Drop Dead Gorgeous. Kimberly Raye

       1

      IT WAS THE BEST SEX she’d had in months.

      The only sex.

      Which wouldn’t have been such a bad thing except that the elusive O came courtesy of a red fluorescent vibrator called the Big Tamale rather than some hot, buff cowboy with a slow hand and an intoxicating smile.

      Margaret Evelyn Sweeney, aka Meg, hit the three different Off buttons—vibrate, swivel and aye carumba—and stashed Big in its matching red case. She drew a deep breath, swung her legs over the side of her bed and got to her feet.

      Five minutes later, she stood in her kitchen and leaned over a hot-pink three-ring binder—her own personal Pleasure Manual—to document tonight’s results. She flipped to page fiftyeight, which included a quick summation of last Tuesday’s class entitled Masturbation Mania and a worksheet for homework. She scribbled in the date and tackled the questions.

      Intense sensation? Check.

      Spontaneous groaning (the good kind)? Check.

      Uncontrollable moaning? Check.

      A full-blown scream? Check.

       Overall level of satisfaction?

      She eyed the scale that ranged from one to ten, zip to zowee, and finally circled seven before moving on to the last question.

      Did this sexual experience include a partner? She ignored the crazy urge to jot down a big fat yes. This wasn’t about soothing her fragile ego and saving face with the other women in the painfully small town of Skull Creek, Texas.

      The whole purpose of attending carnal classes with a certified carnal coach was to invest in her future. Sadly enough, she was thirty years old and she could count on one hand the number of romantic entanglements she’d had in her lifetime.

      Actually, she could count them on two fingers. Three if she included her encounters with her good buddy and childhood friend, Dillon Cash. While Meg had been a mega tomboy, Dillon had been a major geek. Either way, they’d both never really fit in with the opposite sex—not romantically—and so they’d turned to each other back in the ninth grade when they’d realized that they were the only ones—with the exception of Connie Louise Davenport, Reverend Davenport’s daughter—in the entire freshman class who hadn’t known how to French kiss.

      Okay, so they hadn’t known how to kiss, period. No quick pecks. No slow, lingering smooches. No open mouths and plunging tongues. They’d been fifteen and very green, and so it had seemed like a good idea to work out the awkwardness with each other.

      Several hours, a bootleg copy of a Nine 1/2 Weeks video, and a dozen clumsy attempts later, they hadn’t been any more skilled than when they’d started.

      In fact, the entire experience had solidified what she’d known from the get-go—Dillon was and would always be just a good friend. She hadn’t liked him like that.

      No heart stutters. No tummy tingles. No rip-off-your-pantiesand-go-bonkers lust.

      Which was why, despite the experimental kissing, she felt inclined to leave him out of the tally when it came to her sexual past.

      That left Oren and Walter. She’d lost her virginity to Oren, aka the Orenator, at the ripe old age of eighteen. He’d been the best defensive end the Skull Creek Panthers had ever seen, and he’d taken them to the state championship during