She had presented herself to him cool, shapely and desirable, her body ready to gratify the master of the house in any way he might desire. And yet his weathered old hands did not demand, did not hurry, did not even grope as she would have thought. Instead they clung to her gratefully, one splayed with a calmly clutching, almost reverent possessiveness across the sweet swell of one bare buttock, and the other twined happily into the heavy dark tresses up under the back of her head. Oh, how he held her! She sensed the depths of his need, and felt his trousers stiffen against her bare thigh, and yet his embrace was tender somehow, flatteringly appreciative.
At last, shivering, McEvers pulled his flushed face back and gazed down into the girl’s long-lashed, dilated eyes. “Oh, Rachel,” he bre
