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Close Call

Robert Leslie Bellem

THE summer night was warm. Fairmount Park was dark. Bill Clifford's roadster was speedy.

Bill Clifford's fingers were speedy, too. He drove with his left hand. With his right, he fumbled at the low neck of Connie Compton's white silk frock. Connie never wore a brassiere, summer or winter. The firm globes of her breasts were twin unconfined arches of warm flesh ending in tiny, circular pink crests. Bill's free hand pressed daringly against them. First through the silk of Connie's frock. Then against naked flesh.

Connie stood it as long as she could. Then she pushed him away. "No more, Bill. You've gone far enough."

He turned and faced her for a brief instant. "Do you know what you are, Connie? You're a little blonde teaser. You let me do things that drive me nuts. And then you shut down on me as though I were poison." Bitterly he returned his attention to his driving.

Connie stretched out her long, lithe legs under the instrument-panel of the roadster. "I'm still remembering that bet."

Bill Clifford flushed. "You'll never forgive me for that, will you?"

"I might. But not tonight."

"Why not tonight? In what way is tonight different from any other night?

Connie grinned. "Had you forgotten? This is the last night of the bet. When I first came to work as a steno at the Hercules Insurance office, you? along with a lot of other high-powered salesmen there—decided that I was just another dame. Being the office Adonis, you figured that you'd make me without any trouble. I happened to overhear you making a bet with one of the other salesmen. You said you'd have me in your bedroom before thirty days were over. You laid a twenty-dollar wager on it."

Bill Clifford groaned. "But Connie—I've told you I called the whole thing off! Damn it, girl, I've actually fallen in love with you! I want you to ma...

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