There had been times when Caron actually wondered if she'd be able to make it. She felt like one of those Vietnam POWs, returned home after years in a prison cage, faced with a totally new world that had been created during her absence.

Or was that being a little extreme? I do have a tendency toward dramatics, she thought reprovingly. And I haven't been away. I've been here all the time. Just trying to cope. Well, the trying is over.

She looked out the window. Paul's car was pulling into the driveway. Caron smiled, reached under the bar for a bottle. When he came through the front door she had his drink already prepared, just the way he liked it – lots of bourbon and a few drops of water, poured over two ice cubes. Beside it, her own campari and soda.

"Hi," she said, "you did want a drink, didn't you?" And then she moved around the bar and glided into his arms and for a long time neither of them even thought about a cool drink. His tongue was in her mouth and he held her by the smooth rounded cheeks of her ass, pulling her body tightly against his own, so tightly she could feel every pulsation of excitement as it began to stiffen his prick inside his pants. Caron sighed and wrapped one leg around him. She was wearing a beach robe, with her favorite string bikini underneath, and the fabric was tight across her high set crotch. Each time she moved against Paul, his pecker stiffened a little more and exerted a sweet prodding stimulation against her crotch. We may, she told herself, forget about the drinks altogether. She peeled back his coat as she kissed him, rubbed her hands up and down his ribs. He had a good body, but why shouldn't he? He was only a child – twenty-five, in his first year of law practice. She'd be thirty next August and she felt delightfully like the older woman in a Colette novel, bringing the joys of sensuality to a blossoming youth. It wasn't exactly the case, but she liked to imagine that it was. Every little delight helped.