She wishes he hadn't spoken. The instructions were not to speak. The concierge should have made that clear. She hears his breath catch. He's seen her....Another pause, as if weighing up the situation, coming to a decision, then the door snicking shut and a second or so later a hand on her arse cheek. The fingers are broad, strong. The skin warm and smooth. They sweep down, around to the inside of her thigh and then back up to touch her with her surprising gentleness on her cunt. They brush her. The T-shirt was lettered, "Northern Michigan University Surfing ... Superior Waves". This wasn't the first time Scooter had seen the T-shirt. She'd thought it was just a joke until she'd met Crystal's boyfriend Randy, and later her college roomie Myleigh, who explained in prissy language, "Yes, we are among a small group who are considered either demigods or certifiable lunatics for daring to surf the ice-water mansions of Gitchee Gumee." The stories Crystal told of winter storm surfing on Lake. More

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