David St Martin

Loaned wife

CHAPTER ONE

As soon as she entered the room, the eyes or three of the four men moved immediately from their cards to follow her. There was a hunger in those eyes, a ravenous want held in bay only by the fact that she was the wife of the fourth man.

The only man whose eyes had stayed on his cards.

She was a beautiful woman, looking far younger than her years. Rich chestnut brown hair flowed down around a warm complected face to cascade over bare, tempting shoulders above a sleeveless, strapless rib-knit top. The top was pale yellow, contrasting to her flesh and highlighting the warmth and satiny sleekness, and her broad, pinkish nipples were clearly visible through the taut fabric.

It had always been her breasts that first caught a man's eyes. Whether the watcher was ass man, tit man or leg man, his gaze zeroed in first on her breasts, for her breasts were gorgeous.

They were firm, swelling, almost perfectly globular masses of soft, resilient flesh, jutting out in front of her, thrusting out strongly into the air. Her tilt disdained bras.

Their eyes flickered from her breasts to her waist, to that sudden, severe narrowing beneath her ribs and above the flaring womanliness of her taut hips. Her waist was slender, streamlined, begging them to test its girth with two hands that might easily close about it.

Their eyes flickered back to her breasts, then on down past the teasing swell of her prominent pubis beneath the too-tight short-shorts to the long, sleek, shapeliness of her legs. It almost seemed that her legs were too long for her – but when she walked, when she moved them, it was obvious that no one else deserved them.

Their eyes flickered back to her breasts, then upward, over the smooth flowing line of her graceful throat to her face. Her features were youthful, almost girlish, but her dark eyes and full, luscious lips gave her just an air of accommodating worldliness to make her knowing, fractionally overlong lingering of eyes cause to wonder if perhaps, she might…

"Any of you, boys like another bottle of beer, or a sandwich?"

"No. Not here. No, thanks," they all murmured in response, eyes still following hers. Did her lips part a shade more? Did the texture of that smile change from politeness to one of invitation?