Nathan is trying to start a new landscaping business but he cannot draw. He needs help. Val arranges for Tate to teach him to draw but Val convinced Tate that Nathan can give her sex lessons. But when Nathan meets Tate he is fascinated with her and takes things slow. Tate wants sex because she had done something in Denver that shook her confidence as a woman.
But neither of them counted on getting more from this relationship!
I enjoyed this one.
From the author:
...when good, clean fun isn't an option.
Just once, good girl Tate Cross wants to experience a red-hot, no-strings-attached affair. She's temporarily left her graphic artist position in Denver to settle her aunt's estate in Spearfish, South Dakota. However, Tate receives a city mandate: she must comply with new landscaping regulations before she can resell the property. Given Tate's precarious finances, she asks her friend, Val for advice. Val swears her brother, owner of a local construction company, and a man well-versed in purely physical relationships might consider trading dirt work for art lessons. When Tate meets the mysterious Casanova, can she convince him to toss in a few sex lessons as well?
Nathan LeBeau believes few women look at the Native American man beneath the filthy work clothes and hard hat. He's kept past liaisons casual, a fact his sister shared, hence Tate's sexy proposition of wanting a hands on demonstration of his sexpertise. But in truth, he's tired of relationships based solely on sex. His goal of proving he's not completely hopeless in matters of the heart is second only to his dream of expanding his business.
What happens when Tate desires no-holds-barred sex and Nathan favors a good old-fashioned romance?
A battle of wills ensues.
And Tate is willing to get down and dirty to get what she wants.
“The closest I’ve ever been to nirvana was during an orgasm.”
Tate Cross rolled her eyes Where did Val come up with this stuff?
Undaunted, her friend Val shifted her pregnant belly. She broke the chocolate bar in half, sucking at the apricot filling oozing over her finger . “But this . . .” a satisfied moan escaped, “is running a close second.”
“I wasn’t talking about nirvana the place; I was talking about Nirvana the band.” Tate slid the CD case across the dining room table and switched off the boom box, doubting Val would appreciate the subtle nuances of Cobain and company’s “Heart-Shaped Box.”
“Sorry. I never understood that whole grunge thing.”
Tate narrowed her eyes. “But if we were talking about sweaty, grungy cowboys in tight jeans, whinin’ ‘bout lovin’ the wrong woman, drivin’ off in dusty pickups to the local bar for a shot of pain-easin’ whiskey, you’d pay attention.”
“Country music always gets me hot.”
“No wonder you’ve been pregnant four times.”
A sly, dreamy look drifted over Val’s face. “This one was conceived when Rich brought home that Stetson and we played--”
“Baby roulette? Apparently Richard’s six-gun was fully loaded that night.” With a grin, Tate gestured to Val’s stomach. “Seems that elusive slice of sexual heaven has a high price.”
“Being pregnant isn’t bad.” Val lovingly rubbed her hand over her swollen abdomen. “And a great sex life is not elusive.”
“Maybe not for you. You have the perfect man.” Tate tamped down on a rare surge of jealousy. She doubted Val’s perpetual rosy glow was entirely pregnancy related, the lucky duck.
“So sue me.”
Tate cocked a blonde brow. “Your lawyer husband laughs at your lawsuit jokes?”
“Of course.” Val tipped her glass of milk against Tate’s in a mock toast. “My fabulous sense of humor is the reason he married me.”
Tate choked back a giggle; milk nearly squirted out her nose. How mature. Here she was trying to have a sophisticated conversation about sex and not act like the goggle-eyed ingénue Val remembered her to be.
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