Chapter 3
The dining room was a cacophony of clattering silverware and dishes as the passengers plowed full tilt into dinner. But Larry Stevens scarcely heard it. This was Patrick Doyle he was dining with--the Patrick Doyle.
"Oh, yes, I've dabbled a bit in architecture myself," the man was saying. "Ever heard of the Laurel Building? I had a hand in the designing of that one."
"I'll say I've heard of it. We studied it for an entire week last year. It's considered one of the finest of its day."
"Ah well, that day is past. I did the thing when I was close to your age, if I remember rightly."
Larry forgot the food that decorated his plate. A hundred questions rose to his lips; It was true, he recalled vaguely, that the name of Patrick Doyle had been listed in conjunction with the famous Laurel Building. And now here he was. To be face-to-face with such a man was unbelievable.
"Tell me, is it true that a couple of contractors turned down the job of putting the place up?"
"More than a couple," Doyle said. "They complained that the cantilevers wouldn't support the weight properly. But I designed it and I knew. If the ferro-concrete was any good then the principle had to work. Built the slabs right into the bedrock. No reason why the building shouldn't last a hundred years."
Dismissing the idiotic contractors with a shake of his head, Patrick Doyle bent to his meal, cutting the meat cleanly and expertly-- as he did everything. Every motion he made was precise to the point of perfection.
"Mr. Doyle..." Larry's tone was devoutly respectful. "What do you think is best for a young fellow to do these days? Go to school or work as a draftsman?"
"You mean book-learning as opposed to practical application? That's simple--junk the books." Doyle smiled. "But it appears you are doing just that by going to Europe."
"Good idea?" Larry asked eagerly.
"Might be--if you don't waste it. However, don't make the mistake of liking everything you see just because it happens to be by a foreign architect."
"How about Le Corbusier's stuff?"
"Fine--if you're interested in apartment houses." Doyle concentrated on his food for a few moments and then glanced up. "But there are other kinds of beauty in this world--other than architecture, I mean." He nodded his head in the direction of a table in the corner of the room.
Larry's gaze followed automatically. There were two women. One was a blonde with a strikingly dark tan complexion. And from what he could see, her figure was quite attractive. As she leaned across the table to speak to her companion, her substantially endowed breasts were note-worthy.
The other girl had her back to him and he couldn't see much of her. But his eyes took in enough--the sheen of the dark hair that hung to her shoulders and the softly curved cheek and the compact way her slim hips fit the high-backed chair.
He cleared his throat. "If you like blondes..."
"I don't," was the reply. "Not that much. I was referring to the young one."
"She's young all right. Too young, maybe."
Doyle snorted. "Look again, my friend. No girl with a figure like that is too young."
"Who is she? Any idea?"
"Tricia Goode. Daughter of a Detroit auto man. Grosse Point. Mackinac Island. Private schools. Class. Twenty years old--and a lot on her mind."
"Whew." Larry stared open-mouthed. "Sounds like an FBI report. Do you know everything?"
"Just about, I suppose. Everything worth knowing." The stern mouth split in a surprisingly candid smile. "Would you care to test me, perhaps?"
"No, thanks. I'll take your word for it."
"In that case, I'll ask you one. What are the measurements of that lovely child over there?"
"How would I know that?" Larry said. "Do you?"
"From long experience, I could make an estimate. Hips: 34, waist: 23, bust: 34. How does that sound?"
"Beats me. I don't estimate that sort of thing. If it were important enough, I'd find out personally."
"You would, eh? Ah, you young men." Doyle frowned somewhat. "I have a feeling that you're going to get into mischief before this voyage ends."
"Mischief?" As Larry spoke the dark-haired girl turned slightly; he got a quick flash of her radiant beauty. "Maybe I will. With that one I sure wouldn't mind. I was planning to do some work on the trip, but with things like that running around loose, I may never get around to it. She's a doll."
"She certainly is." Doyle pursed his lips thoughtfully. "The work you were going to do --is it important?"
"Not very. Just a textbook problem."
"Too bad."
"Hmmm? Mr. Doyle, what do you mean?"
"Oh, you know. The devil finds work for idle hands. You should be designing some real project. That's what I always was doing at your age. As a matter of fact..."
"Yes?"
"Ummm, let me think. Yes, why not? Why don't you start on a real project? Do one for me."
"For you? What?"
"A house," Patrick Doyle said slowly. "A house for me."
