Dead Sexy. Kimberly Raye

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      NIKKI BRAXTON WAS through with men and relationships.

      Done.

      Finished.

       That’s all, folks!

      She eyed the mountain of whispery pink sugar and smiled. From here on out, she was eating her way to happiness.

      She lapped at the sweetness and focused on the rush of happy that surged from her brain to the tips of her toes and back up again. Sugar was definitely the way to go.

      That’s what she told herself as she snagged a piece of cotton candy with her finger and popped it into her mouth. Her taste buds tingled and her frustration eased. Temporarily, of course.

      But then, that was the story of her life.

      Another bite, another surge of satisfaction, and she started to think that maybe, just maybe, the phone call from Bill two weeks ago, complete with a very graphic, albeit accidental, image from his picture phone, had been a good thing.

      Okay, it hadn’t been so great that he’d purposely sent the pic to his bowling buddies, who, in turn, had shown everyone and their dog. Which meant the entire town had shared in her humiliation.

      Even so, it wasn’t the end of the world.

      So what if Bill—the two-timing jerk—had cheated on her? So what if he was still in Vegas, holed up with two pairs of fake boobies, having a bona fide orgy, just as Molly had said? Good riddance. He’d been a mama’s boy who still lived at home, and she’d wasted seven months on him already. Seven months of Friday-night dinners with him and his mother and Saturday-night movie dates with him and his mother and Sunday picnics with him and—you guessed it—his mother.

      While seven didn’t sound like a lot, add it to the sixteen months she’d wasted with Roger Beeville (he’d had a thing for women’s shoes that had driven him to swipe every pair during tournament week down at the bowling alley), the thirteen months before that with Stan Caufield (he’d had a thing for his secretary…and his cleaning lady, and the clerk down at the video store and the acrylic-nail girl at Nancy’s Nails) and the eighteen months before that with Jerry Whatshisname (he’d had a thing for his old football buddy named Buck), and it amounted to a lot of wasted time. Factor in at least six months between each for a decent mourning period (and enough Hershey’s Kisses to dull the pain), and we were talking years.

      Forget the optimistic twenty-two-year-old she’d been with a brand-spanking-new degree in cosmetology and dreams of her own happily ever after—a nice, reliable man, two kids, a couple of dogs and a house with a huge backyard. She was now thirty years old and the stressed-out owner of her own hair salon, To Dye For. She had a monstrous bank loan and an endless string of bad relationships with dysfunctional men.

      She also had a giant mortgage.

      While she’d given up on the guy for now, she saw no reason to hinge everything on Mr. Nice and Reliable. Sure, she wasn’t ready to go it alone when it came to kids, or even the dogs, but she was more than capable of buying a house and taking at least a small step toward her happily ever after.

      She’d done so last week and had spent every night since making a list of needed repairs—they didn’t call it a fixerupper for nothing. She still had a lot to do, from painting to new flooring, but she felt good. Productive.

      If only she felt satisfied.

      Instead she was wound tighter than an extrakinky perm. She needed an orgasm in the worst way.

      The knowledge stuck in her brain as she turned to walk toward the dunking booth just around the corner.

      Not that she couldn’t head home right this second and treat herself if she felt like it. She shopped online, like every other woman in her small town, and she had her own personal arsenal of female sex toys. She was more than capable of handling the situation on her own. But she knew from past experience that the release would be all too brief. Even more, there was no satisfaction in snuggling with a multispeed vibrator.

      She needed a flesh-and-blood man for that.

      Hence Bill.

      Seven months of snuggling and cuddling and making out—when they were able to elude his mother, that is—and she’d finally been ready to go all the way. She’d planned a big welcome home at his place, complete with a home-cooked dinner and herself as the dessert. A huge offering for a woman who’d grown up hearing her great-aunt СКАЧАТЬ