I am Joanna's mother, Rachel," she laughs. "And, obviously, you have just come from my daughter's bed!" "Ah…Er, you see…" "Strange. Joan...a never mentioned you had a speech impediment," and again she surprises me with her deep, throaty laugh. "So, aren't you going to offer me some of that orange juice?" She walks to the cabinet, removes two glasses, and places them in front of me as she seats herself opposite me. I pour. What else can I do? "Well, Mrs. Combs . . ." . My eyes smolder as they meet yours, and I smile slightly, knowing all too well just what you want. I step toward you, but I do not touch you, yet. I examine the smooth skin of your forehead, the wisps of hair at your temples, the soft flesh behind your ears. You feel my breath tickle your skin, and I hear your sharp intake of breath as my lips brush your neck. Now I hold you, lightly, and you clutch at me desperately, assuring yourself of my reality. I feast on the skin on the nape of your. More

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