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they were.
    “Look, I’d like to know one thing,” he managed despite the
stirring of a certain part of his anatomy. “I need to know. Are you on the
Pill? Maybe you’re wearing a patch. IUD?”
    “Yes,” she whispered after a too-long silence.
    If he’d been set up— ”I’m holding you to that,” he
said firmly. “Believe me, lady, you better not be lying to me.” She didn’t say
anything, which made him feel more than a little uncomfortable. “You don’t
sound as if you’re from around here,” he said in an attempt to pull more out of
her. “Where do you live?”
    Instead of answering, she arched her back, giving him
greater access to her breasts. Despite her somewhat roughened fingers and the
calluses on her heels that told him she spent most of her time barefoot, the
rest of her lush and freely offered body was silken. Maybe that’s what came
from clean-living, not that he knew what she did for a living, where she came
from, who the hell she was, whether she was wearing a wire and had been hired
by the competition, unimportant things like that.
    Her nipples had turned into not-too-small pebbles and seemed
several degrees warmer than the rest of her breasts. If someone put a gun to
his head, he couldn’t say how many breasts he’d been invited to explore, and
after a while he’d come to the conclusion that they were all pretty much the
same. Yes, there were differences in size, color, position, sensitivity, but
since they all existed to serve the same basic purpose, there wasn’t all that
much to be said about them.
    Something, however, was different with Maia’s. He just
didn’t know what it was—only knew he hadn’t come close to being done with them.
    Or with her.
    He repositioned her so they were sitting up and her back was
now against his chest, and he’d cradled—strange that he’d think of it like
that—her legs between his. He’d managed to prop his ass and lower back against
a clump of grass, and although it was far from the most comfortable back rest
he’d ever had, he didn’t care. Strangely, he cared only a little that his once
again alert cock was being smashed by her ass.
    Her head rested against his left shoulder. Her hands lay
unmoving on his thighs. The message in her open-to-him body was about as basic
as it could get. No fool he, he alternately played with her breasts, stomach,
hip bones, even curled himself around her so he could gain access to her muff
and the lush cunt underneath.
    The first time he cupped her pussy and pressed down, she
responded by grinding the back of her head into his collarbone. She was leaving
fingertip-sized divots in his thighs. It had been an experiment—at least that’s
what he told himself—a test to see whether he’d made her so sore that her pussy
was incapable of registering pressure. Obviously it wasn’t.
    Encouraged, or maybe the truth was he had no control over
what he was doing, he spread his fingers to increase his control over her cunt.
His middle finger was positioned at the entrance to her entrance. He entered,
wiggling his finger just a little to make sure he’d found ground zero.
    Her breathing picked up, and so did his. Just like that, he
felt pressure in his groin; the message in his cock came through loud and
clear. There was only one place it wanted to be.
    Amazing. Contrary to what the men’s magazines said about the
early thirties still being primetime sexually for men, he hadn’t gone for two
jerk-offs in one night since his early twenties. Sure, he was capable—he
thought—but like drinking too much, blowing a whole night with sex was no way
to run a business.
    Screw his company, his career.
    The nymph to end all nymphs was here, between his legs,
offering herself to him like a Christmas morning gift.
    Unfortunately, there was a limit to how wide he could spread
his legs, which meant she too was under the same constraints. In addition,
leaning forward like this so he could play in her playground was going to