In this community where pressed khakis constituted formal dress, Tess was a vision. Her hair was up and sort of puffy, with little wispy strands dangling here and there. It was soft and feminine. The rest of her was pure dynamite. Her blue sweater was soft-looking, fuzzy, and clingy enough to show off the goods without looking slutty. It was begging to be touched—and would be, if he could arrange it. Then, when she’d stood up, he’d seen the rest of the package: dark pants that hugged every long, smooth curve just right. But her clothing, apparently, was the extent of the illusion of her softness. “Okay, Nik, what do you keep looking at?” Tess asked as they approached the end of the hall. The door to the sandbox loomed ahead of them. Startled, Nik brought his gaze to her face. Before he could say anything, she rolled her eyes. “Listen, get over it. Quit pouting. And while you’re at it, quit staring at my boobs and give yourself a raincheck on the flirting.” You make me want to bay at the moon.
