She dabbed her mouth on a napkin, leaving a lipstick-like imprint, and shook her head. “Okay, I guess I was—I amobsessed. But what can I do about it?”
“Live out the damned fantasy, that’s what!”
“But, Blythe—”
“But nothing!” She set aside her margarita and slammed her fist on the table, rattling the silverware. “Tomorrow night, I order you to strut right up to Martinelli, bat those pretty eyelashes at him, shake those big tits in his face, and drag his studly ass to the nearest bed, car, or alleyway.”
“I can’t do that.”
“You can, and you will. Face it, you won’t ever get rid of the obsession until you sample the goods. If he sucks between the sheets—and notin a good sense of the word, mind you—the fantasy will die, freeing you from the obsession. And if he isGod’s gift to pussy as you have always imagined, then hot damn! All you have to do is enjoy it, gain additional fodder for your next smut book, and…” She picked up her glass and polished off her margarita.