"When are you going to realize that there is no such thing as a 'your problem,' or a 'my problem,' but only our problem."

"Okay," Creagon said, giving his wife a smile that made his blue eyes twinkle, "which of 'our' jointly-owned problems is now giving you trouble?"

"Oh, it's not really trouble," Marne said with a sigh. She scooted up on the bed beside her husband, shifting to a sitting position that was more 'against' him than beside him.

Creagon, in turn, leaned over his wife and dropped his business papers on the bedside stand. Whatever decision he made about his firm, he wasn't going to make it right now. When Marne was so close, it was hard to think about much of anything except the swollen cock at his crotch.

"Come on, let's hear it," Creagon encouraged.

"I was just thinking about John."

"Your brother John?"

"He's changed, you know?"

"Changed? How?"

"Don't play like you don't see it," Marne said, turning her face to her husband, giving him a perturbed little smirk. "I realize you haven't seen all that much of John between his marriage and now; but, I think he's changed enough so that even a casual acquaintance could see it, let alone a member of the family."

"So, he's changed," Creagon said, moving his fingers through his wife's red-brown hair, secretly marveling at the way the silky strands sensuously poured through his fingers. "Everybody changes, thank God! It prevents boredom. And, besides, as far as I'm concerned, your brother's change has been one hundred percent for the better. He's the proof of the pudding that the Army can still 'Make a man.' If I remember correctly-and don't get me wrong for a moment, since I always did like your brother-he was just a bit of a milksop when my dear sister married him."

"Yea, he was, wasn't he?" Marne said, certainly ready to agree. Marne had always been a bit worried about her brother in those early days. She had been so worried once that she had even tried to seduce him herself. And, hadn't poor John been horrified by that encounter? Marne smiled, wondering if John even remembered, or if he had filed that memory away in some convenient little cubbyhole of his subconscious.