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Pymble watched the nearly naked girl carefully as she licked at the ice cream cone. She was gliding her soft pink tongue slowly over the confection, concentrating on what she was doing. He could see the way the edges of her tongue curled to fit the shape she was making, like a tiny, squirming animal in her mouth. She was holding the cone delicately, as if it were a flower, and her exquisitely manicured nails glistened pinkly in the pre-dusk sunlight. Suddenly she stared back at him, and her green eyes widened into a mock innocent expression, because she knew what he was thinking.
He grinned back, and sipped a little of his Scotch. The yacht lifted slightly and turned a few degrees on its mooring so that he could see out beyond the island and off to the horizon over the ocean. An evening sea breeze was rising to caress them, a warm, luxurious air in the tropical night. He turned back to the girl. She was half-reclining on the other banana lounge, and her long black hair hung down straight from the side of her head as she played with the cone. The tiny white chemise had rucked up as she moved around, and her long, perfect legs sprawled languorously, delightfully for his entertainment. He knew there was nothing under the chemise. Except perhaps for one of her perfumes. The ice cream was melting faster than she could eat it and two or three drops fell onto the globe of her breast, curling gently down into her cleavage. Pymble felt himself stirring. The chemise was one of those garments which seem destined to be ripped away in one brutal lunge by a man intent on the pleasures of the flesh--the thin straps were hardly more than strings, the front cut low, and laced almost to the hemwith loose ribbon.
The girl had beautiful breasts, quite large and firm, with a trembling tautness that allowed her to wear or not wear a bra as she fancied. The man shivered as more ice cream dribbled, no doubt continuing down past her navel. He tasted the Scotch again. Chivas Regal on the rocks. Life was good.
She stood and flicked the ice cream over the side, tired of it. Abruptly and lithely she lifted her arms and slipped the chemise up and over her head, dropping it to the deck. Without a word she launched herself over the stainless steel safety rail and plunged into the sea. Pymble knew she could swim like a fish. He watched as she cut strongly away from the yacht in an Australian crawl style. They would make love again when she came back. On the deck, with the smell of oiled teak, the jungle plant scents from the island, and the heavy, erotic perfume the girl had touched on her body.
Her breath would be hot and sweet on his neck, and she would writhe and help as he grabbed thick beach towels and pushed them under her back so that he could arch her for the most enjoyable coupling.
He tried a little more of the Scotch. The sun had kissed the horizon. The girl was swimming back, about a hundred metres away. He stood to watch. She was an exotic creature, an adept lover full of skills and tricks bordering on the decadent. He couldn't get enough of her. The ship's ladder creaked softly as she climbed on board. Her nipples were engorged, coaxed out by the cool touch of the sea. She dried herself perfunctorily with a towel, then picked up a container of sunning oil and handed it to him.
"Would you like to do this for me?"