"You're kidding."
"Am I? Well, perhaps I am. You seem like a pretty clever young fellow--and I do plan on building a house soon. But if you're so quick to tell me I'm kidding, well, maybe you're not the..."
"Please. I'm sorry. You just tossed it at me too suddenly, sir. It's hard to believe you really mean it."
"That's understandable. But I'm given to hasty judgments, as you'll find out in due time. And I'm seldom wrong. That girl's measurements, for instance. And your ability as an architect. I'm sure I'm right in both instances. How about it--would you like to design a house for me?"
The words rang bell-like above the hum of the dining room. Larry realized that the man was serious, and the significance of it burst inside his skull like a pinwheel. To get a crack at a commission like this was fantastic.
"But--but you haven't seen any of my stuff."
"I've seen you! And as for your work, I'll see that when the time comes. Before the trip is over, I hope. Can you come up with a fresh design that soon?"
"I can try."
"Good. Do so, by all means. Show me something interesting and you've got a commission. Agreed?"
"I wouldn't have the effrontery to refuse."
"Of course not." Doyle extended his hand. "A deal?"
"A deal." They shook on it.
The rest of the dinner passed in a kind of paralytic stupor for Larry. He was certain he had forgotten all he ever knew about architecture. Buck fever. Stage-fright. At the same time he knew with a strange coldness that he had to make an attempt. The stakes were too high not to.
Anyway, what could he lose? He had planned to get some work done and now he had something specific to put some time on. Even if Patrick Doyle turned out to be a complete phony, the time still wouldn't be wasted.
But Doyle was no phony and Larry was positive of it. Besides, the guy hadn't been overly radical, really, he wanted to see a design first before awarding the commission. No, it was obvious that the offer had been made legitimately.
Larry gulped. This was a big day for him. And wasn't it odd the way it had all come about? Talking about a girl's measurements one minute and discussing the designing of a house in the next. Almost as if the two had something to do with each other.
Once more Larry glanced at the other table. The girl named Tricia Goode looked up to speak to a passing waiter; her face turned and he got a better view of her. He felt his muscles contract. Never had he seen anything so marvelous--except on a drawing board. Such a profile, so delicate, so sensitive. Little upturned nose and great big long-lashed eyes. Truly a divine creature.
Then he thought about the house. Could he get involved with a girl like that and still get the work done?
The lovely thing was still in profile. Her breasts, as displayed by the cut of her dress, weren't large but neither were they small. Separately, with the fabric falling between them to follow their classic curves, they rose with a quiet defiance.
He must have been staring too hard, for at that moment Tricia Goode's head came around and her eyes met his. She was even prettier now --lips full and pink, cheeks smooth and soft-looking. Larry felt himself blush and he began to contemplate his mashed potatoes--but not before the girl had acknowledged his attentions by narrowing her eyes in a show of irritation. No smile touched her lips. The lady was not amused. Larry wanted to crawl under the table arid die. But he knew--right then and there-- that he couldn't let it end like this. Sure, he would design Patrick Doyle's house. But how about the all-work-and-no-play adage? Could such a delightful girl touch his life without having a profound effect?
After dinner, Mr. and Mrs. Martin strolled out on the promenade deck. The sun had disappeared over the western horizon, leaving a rich orange afterglow. Darkness was riding up fast above the prow of the ship. Stars popped into view in the velvet sky, dancing on the swells of the black-green water. The sea split and sent out white-capped rolling waves.
Vicky looked attractive, dimming even the splendor of the setting. But then she always did look great, Roger knew, especially when traveling. Without any visible effort she could dress flawlessly while living out of a suitcase or steamer trunk. It was a quality that made other women overboil with envy.
They moved to the rail together and leaned over to peer at the rushing water. Vicky's belted gray frock was cut deep at the bodice and although he had watched her put it on just ninety minutes earlier, Roger could not repress a tingling sensation as his eyes flicked over the curve of one breast and the teasing fringe of the black brassiere.
After five years he could still get a Peeping Tom kick out of the sight of his wife's exciting body: as he was getting now, with the night breeze whipping at her skirt, flaring it and then pasting it against her thighs. Once when the breeze got too strong, it lifted the hem to reveal nearly the entire length of one leg high up above its sheath of nylon. Heart thumping, Roger swallowed audibly and gripped the rail.
