Confess, Fletch

Twenty-five

It was just past five o’clock in the afternoon and Fletch was sleepy. The drinks with Flynn had unwound him.

He said good night to Mrs. Sawyer, had a bowl of her stew, and, despite the hour, crawled into bed.

It was midnight, Rome time.

“Flesh, darling.”

Someone was nibbling his ear.

A long, cool body pressed against his. A nipple grazed his forearm.

It was a fuller body than Angela’s. Much.

A leg stroked the back of his own legs. Up and down.

“Sylvia!”

Even in the dark room, there was no mistaking the tousled hair of his step-mother-in-law-to-be against the pillow.

“Jesus Christ, Sylvia!”

“It’s too late, darling.”

She slipped her right hip under his.

“You read in the Bible, ‘They knew each other in his sleep?’”

“This is incest!”

“So was that, darling.”

She was fully under him, her hips moving.

Her breasts were back-breaking.

“God!”

It was too late.

There was only one thing be could do to prevent either one part of his body, or another, from breaking.