined on the table, her love button was DOA.
Dead on arrival.
She fanned herself. It was getting warm in there—and not in the liberating, hold a plank with sweat dripping onto the mat hot yoga sort of way.
“It’ll come back. It has to. Your O is simply on a hiatus. A journey. A retreat.”
But every time she pictured her absent O, the beefcake’s image flashed through her mind. Cocky and arrogant, the taker of Os couldn’t have cared less about who he bothered or whose restorative process he’d crushed.
The worst part? She had to keep his identity to herself. That’s why she hadn’t revealed the orgasm thief’s name to her friends. It was bad enough that the guy had annihilated her chi and stripped her of her ability to reach carnal nirvana. She’d wanted to tell her friends—to spill the beans and explain precisely why she’d become a raging yoga bitch. But as much as she loved her besties, the last thing she wanted was her girls weighing in on the situation because…
They knew him.
All she could do was ride out the cosmic catastrophe and pray that her O would come home, and her chi would stabilize.
She rolled her head from side to side, then checked her watch.
Eight minutes until her appointment.
Plenty of time to see if her O had decided to return.
If it did, it was a sign.
Exhaling an uneven breath, she glanced at the door. The coast was clear. She slipped her hand past the waistband of her yoga capris and headed south. “Are you there, clitoris? It’s me, Libby Lamb,” she whispered, channeling the brilliance of Judy Blume because it was quite literally the last thing she hadn’t tried to jump-start her libido when the door to the restroom swung open in a rush of giggles and floral perfume.
“Tell me everything, Cleo. What happened when you and Eli left the bar?” an attractive brunette asked a tall blonde as the young women filed into the restroom and sidled up to the counter.
Libby froze like a petrified rabbit. Had she been busted for attempted public masturbation? Her cheeks bloomed scarlet as adrenaline set off in rapid-fire pulses through her veins. She swallowed hard, then shifted her gaze to the women. Luckily, the pair hadn’t seemed to notice that she’d jammed her hand down her pants like some creeper.
She had to get ahold of herself.
Breathing a sigh of relief that the women hadn’t shrieked and notified the authorities about the restroom masturbator, Libby adjusted her yoga capris as the bubbly blonde and giddy brunette continued their conversation.
“There was kissing, Laney. So much kissing. Then we went back to his place,” the blonde replied with a dirty twinkle in her eye. And sweet karma pie, something in Libby’s belly, or possibly lower, twinged. But it wasn’t a rev-your-sexy-engine twinge. It was more of a sad, lethargic putter. Not to mention, it had been weeks,weeks, since she’d sported a dirty glimmer in her eyes.
What she wouldn’t give for a slightly untidy flicker of lust.
“And? Don’t hold back, Cleo,” the brunette, Laney, coaxed.
The blonde, Cleo, pulled a tube of lip gloss from her purse. “We did it on the kitchen table, in his bathroom, and on the living room floor,” she answered, counting off the sex spots on her fingers with the tiny tube.
Libby swallowed hard as her heart thrust into jackhammer mode.
“Cleo, you are a naughty, naughty girl. What about his bed?” the brunette probed as she smoothed one of her brown curls.
No, no, no!
Libby steadied herself. She needed cold, cold water, Arctic water to tamp down her cockeyed libido.
Here’s the thing.
Her body remembered the bliss of ramping up—emotions swirling and sensual energy churning. The gasps, the caresses, the grind. But like a stranger in a strange land, she’d lost the way to Orgasm Town. That precarious position had left her in a sexual purgatory without any relief in sight. The last thing she needed was to walk into the meeting of a lifetime with the lady equivalent of blue balls. She fumbled with the faucet and splashed a bit of cool water on her cheeks, focusing on the sound of the spray.
“We made it to the bed at some point,” the blonde continued, applying the gloss, “because we broke the headboard banging it against the wall over and over again. By that time, I’d lost track of how many orgasms I’d had.”
“And did you let him use the prototype on you?” Laney pressed.
