She was bending over, picking out the two cans of beer, her perfectly proportioned buttocks tight in a pair of shorts shorter than the ones young Wendy Franklin had been wearing. She wore a white velour blouse and a half-bra which thrust her magnificent, globular breasts out, their upper portions clearly visible as being bare almost to her pink nipples. Seductive, that way. Her legs were the kind he never tired of running his hands along, and her back was smooth and creamy, and he could span her waist with both of his hands, flaring into thighs and hips that were invitingly succulent in their shape.

Then she straightened languidly, a beautiful feline cat, and opened the snap-tabs over the sink to catch the foam. She swiveled around, thrusting her hip out slightly, and extended her hand, which held one of the beers.

"Here, lover…"

"Not there," he replied, feeling the stirrings of sexual arousal in his gut. Damn, she could always do this to him, always, even in opening a God-forsaken can of beer. She was a walking sex machine, he thought lustily. Absolutely without scruples or restraints, and her eyes sparkled as she undulated seductively toward him, her expression of promised salaciousness, and he knew that she was primed and ready for him to make love to her. No, not to make love to; to fuck.

And that was the main difference between Gloria Talbot and Marleen Franklin, and what made Gloria runner-up in his private contest. Preston demanded a challenge, a game in which he could pit his experience and cunning against a woman's pride and virtue.