Inferno-Kat 2 (25 page)

Jodi Lynn Copeland is on the case in

OPERATION G-SPOT

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“O
h my gosh, yes! Right there, Colin!”

They were doing it again, screwing like rabbits on speed.

In an attempt to shut out the sound of her brother and his girlfriend, Joyce, going at it in the neighboring bedroom, Liz Hart covered her ears and hummed into the darkness. The nonstop thump, thump, thump of a headboard slamming against a wall and the unmistakable moans and groans of hot, heavy sex refused to be blocked.

Liz uncovered her ears and let free a moan of her own, this one all about misery.

Karma had a real fucking funny sense of humor. The last year she’d gotten her daily laugh by sharing every screaming, quaking detail of her sex life with Colin. He had a major hang-up when it came to hearing about his little sister’s exploits. Liz might understand that if she was actually little, or rather young.

She was twenty-four, old enough to be knocked up a half dozen times and divorced just as many.

She didn’t have kids, a husband—ex or otherwise—or even a potential lover. And that was the reason karma was so funny.

For all she teased Colin by bragging about her many sexual conquests, 95 percent of what she told him was make-believe. Ninety-five percent of her life was a lie. Ninety-five percent of the time she didn’t care. Listening to the ceaseless heavy panting and encroaching sounds of orgasm, the residual 5 percent reared its head. And damn was it ugly. Make that jealous.

Just once Liz wanted to move past the fear she carried her mother’s promiscuous genes, which made the woman put physical pleasure before anything else, including her daughter, and enjoy sex for the gratifying experience it should be. Just once she wanted to be the bold, sexually confident woman she pretended at. Just once she wanted to be the one screaming, moaning, and soaking the bed with a bona fide orgasm and not one she faked in order to end yet another unsatisfying encounter.

As if on cue, Joyce’s emphatic cry rang out from the next room. “Ooh…don’t st—op. I’m going to…come!”

Rolling her eyes, Liz sat up in bed and switched on the nightstand lamp. She couldn’t handle playing the part of eavesdropping voyeur a second longer. Since it was after one A.M. she couldn’t pick up the phone and call someone either. Not that there was anyone she would call on this particular matter. Imagine the response she would get if she phoned Diane, her friend and co-waitress, and whined she was envious of Joyce’s orgasm because Liz had never had one of her own. Like almost everyone else, Diane knew her as the flamboyant, brash sex maniac she impersonated to avoid the psychoanalysis (aka bullshit) that would accompany the truth.

The phone wasn’t an option for venting her orgasm envy. Thank God for the Internet.

Six weeks ago, following what should have been an assured climax with a man reputed for his bedroom skills—a night that once again ended orgasmless—Liz had become desperate and searched for support online. It turned out that she wasn’t the only healthy, twentysomething woman whose mind overruled her body’s desire. There were at least two other women who suffered similar ailments.

Fiona lived states away in Michigan but was still in the same time zone. The headstrong lawyer would either be asleep or have her legs wrapped around her latest attempt at orgasm. In Seattle, Kristi was three hours behind Atlanta time. The sex-toy designer could be home…and more than likely testing out her latest pleasure gadget.

Unlike Liz, neither Fiona nor Kristi had a problem getting off with the aid of battery-operated plastic. It was when a man entered the equation that their G-spots performed a disappearing act.

Liz clearly had no G-spot, period. She’d tried more than a dozen of Kristi’s guaranteed-to-get-you-off products, and not one managed to do the job.

Sighing, Liz climbed from bed and pulled a T-shirt over her nude body. She ran a hand through her straight, cropped black hair as she padded barefoot to the desk in the corner of her bedroom, fired up her laptop, and connected to the Internet.

A fresh series of moans came from the bedroom next door, and she grimaced.

Oh gawd. Not again.

A year ago, she’d moved into her brother’s place to keep him from feeling alone following his messy divorce from Satan in a deceptively sugary-sweet package. Now that Colin had Joyce—a genuinely sugary-sweet package—in his life and, subsequently, someone to share his large house with, Liz seriously needed to think about getting back into a place of her own. Until then…
Please let Kristi be online
.

Opening up the instant messenger program, she logged into
Operation G-Spot
, the group the women had created for private chats, and buzzed Kristi.

Liz: Tell me you’re there.

Kristi: No can do. I’m in the South Pacific, bare-assed and bent over a lounge chair, while the local orgasm gods fight over who gets to tongue me to climax next.

Liz: As long as you’re fantasizing, mind if I join you on that chair? Sure as hell would be better than being here. Yet again, I have the pleasure of falling asleep to the sounds of huffing and puffing and my brother getting his rocks off.

Kristi: Colin’s having another sex marathon overnighter?

Liz: Yes! And I’m sooo jealous.

Kristi: Ditto. Have you considered Fi’s advice to give the sure thing another try? You said he had you wet before your brother walked in on the two of you.

Liz: Pull-eaze tell me you’re joking. Dusty had me wet for a few seconds, but he couldn’t finish the job. Besides, as I’ve told you a gazillion times, the guy’s a conceited asshole. If he were the last man alive, I wouldn’t spread my legs for him again.

Kristi: Mmm…Maybe I should come to Atlanta and give him a try. Way you described him a few weeks ago, he sounds deserving of that conceit—totally dee-lish and hung like an elephant.

Not that I have a prob with a teeny weenie, but a big one on a man who knows how to use it sounds damned promising.

Liz: Yeah, promising in a “never going to accomplish the impossible” sort of way. Hey, I gotta go. I just remembered I’m working the breakfast shift. TTYL.

Kristi: Bye. GLGS.

Liz snorted at the acronym as she closed the messenger program. She didn’t need “good luck getting some.” She needed good luck getting off. And not with Dusty either.

Damn Kristi for bringing up Colin’s longtime friend Dusty Marr. The woman could generally be counted on for encouragement and a bad joke or two, just enough to improve Liz’s mood.

Tonight Kristi hadn’t improved her mood a bit but had forced her to lie about working the breakfast shift so she could end the conversation about a guy she would just as soon dropped off the planet.

On top of having a cock that even Liz had to admit was impressive, Dusty was tall, built, blond and a month and a half ago had managed the improbable. Unlike any man or machine before him, his smooth moves had vanquished Liz’s fear of turning into her mother long enough to have her wet and eager to fuck. Before they could move past oral gratification, Colin had come home, found them getting nasty on the living room floor, and burst the hedonistic bubble. After taking things to her bedroom, Liz had tried to clear her mind and get back into the heat of the moment, but to no avail.

And she couldn’t be happier for that.

She’d decided to sleep with Dusty because his reputation claimed him a sure thing. The moment she’d stopped thinking with her hormones, she remembered that he was a lot more than a sure thing. He was an arrogant, shallow dickhead who put sex above all else, screwing a different woman every night of the week without caring who his actions might hurt. In other words, he was the male equivalent of her mother.

She wasn’t doing Dusty again. No way. No how. No matter if thinking of his talented tongue pushing into her nether lips had her sex shockingly moist.

Suppressing the urge to rub her hand between her tingling thighs, Liz stood and returned to the bed. She tugged the T-shirt over her head to reveal tented nipples. Her wetness and the aroused state of her nipples were side effects of the rain-cooled, September night air snaking into the slightly ajar bedroom window. The cold could make a person wet. Tonight it could, because she refused to believe thoughts of Dusty and his sexual prowess were behind her stimulated body.