"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?

She walked around the table, hips swaying just enough to be provocative, not enough to be immodest. "And what about you, master of the house?" she cooed softly. She stood beside her husband, slipping one arm about his neck and pressing the underside of one large, marvelous breast against his forehead.

"Huh?" Tom Jamison glanced up from his hand, as if just aware at that moment of his wife's presence in the room. He looked up and found himself staring at the flawless underside of one richly curved breast. "Oh, no thanks honey."

"Well, then, since none of you men are hungry or thirsty, I think I'll excuse myself and turn in. It's nearly one in the morning."

Tom put his cards face down on the table and slipped one arm around that impossibly slim waist, tugging lightly, playfully at his wife so that her tit flesh pressed and bounced off his temple. "Ready to call it a night, eh, mistress?"

It was their private little joke – he was master, she was mistress. When they'd first married, a chronological mismatch that should have teen doomed from the start fourteen years ago, they'd taken delight in shocking people with the literally accurate terms.

"You said it," she answered quietly. "Think you'll be coming to join me soon?" And to emphasize which of the interpretations she meant, she pressed the side of her torso, from gloriously swelling breast to strong, smooth thigh, against him.

"Sure, sure," he said distantly, eyes already straying back to the cards on the table in front of him and the pile of chips in the center of the green felt. "You run on in there and I'll be with you soon."