Free The Accidental Virgin by Valerie Frankel

“Kitty low-carb. Best-selling diet books have been made of less.”
    Brian pushed Batty away and leaned toward Stacy. Her heart started pumping again (if nothing more, these erotic stops and starts were salubrious for her heart). He said, “Now, where were we? Ah, yes. Your extreme horniness and how it’s brought you to me. Go on.”
    Saying that grating H-word had a salacious effect on Brian. Stacy was well aware. That’s why she’d used it. “Do we have to talk about it? Can’t we do something about it instead?”
    “But I’m sick,” he said.
    “I don’t care.”
    “Who are you and what have you done with Stacy Temple?” he asked.
    The question stopped her from lunging. What
had
she done with Stacy Temple? With painful recognition, she saw herself as an automaton whose awkward groping for passion and affection had brought her right back to the man she’d rejected because all he ever wanted was passion and affection. She’d miscalculated terribly a year ago. He was a sweet, kind, handsome guy who loved her (once). Sitting in his warm presence, despite his slovenly appearance and runny nose, Stacy couldn’t understand why she’d broken up with him. If she sufficiently humbled herself, maybe he would love her again.
    “I should have paid more attention to you, Brian,” she announced. “I can’t believe I let you go. I want another chance.”
    “Stacy,” he started, “a lot has happened.”
    “A lot has happened to me, too. That’s why I’m here. I’ve learned painful lessons, and I want to correct my mistakes.”
    She leaned in to kiss him. He hesitated for a moment. Stacy feared she’d pressured him, or that he didn’t want her (impossible — he’d always told her she was his ideal). After she’d nibbled on his lips for a few seconds, he put his arms around her and pulled her closer. The familiarity of his hug nearly made her cry. It felt safe, comfortable, easy. She needed a dose of easy. And she’d really meant what she said. If he’d have her back, she’d be stupid with happiness about it.
    With a graceful reshuffling, Stacy put one leg over Brian and straddled him on the couch. She deftly lifted her dress over her head and sat upon him, nude save for her mules and underwear (on this day, she’d had the foresight to put on one of thongs.com’s most popular bra-and-panty sets: the pink lace Maid in the Meadow).
    “God, Stace. Your body,” he said, and then began kissing her on the bra, burying his face between her breasts. He resurfaced to sniffle and wiped his nose on his sleeve. But Stacy wasn’t horrified. She’d take him sick, coughing, oozing. And he’d take her just as she was. Under his khakis, he was granite (reliable, predictable Brian). A powerful hard-on cloaked in cotton. Nothing could have been sexier to Stacy at that moment. She put her hand on the outline and pressed.
    Brian lay back on the couch, pulling her on top of him. Mad kissing and feeling up. He put his hands inside her Maid in the Meadows for an ass grab. Stacy imagined an ice field cleaving, huge pieces of glacier breaking away and falling into the dark sea. Her year of abstinence and the weight of it sank out of reach. A lift, that was what it was. A lifting of repression and denial. She bobbed on top of Brian as if he were a life raft.
    She struggled with the top button of his pants. They were decidedly tighter than she’d remembered, or she was out of practice. She had to sit up as he lay beneath her and work on it with two hands. Just as she’d sprung the button and moved to the zipper, a flash of orange flew by her eyes. Fur and unsheathed claws scrambled across Brian’s chest and her bare thighs.
    Brian screamed; Stacy screamed. She looked down at the rips in Brian’s shirt and then at the four deep scratch marks on her legs, first white and then the slow surfacing of red blood.
    Once Brian and Stacy recovered from the surprise of Batty’s sneak attack (the hurt came seconds after), she