Jonathon, feeling guilty, quickly looked away. But Lydia didn’t see that. She wasn’t watching his face. Her eyes had fallen to the tabletop, where they seemed captivated by Jonathon’s hands — big, masculine hands, well manicured. There was strength in those hands, she noted appreciatively, even though they were folded now. She watched them rubbing together slowly, as though the man were anxious to get hold of something substantial. Another rush of heat flooded up from her loins, and to her surprise, a wild and crazy fantasy forced its way into her mind: She pictured herself, laid out like a naughty child across Jonathon Alda’s lap, her skirt bunched up around her waist. The light blue panty briefs he had revealed in raising her skirt, now strained to contain her plump, wobbly cheeks while
