Every touch was like a jolt of lightning coming out of his fingertips. His head rose from my bosom and our lips met once more. I opened my eyes and sa... his were shining like the sun in the sky. His hand was slowly tracing further up my skirt. I felt myself dripping in my pretty white French knickers. His fingers started to stroke the soft material. The pressure inside my thighs was building, I was moaning more rhythmically now. Suddenly I felt a rush of warmth on my lady garden. Scott had slid. Well, something of a cross between a construction worker, a logger, and a miner. He was big, massively big. His hands were rough, calloused, and he saw evidence of scars on one hand. His face was square, creased, burned brown like many of those who worked outdoors on job sites or on horseback all day. He wore obviously expensive clothing, but it was what a rancher dressed for a formal occasion might wear: heavy twill slacks and a plaid-patterned Pendleton wool shirt. He wore a western string. More

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