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A hum filled Lynn Shaffer’s ears as she began to arouse herself from her half-sleep. She was dimly aware of a delicious warmth which permeated her entire body, forming tiny beads of perspiration on her forehead and letting a faint dampness invade the sheltered places beneath her arms and down between her small, smoothly rounded thighs. She rolled over onto her back, vaguely conscious now of the texture of the terrycloth towel which lay beneath her, and of the sweltering sun standing high over her in the cloudless Caribbean sky.
The hum grew louder as she began to wake up. She wondered vaguely what it was, and then remembered. Of course. The Vera’s motor. Harry Johnson’s motor yacht. She thought perhaps the yacht had ceased its gently rhythmic rolling motion, a rolling that had coddled her to sleep on the deck just like her water bed at home, but then had decided it had not.
“Mmmm … Mark?” Lynn murmured quietly, and a faint smile tried to awaken her still sleeping mouth. It was a small mouth, mischievous, almost pixyish but not quite. There were a few strands of long, blonde hair stuck to the dryness of her lips, and she unconsciously pulled them away, licking her lips into life at the same time.
Fictional reading for entertainment purposes only.