Simultaneously he was aware--acutely so--that other men were directing surreptitious glances at Vicky's torso, clearly silhouetted as she bent low. Anger and pride struggled for expression, and if things were not going so calmly between them--as compared with earlier in the day--he might have punched a few noses. As it was, though, he decided to let well enough along.
"Happy, dear?" he asked.
Vicky nodded. "Mmmm, nice."
He brushed his lips against her hair. "About this morning, uh, I want to apologize. I behaved like an ass."
"It's all right."
"But it wasn't. I was acting stupidly and I ought to be man enough to admit it. Hell, it was just a misunderstanding. I had the crazy idea you didn't really want to come."
"I didn't." Vicky smiled.
"Didn't? But what..."
"Oh, I'm glad I'm here. Anything is better than New York in the summer. But there was no misunderstanding. The last thing I wanted was to get on this boat today. So for once you did know what I was thinking." She laid a hand on his sleeve. "However, that's all past and we are here."
Relief flooded him. For a time they did not speak, satisfied to watch the sea and its churning waves. It had been a long time since he felt this close to his wife. Could it be that at last he was coming to know her and anticipate her thoughts? It might be good to experiment. He could think about putting his arm around her waist, whispering gently into her ear and then leading her back to the cabin nonchalantly, opening the door and following her in, not turning on the lights but embracing in the dark, and piece by piece they could disrobe one another and then with the stars shining through the open porthole they would fall to the bed and lie side by side and...
"Guess who's on board," Vicky said, smashing the vision to a thousand fragments.
"Besides five hundred peasants, I can't imagine."
"An old friend of ours."
"Who?" he barked, suddenly interested.
"Patrick Doyle."
Roger's hands tightened on the rail. "Say that again."
Calmly, oh, so calmly--she repeated the hateful name.
He shuddered. "What is that lousy bastard doing here?" His voice rose at the last word, ringing out clearly. Strollers slowed down and stared curiously at his apparent distress.
Vicky shrugged. "It's not our boat, is it? I suppose the company is so careless that they just let anybody aboard. Anybody who can afford a ticket."
"But--why this boat?"
"Please," Vicky cautioned. "We're stopping traffic." Turning to a pair of sturdy schoolteachers, she murmured, "Isn't it a perfectly ghastly evening?"
Startled, the teachers were quick to agree. "Yes. Yes. If it only keeps up this way for the whole trip." Blinking, they hurried on their tweedy way across the deck.
"Take it easy, Roger. It has nothing to do with me. It's just a coincidence, that's all."
"Hah! Some coincidence." He spewed out a string of curses that touched upon the ship, the crew, the captain, the company and the illegitimate ancestry of half the passengers.
In silence, Vicky waited for his seizure to pass.
Roger ranted on. "And listen, I'm telling you. If that wife-stealing know-it-all even so much as looks at you I'll cut his goddamn throat."
"Oh, don't be angry, dear. Don't spoil everything. Just when we were getting along so nicely. Let's have a drink, hmm?"
The idea appealed to Roger. He grumbled for another moment and then looked about for a roving steward.
"Why not get it yourself?" Vicky said. "At the bar, I mean. And bring one for me, too."
He hated leaving her. But he grumped off, the purple rage still in him as he entered the jam-packed cocktail lounge. He took a place at the bar, preempting space with belligerent elbows, and stood trying to catch the bartender's attention.
"What's the matter, buddy-boy?" a husky voice intoned in his ear. "You get turned down or something?"
The source of the voice was a deliciously red full-lipped mouth that was hovering near laughter. Above it was a pair of highly amused green eyes topped by a professionally coifed swirl of copper-colored hair. The head was situated between a set of shoulders that were as naked as if in a Turkish bath.
"Don't look so scared, buddy-boy," the creature said over the rim of her glass. "I don't bite."
Roger was less scared than he was speechless. With an effort he managed to drop his eyes down to the upper boundary of the strapless gown. It reached just high enough to hide the major portions of her undeniably feminine anatomy. She actually looked as if she had been sewn into it.
"The name is Sabrina Moore--and I'm not on the make and I'm not scrounging drinks or luring men to their doom." The low-pitched voice seemed to emanate from her middle.
The bubbling anger began to cool. Although she wasn't the most beautiful woman in the world--too obviously sluttish for his tastes-- he couldn't take his eyes from her. When she talked, her lips showed an enchanting moist-ness that disturbed him.
