Their crotches ground together as they embraced, and Cheryl rotated hers in a provocative twist which made his dick tremble with interest inside his pants. She pressed him more tightly to let his growing hardness caress her tight crotch, and she was certain that beneath his trousers Ed wore nothing.

"That was pretty good for a start," she admitted breathlessly, their lips parting. "But it doesn't cover the entire bill."

"What would you suggest for the next installment?" Ed worked his groin against her once more, giving Cheryl another thrilling rub with his hardening cock. She reached between his legs, her fingers testing the lumping bulge in his pants.

"This, maybe," she said thoughtfully, her fingertips seizing upon the protuberant tip and squeezing it with wanton invitation. "But, like I said, if the coast is clear."

"Let me put this in the office," he replied, "and we'll start coast-watching – in the bedroom."

She looked through the door while he took her manuscript package to his desk and placed it beside his battered Olivetti portable. No wonder he needed a professional typist to put his scripts into shape, she thought. The Olivetti looked and typed as if it had been through half a dozen wars. Which it had. Ed had carried it with him as an essential part of his field gear in Lebanon, Suez, the Congo, Cuba, and every other hot spot of the last twenty years or so. The carriage was out of line, some keys were so bent they refused to type at all, and unless he pulled on the ribbon from time to time, it refused to advance. So much the better for me, Cheryl thought. If he hadn't needed someone to type his manuscripts I'd never have met him.

It couldn't last. Ed was only renting this place for the summer. By Labor Day he'd be nothing but a memory to be stored in Cheryl Haskins' book of memories. Ah, but a whole chapter! At the very least!