Perspiration held the falls of her honey blonde hair against her face, adorning a deeply tanned and strong body of solid bone supporting developed musculature, wrapped in flesh as firm and thick as half-inch neoprene.
Every pore was open as if alternating extrusion of sweat beads between breaths, salinated beads that trailed each other down her admirable chest while her face beamed with a finger-painted montage of determination, focus, concentration.
Her left hand worked up and down the shaft with increasing intensity, staring into the smoothly lined and rounded face before her, worn from overwork.
Her hand moved behind the head, with ample pressure to be effective, then returned working the rigid shaft increasing her strokes with one last burst of frenzied rapidity as she recognized "Ready" in his expression.
He moved to her, eyes twinkling, riveted on hers as he extended his hand and smiled, using a husky low whisper to say, “Don’t rub all my luck from that 9-iron, because we’re two shots up and 107 yards from our first tour win.”
She moved the towel from the club, placing the grip confidently into his open hand, and pondered the job security she’d enjoy from her guy’s first win on the PGA tour.
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