Others were watching, he realized, but a sudden wildness gripped him. Spurred by Vicky's mention of the hated name of Patrick Doyle, it occurred to him that being seen with such a confection would in no way hurt his relationship with his wife. Indeed, a little jealousy might even help.
Let them look.
"I'm Roger Martin." The laughter in that face was infectious. "But you can call me buddy-boy. Tell me, sweet lady, are you licensed or do you free-lance?"
"I take a few chances now and then," she admitted readily. "Especially on ocean voyages. Can I buy you a drink?"
"Do I look like a gigolo?"
"Not at all. The point is that I never buy things for guys I don't like."
"And for the ones you like?"
"I buy, I give, I offer, I everything."
"You everything everything?"
"Not in a crowded barroom."
"Where, then?"
"Where, the man asks. Is he being naive?"
Roger leaned against the bar--for support. Five minutes with Sabrina Moore had as much effect on his emotions as a night with Vicky. For so long had he been accustomed to struggling, arguing, cajoling, threatening, that to be practically seduced on his feet was numbing, to say the least.
"Why me?" he said suddenly. His gesture encompassed the room. "You know, there are any number of virile males in this place. Younger than me--brawny, lusty types."
Her mouth broadened in a red smile. "Maybe I have peculiar tastes. I go for mature men. Men with black hair turning gray at the temples. Men who look like harried husbands."
"Is that what I look like?"
"Somewhat. So far you're the most interesting guy I've met on this tub. You aren't pawing me or peeking down my dress or pretending I don't even exist. You act like a grown-up, not a little boy."
She spoke with such candor that Roger felt an immediate intimacy. The girl was right, of course--he was more mature and knowledgeable of the female sex. Didn't he possess one of the most desirable women in New York as a wife? And his gray hair--well, that was no hindrance, not to a person as discerning as this one. It was likely that she was forever being pestered by oafish attempts to pick her up. He had played it just right by letting her pick him up. That always made a man more interesting to women.
Roger took a deep breath. If Vicky wanted to play with fire, okay, he'd give it to her. Right now. Sure, she was waiting for him to reappear with the drinks. Well, let her wait.
"This place," he said, "is getting on my nerves. Shall we head for my cabin and finish our booze there?"
Had he told Sabrina Moore that she had just won the Irish Sweepstakes, he couldn't have achieved a more intriguing effect. The corners of her mouth curled, her eyes melted and she hunched her naked shoulders cozily. She winked, poked out a damp lower lip and nodded once.
"I'll follow you," she whispered. "Ten minutes?"
He gave her the cabin number and left on unsteady feet. At the door he glanced back for one more look. From this distance he could see all of her, perched upon the barstool with one high heel hooked over the rung. The other leg rested on the floor, the dress painted skin-tight to her thigh. And with a shiver of anticipation, Roger whirled around and started toward the cabin.
"Did you tell him?" Patrick Doyle asked quietly as he approached Vicky Martin at the rail.
"Of course. He reacted just as you said he would. Says he's going to stick burning bamboo under your fingernails. Or shave off your mustache. Or both."
"A fiend, no doubt. Poor fellow. Did you have any trouble making the boat?"
"Hah! He talked himself into it." Vicky turned to him with spuriously innocent eyes. 'But doesn't it get tiresome to be so right all the time?"
"Not when I'm right about you, my dear. You look positively lovely tonight--as usual."
"Patrick," she said with lips scarcely moving, "you are such a rat. A prime rodent, if ever there was one. I don't know why I let you talk me into things like this."
"Don't you know? I'll tell you. First..."
"All right, all right." She looked around hurriedly. "This ship is simply crawling with busybodies. Can't we go somewhere and be alone? To my cabin?"
"Not there, Vicky."
"Why not? Roger is at the bar and I suspect he'll be there for the rest of the night."
"Not quite correct. If I judge right"--Doyle checked his watch--"he should be in the cabin about now. And I don't think our entry would be propitious."
"What are you talking about?"
The auburn hair framed the cream-colored face, enhancing the glistening lips and the flashing eyes. Her hands intertwined nervously as if she were having difficulty keeping them away from him. A deep breath made her agitated bosom rise.
Doyle lit a cigarette and flicked the match into the breeze. "You know I never do things haphazardly. As I'm well acquainted with Roger's ridiculous jealousy, I decided to hobble him for a while. Not unpleasantly, I might add."
