The willowy, ivory-skinned girl who tossed herself nakedly onto Jean Blakely's bed, sensed a certain feeling of imposition at her friend's relinquishing their bedroom to them. Mark, too, had insisted and of course, her own numb old Steve had merely said "thanks". The dodo… all he was concerned with was getting a story for that lousy magazine he slaved for, not giving the slightest thought to Jean and Mark's inconvenience. Then off he goes, chasing down the utterly ridiculous tale that had brought them there. Not that she hadn't expected to be a writer's widow throughout most of their stay in Crescent Valley, but she'd had hopes that this, their first night there, would be spent together… especially following her monthly five-day abstinence because of her period.

God, she was always a lusty little hot-box right after, wasn't she? Carol Foster racily thought to herself, wriggling the naked roundness of her full white buttocks in a little sensuous undulation against the smooth satin give of the sheeted mattess. A tiny shiver of erotic delight tingled along her spine. Reflexively, she brushed her long slender fingers with a light touch over the diffused, resilient flesh of her full, white breasts, absently teasing at their tiny, ruby-like nipples until they were incited buds of sensitive hardness. He could have at least waited until morning; she'd certainly dropped enough hints all evening long. She thought this as she lay there uneasily in her aroused nakedness, the soft glow from the bedside lamp playing over the smooth curves and hollows of her young, supple body, heatedly adding to her sensual appetite.

Of course, the drinks hadn't done anything to cool her down either, especially the last two she'd had with Jean after the boys had left on their crazy, wild dog-pack-hunt. But she'd needed them; she'd been so damned mad when Steve had told her he probably wouldn't be home until morning.