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It wasn’t the lemonade stand itself that caught my attention, quaint as it was. What kid sells lemonade anymore? It was the girl watching the kids running it. Although I couldn’t really call her a girl. She could have been 16, but her curves clearly had woman written all over them. Curves that her pretty white top and cut jean daisy dukes didn’t make any effort to hide. She was bending over to pick a toppled pile of paper napkins from the lawn, and from where I was walking on the other side of the street, I had a good view of her smooth, tanned thighs. I had a sudden mental image of my hands parting those thighs, my tongue travelling from behind the back of her supple knee to the spot where her moist folds waited, plump and inviting. The voice of one of the little girls brought me back to reality. “But there’s no one buying!” I could hear the unshed tears.

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