For centuries, men have searched for the mysterious G-Spot. What is it? Where is it? And, most importantly, what does it want? These three wickedly funny, supersexy erotic tales from author Jodi Lynn Copeland answer the question once and for all...
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November 28, 2006
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Excerpt from Operation G-Spot by Jodi Lynn Copeland
"Oh 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 were 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. 95 percent of what she told him was a lie. 95 percent of the time she didn't care. Listening to the ceaselessheavy panting and encroaching sounds of orgasm, the residual five percent reared its head. And damnit 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-acting, sex maniac she impersonated to avoid the psychoanalysis (a.k.a. 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 orgasm-less-Liz had become desperate and searched for support online. It turned out that she wasn't the only healthy, twenty-something 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 likely testing out her latest pleasure gadget.