Page 45 of Life, Love and the Pursuit of Happiness

It didn’t help that he had imprinted on his brain her words of last week that she’d been celibate for more than five years. What guy didn’t consider that a challenge?

Didn’t help that when she’d been eating, Merrill had recalled a time a few years back when he’d been sitting in the Wet and Wild with the guys, and he’d expounded on his theory about the way women eat correlating to the way they would act in bed. For example, women who licked their lips when eating tended to be screamers. Those who took small bites were repressed nymphos. That kind of crap. Being perpetually horny, the men had sucked up his ideas like beer, which they’d been consuming in large quantities.

It was a good theory, nonetheless, but, luckily, he hadn’t shared it with Delilah. Women tended not to have the same sense of humor about sex that men did.

For the record, Merrill had noted that Delilah did both: took small bites and licked her lips.

Can anyone say “Hoo-yah!”?

But now, Delilah walked ahead of him through the restaurant, out the front door, and into the side parking lot toward his pickup truck. Which gave him a bird’s-eye view of her white, Marilyn Monroe halter dress, all bare back and swishy skirt that molded her hips and backside as she moved. While her hair was silver blonde, her skin—from shoulders to waist and on both arms, not to mention mile-long legs—was golden hued after a week out on the ocean. In fact, despite the constant slathering of sunscreen, everyone had gained or enhanced their tans this week, whether they wanted to or not.

Had to be a guy back in the day who designed that dress, or a woman with a sadistic inclination to torture men. The dress design was ageless, though, he had to give him, or her, credit for that. A hundred years from now, some Space Age hot mama will be donning some version of this creation, turning her future male admirers to puddles of horniness.

While his mind was wandering, he wondered, not for the first time this evening, what would happen if he untied the knot at the back of her neck. Besides being an expert in drownproofing, he excelled in Knots 101. Hoo-yah!

And, hey, with that backless wonder, she must not be wearing a bra. Double hoo-yahs!

“Merrill,” she said, turning when they arrived at the car. “Can we talk? I just want to tell—”

But he didn’t want to talk now. He wasn’t taking a chance that she would say, “This is a bad idea,” (when, in fact, it is good, good, good), or “Yeah, you’re cute and all that,” (kiss of death) “but I’m not interested in you that way,” (What other way is there for a man and woman?), or “Let’s be friends,” (Yuck! Another kiss of death) or the worst-case scenario, one she’d hurled at him one of the first times they’d met, “Get lost, sucker.” Or something to that effect.

So, to forestall what she was about to say, he pressed her up against the car and put a fingertip to her lips. “Shh,” he said, and kissed her. No touching—he didn’t dare touch her—but kept his arms braced against the car on either side of her head. That was enough. For now.

Her lips!

Luscious.

Soft.

Moist.

Parting.

Welcoming.

Sucking on my tongue, like . . .

Too soon.

Gotta stop.

Sinking.

Want more.

Wait.

Oh, damn. Damn, damn, damn.

Somehow, he raised his head, which was light as air and weighed about fifty pounds. Could she hear his heart pounding? He was panting like a race horse after the Preakness.

She stared at him with glazed eyes and glistening lips. In shock, no doubt.

With mumbled self-flagellation, he managed to open the car door and help her inside. Once he was behind the steering wheel, and before he turned on the ignition, he turned to her. “Sorry if I came on too strong.”

She shook her head. “No, it was me.”

Oh, no! She’s going for the “It’s not you, it’s me” line.