Claire Johnson’s dedication to sex—the cornerstone of her career—led her to help found the Center for Sexuality and Sex Practices. Now in her fifties, she knows the Center must keep pace with the rapidly growing Baby Boomer market, so she agrees to go back on camera for a series on sex and aging. But work with her nemesis?
Former English Professor Max Wilson has championed the cause of the Center ever since his deceased wife sought the Center’s help to rekindle the nearly extinguished sexual flames of their relationship. He loves working on camera and welcomes the challenge to perform with the svelte but icy temptress.
Sparks fly immediately on and off camera. The jury is out on whether either Max or Claire can transform those sparks into a fire of sexual desire for their viewers—let alone for each other.
Prone on the king-size bed on set one at the Center for Sexuality and Sex Studies, Claire Johnson tried to fight off a sudden wave of panic. The cameras weren’t going to stop.
“Ouch!” She clawed at her partner’s bare back. “You’re pinching me. Stop fucking me this instant!”
Satisfied that Max Wilson at least had the grace to cease pounding her body and pleased that his glistening bald head had turned dark red, Claire whipped her glare over to Melissa Hopkins-Gage—the mastermind behind this debacle. Claire ignored the surprised cameraman and directed her venom at Melissa.
“This is not working.” Her voice rose, then faltered. “I feel like I’m being fucked by a robot.” She glowered at Max, who was propped above her on his hands and knees, breathing hard. She tried her best to ignore his hard cock still twitching inside her, seeking release. “A robot that’s missing some parts. Get your damn cock out of me.”
Inhaling deeply, Max did as she demanded.
Claire scooted out from beneath him. She leaned against the headboard of the bed, bringing her knees to her chest and wrapping her arms around them. She probably looked like she was protecting her virginity, which she could hardly remember yielding decades earlier.
“I always thought you were a bitch,” Max said dryly, peeling off the shriveled condom before moving to sit beside her with his back likewise against the headboard. His breathing still came in short bursts.
Maybe she’d saved his life by stopping him before he climaxed.
“And I wasn’t pinching you,” Max added. “You just didn’t find the rhythm.”
“That’s a joke. You wouldn’t know rhythm if it smacked you in the face.”
“Children, children!” Melissa’s arms flailed as if she were flagging down a runaway train. Maybe she was.
Claire winced at the pain on Melissa’s young face. For a moment, that look reminded her of a former lover—Melissa’s aunt Phoebe. Claire blinked. The resemblance between Phoebe and Melissa was at the root of her current problem. The niece, like Claire’s former lover and professional partner, could wheedle more out of her than she liked.
Claire glanced quickly at Max. His cock lay shriveled almost to a nub between his legs. She smiled to herself. She did get a perverse sense of pleasure out of seeing men cringe before her fury. She looked up at his face. He wasn’t cringing. If anything, he was laughing. Laughing at her? The bastard.
“Put these on,” Melissa commanded, tossing a Center bathrobe to each of them. “We have to talk. Now!”
“I want that tape erased,” Claire demanded, standing to punch an arm through one armhole. She reached for the other repeatedly without finding it. She felt Max hold the robe for her. Claire closed her eyes, muttered a couple Hail Marys under her breath, and pushed her arm through the sleeve.
With a tinge of remorse, she peered back at Melissa. For a diminutive woman, the dark-haired beauty could certainly look furious.
Melissa came to a standstill at the foot of the bed. She crossed her arms under her breasts.
Claire thought she grew taller by at least three inches.
“I will not erase the tape.” Melissa’s mouth turned into a twisted grin. “Maybe later. If you two ever get it right. Or”—she smiled brilliantly—“we might want to include this little scene in our instructional materials. It might help some of our viewers to see situations between a man and a woman that don’t work out, that don’t lead to orgasm.”
Max ignored Claire. “If that’s what you’re looking for, you sure as hell got it.”
Claire knotted the sash of her robe. “This is not going to work, Melissa.” She sighed heavily. “All right, I admit he’s not a Neanderthal lout, but we can’t get into sync.” She scowled. “And I doubt we ever will.”
She plopped back down on the bed, hoping Melissa would give up on the entire idea of pairing her with Max to demonstrate options for how older couples could maintain their sexuality. She didn’t question the Center’s mission in this area—she’d helped champion the cause with foundations and private donors.
Max was the problem. She winced as he sat back down on the other side of the bed, doing a good job of avoiding eye contact with her and Melissa.
“Nonsense.” Melissa’s features softened. “Maybe we expected too much out of the two of you too quickly. Claire, you haven’t worked in front of a camera for years. And I know from personal experience” —Melissa arched an eyebrow—“that Max is anything but a Neanderthal.” She pursed her lips. “You remember, Max—the morning before we first worked on camera? We met for breakfast because you wanted us to get to know each other a little before meeting on set.”
Max nodded cautiously. “That was my idea. I didn’t want you to think of me as some old guy conveniently attached to a cock.”
“You succeeded. And I don’t think of you as an old guy. And you, Claire.” Melissa blew her a kiss. “It took time for us to be around each other before you mesmerized me with your tongue, and it took longer still before I worked up the nerve to reciprocate.” Melissa paused for breath.
Claire knew she wasn’t going to like what would come out of the young woman’s mouth next.
“You two simply need more time—time to be together off the set. You need to get to know each other before we can achieve what we want for our viewers.”
“What?” Max looked shocked.
“Impossible!” Claire interjected quickly. “We don’t have a single thing in common.”
“You don’t know that,” Melissa insisted. “You don’t know each other. Not really. Max only works for us occasionally. You’ve seen him working with me. And I know you have a lot in common.”