I have to get something else on, even though Larry's been too nice to say anything about the disgraceful way I look, she told herself; but somehow she couldn't summon up the energy to move from her prone position. At last, just as she spotted her husband's friend returning with towel and Merthiolate bottle in hand, she reached up to pull the afghan throw rug from the back of the sofa over her exposed loins. The violet and blue shawl, which she'd crocheted herself from an easy-to-sew pattern composed of more empty spaces than threads, made her feel less obscene without hiding any of her sensual charms.

"Now how am I going to get at that cut with that blanket over you?"

Larry flicked away the flimsy token of modesty and with an eagerness he tried to disguise ran his hand over the satin smoothness of the girl's wounded upper leg. Kneeling down so close to the sofa that he could detect the heady, feminine odor emanating from her blonde hair-trimmed pussy, he began to dab methodically at the angry red scratch with a dampened washcloth. At the same time, he placed an unnecessary hand upon the taut plane of her girlishly flat belly. Beneath the thin apricot-colored nylon, he could feel her muscles first quiver, then grow tense, at the unexpected contact.

She's a hot little bitch, he thought. I'm sure of it. The question is, is she hot enough that I can get her turned on even when she's all upset about her husband's accident? Well, I damn well intend to give it a try! And I do know a few tricks for getting broads into the sack!

A half-forgotten conversation he'd had with the blonde's husband flashed into his memory, making him pause for a second with the antiseptic bottle poised in the air above Sandi's full-fleshed thigh. They'd been standing on the side of the track, over by the bleachers, and watching the buxom blonde he'd set Verne up with saunter across the field toward them.