Larry Johnson stood beside the Smith's white imitation-leather sofa, a bottle of Johnny Walker in one hand and a towel filled with ice cubes in the other. His usually self-assured, darkly handsome face was twisted into an uncharacteristic caricature of confusion as he gazed down at the lifeless form of his best friend's unconscious wife, and though he made a brief effort to concentrate on his injured partner who lay paralyzed from the waist down in a Kansas hospital, his granite-grey eyes gradually began to shoot out sparks of lust.

When he'd lifted Sandi Smith's limp body in his arms and carried her in from the doorstep to the living room couch, her transparent orange nightgown had bunched up around her slender waist. Now, as she lay sprawled on her side, her ripely-rounded, snow-white buttocks were completely revealed to his ardent gaze. One full firm breast swelled out over the edge of the couch cushion, and the young motorcyclist had to fight back an impulse to lean down and gently lick its satin-skinned, ruby-tipped surface.

"Jesus Christ," he muttered under his breath, taking a quick gulp of the whiskey with which he'd intended to revive the stunned young wife. Then, without allowing his eyes to leave the tantalizing spectacle spread out before him, he poured some of the amber liquid into a glass and set it on the glass-topped coffee table. In a moment he'd give it to her – but first he'd allow himself to feast his eyes upon the sensual but forbidden female flesh of his buddy's wife.

Whoever would have thought that Verne's goody-goody wife ran around the house in a get-up that even his own uninhibited wife Clare would have thought a bit risque? It just didn't go along with the prissy way Sandi had of wrinkling her nose and frowning when someone told an off-color joke, or the shocked looks she'd shot at Clare when the older girl had come over one hot afternoon in a skintight T-shirt sans brassiere.