I shook my head. “It's uphill from the street, so he won't get out of his prowl car.”
“Even so,” she murmured, shoving my arm out of the way and walking to where there was a break in the wall. Steps led down to the sand and we took them, she leading the way back to the wall so that we were on the dark side, below the top level, facing the ocean across a hundred yards of sand.
She turned, got up on tiptoe and kissed the tip of my nose. “Now then, what were you saying about making babies?”
A strange sound filled my ears as I came closer to her and it was several seconds before I realized it was coming out of my own throat.
CHAPTER SIX
I've tried to make it clear that my wife Amy has a body that wouldn't quit if it were surrounded by Sitting Bull's Indians and that's a fact. I've never understood why we didn't have a house crammed with kids, because she has one of those fertile looks. One would almost believe that she'd become pregnant from a warm handshake.
So, as she leaned back against the sea wall and curved her lips in a smile that was loaded with invitation, I was a ready guy. I stepped forward and her arms snaked around my neck, her fingers playing hide and seek with the hairs where they touched my shirt collar.
“You're a sex box.” My voice was accusing.
“Guilty, your honor.”
“You get me all hot and bothered and then you announce that you've bought a new fall coat.”
“Guilty again.”
“The worst part is, you don't mind cheating this way. If the Geneva Convention ever got a look at you bare- assed they'd charge you with violations of international law. Poison gas, the hydrogen bomb, Amy Brady's bottom. They're all inhumanly effective weapons.”
She wasn't laughing, her fingers still horsing around at the back of my neck. “Talk. Is that all you do?”
“I perform too.”
“Start the performance.”
I did, leaning forward until I was flattening her against the concrete, and flattening my wife's curves isn't easy because she's pneumatic. Squeeze her one place and she produces a curve somewhere else.
I loved the feel of her breasts spreading out across my chest and, while there was still some room left, she opened my jacket so her nipples could do their dance against my shirt. I got their message loud and clear, five by five, feeling their twin rake across the skin of my chest. Her hips wiggled their way around until she had a knee thrust between mine and I didn't have the heart not to relax and let her shove deeper toward my loins.
“Gros Gott!” I blurted.
“What's that supposed to mean?” she breathed, her lips moving against mine, her tongue flicking around like that of a playful garter snake looking for a place to snap.
“German for you're loaded, sweetheart.”
“More talk,” she sighed.
I kissed her good while she tried to force her body behind me and we must have held it for a full minute. Just before we began to turn blue, I broke our embrace. “You're pretty steamed up.”
“You know how long it's been,” she muttered, kissing me on the chin and neck like a sexy burp gunner. Then she froze, pulling her head back. “What's wrong? Don't you need it?”
“Of course I do.”
She shoved me away, staring. “I wonder if you do. You were a busy little man, especially with your pat excuses. Alice in the kitchen and Trudy Pipp at home. You could have unloaded your scrotum into either one, for all I know.”
“Come on, honey…”
“Come on, my eye. I can tell when I'm hotter than you-like right now. I'm ready to swallow you like a whale taking in a minnow and you're fiddling around. Your reactions are much too slow for such a hot-blooded lover type.”
I sulked. “You spend so much time being jealous of nothing I get cooled off.”
“I've never cooled you off before,” she snapped, turning away, her arms folded over her breasts.
I followed, grasping her shoulders and holding on tightly until her head fell back against my chest. Her eyes were squeezed shut. “God damn you, Don Brady, but I've got to have you, even if it's only sloppy seconds.”
“Baby, I swear…”
“Kindly close your mouth, unless you're willing to use it for something besides talking.”
Kissing the side of her neck, I let my fingers whisper across her throat, touching every curve and hollow in that elegant place until I could feel the rasping of her breath in my fingertips. Slowly, her head rocked back and forth and her hands groped before her for a moment before coming back to feel of me and then clutch the sides of my thighs. She held on hard, digging in for what was to come.
My touch slid more deeply into her throat, into the deep divided valley of her bosom, where it was cool from the night yet warm from her passion, her internal fires making the flesh hot and dry.
I pressed on, more deeply and then up the side of one of her magnificent Alps, shoving my way toward the button at its summit. It was a squeeze, so I freed a hand long enough to locate the zipper tab at the back of her neck and slide the tab halfway to her waist. The back of her dress parted like a banana peel, freeing itself from the heaving tightness of her torso so that white skin and the firm band of a brassiere came into view. I solved the riddle of the brassiere clasp and the ends sprang from my fingers as though they'd been shot from a catapult.
I went back to the front door, into the now less confining valley and up to that seething summit, where the cherry nipple awaited me, almost beating with its own rabbit heart. I scissored it quickly and her breathing turned into a file-like rasping.
“God, turned on, turned on…” she panted.
I switched to the other bunny point and it came to life, anxious to perform any tricks I, its master, might command. Her breasts became heavier as I slid my hands to their bottoms and lifted, forcing them over the tops of the loosened brassiere cups so that they fell into the cool air of the darkness.
I went lower, across her belly, and things got too tight once again. So a second time I slid her zipper, this trip going all the way to her waist. I shoved in a route that took me over the slight curve of her belly, into and out of her navel and then into the woods that signaled the close proximity of her treasure house, that place of joy where I'd visited so many times, each time vowing to return for a longer stay.
I shoved my fingers into it and began to push, feeling her hands-which had been gripping my thighs like they were life preservers and we were aboard the Titanic-spring into life. She was pushing them between the thrusting cheeks of her buttocks and my loins, across my pouch to my fly. It was no problem for her to get the thing open and then her fingers were inside, checking out the position of my shorts, finding the slit that led to my sexual arsenal and then locating the shaft of my big gun itself.
“Ah, always at attention.”
“Oui, mon general.”
“First he makes with the German. Now he's crossed the Rhine. What comes next, Pig Latin?”
She pulled until my snake whipped out and lashed her across the bottom with its stone of a head. She flinched, her buttock cheeks quivering like they were made of hard rubber. That was my Amy-pneumatic.
Her thumb and forefinger made a delicate circle which she forced over the head, seating the ring just at the place where my flange was widest. Then the ring began to pull back and forth, stoking the furnace that was also overheating my crotch.
“You do that so well, my dear.”
“Thank you,” she purred. “Just leave the money on the bedside table.”
I had my hands roaming over the folds of her vagina, luxuriating in the glories of Pussyland, U.S.A. and she was loving it every bit as much as I. There's something to that old chestnut about mutual hands scratching mutual backs. We were cooperation personified and, before long, the fluid results were certain to manifest themselves.
