She'd held on to the ruse right up until the night she caught Larry with the boys' math tutor in the cargo area of the minivan. In her own driveway, for God's sake! Larry's bare ass was a ghostly white in the glow of the streetlights as it moved up and down. Up and down.

Right there and then, as Ginger watched her husband of eighteen years porking a college coed, her delusions were history. So was her marriage.

Ginger took in a shaky breath, counting backward, adding up all the months of disconnection and, then, separation. Could it be that she'd gone without a man's loving touch for years? She laughed bitterly. She'd been deprived. She'd become empty. And now she was starving.

Her fingers pushed up the hem of her skirt. With her eyes closed, she reveled in the feel of the night air on the exposed skin of her inner thigh. How would it feel? What would the sensation be like if, just now, Lucio Montevez were to come to her, kneel in the grass at her feet like the sexual panther he was, stretch her thighs wide and hook them over the armrests of this old Adirondack chair and touch her, wet and silky and so very, very needy.

Ginger sought out the satiny crotch of her panties and pushed it aside. Her fingers were immediately drenched in juices. Her own wetness startled her. Her legs trembled. She took one last fortifying sip of wine, and, with eyes still closed, she set the goblet on the grass. Her mind reeled. Her body was greedy.

It was well past midnight. The ranch was silent. Only Mrs. Needleman and the women in the bridal party had stayed overnight. She was hidden under the shadows of the old live oak. No one would see.

So Ginger did it. She reached under her bottom and yanked off her panties, tossing them to the ground. She took a deep breath and imagined him right there, on his knees before her. He would spread his big hands over the tender flesh inside her thighs and pull her open. He would lower his mouth to her.