The breeze caught at Vicky's perfume and wafted it to his nostrils. Her husband wouldn't have recognized her face now. It was full of concern and love and desire--things that the poor fool had rarely if ever seen there. The pink tip of her tongue slid over her lips in delicious bewilderment.
"Oh, it's not such a puzzle," Doyle explained. "There's a girl involved. Roger's captor is a tasty little package who will help him be taken off your neck." Then he added, "And mine."
"You are an insufferable, egotistic..."
"In that case I'd better go."
"Don't you dare. At least not without me, you monster. Where is your cabin?"
"Tsk, tsk. I think you already know where it is. Let me pick you up a jug of moonshine. I'll join you there."
A quarter of an hour later, Patrick Doyle opened the door and went into his cabin. There were no lights on; sole illumination came from the porthole.
"Vicky?"
"Mmmmmm..." It came from the bed.
It took a minute or so to adjust his vision to the gloom. When he did so, he made out a pale form lying on the turned-back sheets. Silently he took off his clothing. Then, carrying the bottle, he moved to the bed and stood over it.
Now he was able to see plainly every detail of the woman as she looked up at him. The lidded eyes, the parted lips, the dark points of bared breasts, the swift slope of the ribs, the breathtaking beauty of the geometric juncture of the white thighs.
He knelt on the bed. Holding the bottle high, he drank and then set it on the floor.
"It's been a long time, Patrick. Have you been deliberately avoiding me?"
"Not deliberately. I have other charges, you know."
"Uh-huh. Haven't you even missed me?"
"At times. How have things been with Roger? I must confess to an occasional twinge of guilt about that."
Her hand reached out, seeking him. "You should," she said. "If it weren't for the fact that he gives me everything I could possibly want --except that special kind of love--I would have left him long ago. Why did you ever sic him on me?"
"So that I would always know where you were." Doyle's body went taut. "I know where you are now, though."
"What burned me up," she breathed, "was that you knew me inside and out--better than I knew myself. You had no doubts that I would stick it out and wait for your phone calls. The calls that came so seldom. Oh, Patrick..."
Doyle's knees gave way and he sank beside her. His skilled hands traveled swiftly over the body he knew so well, finding the weak points, the sensitive spots that were so familiar to him. If he chose to, he could reduce her to a panting, limb-thrashing thing in a matter of minutes, eager to obey his slightest suggestions. But tonight that was not his wish. During the day his imagination had directed his wants into other, more leisurely channels. Vicky had been on his mind for quite a while.
He kissed her mouth gently and then moved his head so that his lips brushed over the hills of flesh that were her incomparable breasts. As though invisible wires were drawing him on.
The youthful body quivered as he kissed her again and she clutched at him frenziedly. His skull was thundering with that peculiar artillery which came upon him at times like this. He played sensuously with her bare feet for a moment. Then he bent and lightly sucked her girlish toes, one after the other--adoring the new spasms and squirms this created throughout her body, and further incensed by the moist-lipped look of torture on her lovely face. And now the look of unbearable urgency as his hands snaked to the revealing patch of moisture at the crotch, and he realized what agony he was brewing for her. Vicky pitched and writhed about on the bed, staring at that bloom of affirmation between his legs that seemed to burst out of the tightened skin. He crouched over her body and stared down at it, his eyes agleam with exultant rediscovery as he prized this garden of curving mounds and dips.
"Oh, you delicious animal!" his voice hoarse and low, his hands about her waist and sliding tentatively downward along her hips, fingers fanning inward to meet at the center, gliding past her navel, tracing the taut softness of skin at Vicky's pelvis. Then lower, filtering through the silky red foliage, one hand gently rounding into a fist as it reached the damp and dimpled heat of her cunt, furrowing softly in against the opening, watching as her lips blossomed into a fully womanish smile.
Vicky let out a choked and wretched cry, panting and half-sobbing for some deeper touch from him, her pulse pounding out like the spitting flames of a fire, and she slid down and flung her legs about his neck; and rammed his face and mouth fully in against her seeping and throbbing passage, wanting to be fucked by the lunging prowling mouth of him, wanting to come on that tongue of his, that tongue that she heatedly remembered so well...
Now she rolled and groaned as his tongue sought and dipped inside that dark and cuddly-warm chamber, gasping anew as his lips formed the soft healing succulent kisses and sucks.
Kissing, licking... ahhhh! "Eat it, darling!" she screamed.
