Chapter Eleven
Dinner At Eight
He drives a late model SUV, which is dusty from city grime and road-dirt.
“Sorry, I should have had it washed, but there wasn’t time,” Larry Standish says as he gallantly holds the passenger door open for the wary Ms. Wingate. The interview with Melinda is only an hour old, hardly time for the fires that blazed through the meeting to cool in either of them.
Sydney sits next to the sadistic scoundrel feeling his beastly sexuality invading her, as if he has a thousand teasing tentacles undulating across her flesh. It’s a natural thing for him. He’d be like this with any woman, she rationalizes. But that’s her mind speaking; her cunt doesn’t think. It only knows what it feels, and how she responds erotically in his presence. Thinking of Melinda and the scene
