Her stance, her walk, her awareness of her silken, feminine bodytold the world she was a creature of rare sexuality and knew it.She probably hated it, but there it was. Sydney Martin ran his hands down the slope of her nude back,the sweep only broken by her thin bra strap. He ran his hands upthe front of her torso, smooth, velvety, warm. He had to catch hisbreath. She was as luscious as hot maple syrup from his nativeVermont. The girl looked white-faced, almost sick. "I don't think I want a job where I have to do ... things likethis," she wailed. "Then you can't have the job," he said shortly. He steppedback, still breathing heavily. It was the same old problem for him. Sydney Martin couldn'tget laid in a whore house, people said. He was a high-poweredexecutive, but lacked the personal touch with women. Worse, hiswife had left him a few days before and he was high with athrobbing need for sex. The girl fumbled ineffectually with her opened blouse. "Can't we talk ... figure out. “Now we’ve tasted each other. You better get back to the table first,” she said, “hopefully, nobody will be suspicious.”When we finished dinner, I took her hand and escorted her to the restaurant deck overlooking the water. We were alone, every patron had left. I was well aware that somebody might recognize her and realize she wasn’t with my father in law, but I knew the place had cleared out for the night. I moved in closer to her along the railing and moved in for a kiss. She didn’t hesitate, and we embraced tightly and kissed passionately for several minutes, our hands kept mostly to each other’s hips. I think we both felt we should save that for later.We headed for the car and enjoyed the cool breeze through the sunroof all the way home, along with the scent of her perfume still lingering in the air. As we got closer to the house, she opened her purse and pulled out her soft red lipstick. She pulled down the lighted mirror and reapplied it to her lips, and I could smell the scent.
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