He lifted his head for a split second and tongued some of the woman-oils from his lips. Before his head went back down, he tossed her face another glance, detecting the native-need it expressed, feeling the ripening head of his cock growing more tremulous with urgent signals as he moved it closer to the heat of her body. Vicky rose in bed and reached out for it. The straight and muscular and staunch cock neared her lips, and she moistly parted them, letting the juice-filled fleshy pulser lunge softly in against her tongue until it filled and crowded her mouth, and Patrick Doyle groaned aloud with the tender wet furnace-feel of her lips, tongue, mouth and throat.
Her sucking drew him in, and his mouth formed a newer coil of passion on her cunt, swabbing deep inside her, drawing deep loud breaths as he sucked her out and blew her in.
Vicky inhaled deeply and her stomach sank shallow with it. A nipple burst to its hard breaking point as one of his hands worked between their bodies at it. And the taste of his cock was setting loose a million goose-bumps on her arms and shoulders and as she shivered, the sounds of the double mouthings seemed to electrify the room. Vicky milked at it with her tongue, fusing it with her own fever, swallowing at it, crushing more of it into her mouth. She squirmed with every upward motion of his tongue. The meaty gob inside her mouth seemed to have a fist of its own, clenching and unclenching, pulsing and un-pulsing. When he slid it slowly out of her mouth, she ran her fingers along the shank of it, up and down, up and down, under his balls, weighing them against her chin. Her legs stiffened, relaxed, stiffened again, but the inner thighs always remained soft, weak under his never-ending lickings. The room raged in passion flames that singed at her now-closed eyes, her salivating tongue pressure-cooked under the heat of his prick, greedily sucking, guttural moans escaping out of the back of her throat, murmurs, moans of pleasure, sweetened with her mad WANT of ALL of him.
Patrick Doyle lifted the sauce-basted meal closer and tighter against his now-drenched mouth. His head swam in the sea of her, filled within with squashy thoughts of flesh, lust, inner-cunt insanity, sucking at the wet, warm, moist nectar, nourishing on it, wanting to scream into it and thus blow her bones apart.
Down... down... down down down, into the cave where thick liquids seeped out of the walls. Together their brains and bodies exploded in a glorious spasm... and after-spasm, orgasm and hiccuping little orgasms.
Patrick removed himself from this ancient prison of flesh, got up and walked to the opposite side of the cabin, his cock dangling as if stunned and dead. His manicured nails played on the skin of a plum, plucked from a bowl on the bolted-down table. Vicky watched him with freakish, urgent eyes. His sidelong glance came back at her, and she didn't know if he were completely spent or not. Oh, no, not the Patrick Doyle she remembered! He rolled his head back and dropped the small plum in his mouth. HE closed his teeth on it and the fruit washed the woman-taste from his mouth.
His enormous sex-appetite always took control at times like this. Feeling enveloped and yet not in any way used; surrendering but still retaining command. Where he did lose control was in the manner in which his five senses took precedence over his intelligence. For he could not see and hear and touch and smell and taste enough. More, more and more. And still more. He moved to the bed and took her in his arms.
Muscles strained, nerve-ends jumped. As if from a long way off, he heard her lip-biting cries. Sounds of joy. He felt her nails scrape lightly over him.
She had not changed. Everything was the same, the feminine fragrance of her, the sweetness of her flesh, the wild noises from her mouth. He wondered how he had had the temerity to farm this perfect creature almost out of reach, taking the chance that she might one day refuse to recognize his eminent domain.
Such a marvelous woman!
Doyle was molten now, his entire being concentrated into his effort, each nerve alive and awake, sensitized to her touch, the satiny brush of her body. In the darkness he could see her-- as he had seen her so often in the past--as through a camera lens with a distorted perspective. And there was no other way that he might have preferred to see her. Even with his eyes closed, she was a vision of pure loveliness.
Inexplicably, his nimble mind abruptly focused upon another woman on the boat. A girl, rather--a very young girl. How would Tricia Goode look through such a lens.
"Patrick... ah..."
It gave him a pang of contrition. This was not time to be thinking of others. Not when this paragon of aroused pulchritude was right here with him. It wasn't fair to her. Or to himself. Nor was it in keeping with his expert technique.
From the parted lips came more sounds. Unintelligible; and yet he easily interpreted them as impatient invitations. Patrick Doyle shifted his frame, caressed the jeweled baubles of her breasts once again and then--forthrightly--attended to her in a much more active and powerful way.