"What do I need, since you're such an expert on the subject?" she challenged hotly.
He pulled her hair, more gently now, forcing her head down onto his shoulder while the music played on, forgotten. "You need to be dragged into a man's bed and loved all night long. That's what you need."
"Not with you," she protested, pushing against his hard chest. "You've got a woman already!"
He wouldn't let go. "I have?"
"Of course," she grumbled, pushing harder. "The one we're remodeling you for, remember? The one who's too stuck up to like you the way.. .you are.. .will you let go of me, damn it!" She stood still, hating the slow, sweet stirrings of her own body as he held her and she felt his heartbeat merging with her own.
His chest rose and fell with gathering speed, and the hand holding her long hair released it and began a caressing motion.
It dawned on her that the music was still playing, a sultry tune that only made more dangerous an already flammable situation.
"Dance, don't fight," he whispered deeply. "Don't fight me."
Her legs were trembling as he drew her into a rhythm that was more like making love to music than dancing. His hard thighs brushed her own and never in her life had she felt weaker or more vulnerable.
"I'm afraid." She didn't know that she'd said it out loud, or that Carson's pale blue eyes glittered like diamonds when he heard her.
"Yes, I know,” he breathed into her hair. His fingers slid between hers caressingly. "I won't hurt you."
Her nails pressed unconsciously against his chest and he stiffened. She frowned, drawing back so that she could see his face. What she found there disturbed her.
His nostrils flared, his jaw clenched. "No, you aren't the only one who's vulnerable," he said curtly.
Her fascinated eyes searched his. Her rebellious hands liked his visible reaction to them. They opened the top button of his shirt, and his breath caught, but he didn't make a move to stop her.
Her lower lip trembled. "I... Carson?" she whispered questioningly.
"Go ahead," he breathed. "Do it."
"But..."
His open mouth touched her forehead. "Do it."
He was trembling already. By the time she fumbled open the shirt and eased the edges aside, his quickened breathing was visible as well. Fascinated, she put her hands flat on the hair-roughened flesh and began to caress him with slow, tentative movements. He seemed to like what she was doing, if the intent hardness of his expression was any indication.
She slid her hands around to his muscular back and laid her hot cheek against his bare skin and closed her eyes. He smelled clean and sexy, and she drew her cheek, then her lips, against his body with dreamy motions.
His fingers tangled in her hair and turned her face, so that her mouth was against him.
"Kiss me," he whispered. "No, honey, not like that. Open your mouth and do it. Yes," he groaned unsteadily, and his hands grew rough. "Yes."
She drew her mouth over every hard inch of his chest, up to his shoulders, his throat, his chin. But even on tiptoe, she couldn't reach his mouth.
"Carson," she moaned protestingly, tugging at his thick hair.
"Do you want my mouth?" he whispered.
"Oh, yes," she whispered back. She moved her body against his slowly. "Oh, yes, I want it very, very much!"
He bent and touched her lips with his, savoring them for a few taut seconds until her mouth opened. His arms drew her close, his hand held the back of her head still, and the kiss became explosive and hot. He groaned as he felt her quick, fervent response to it. His hands moved down to her hips and pushed them against his, and this time she didn't protest.
Her hands worshipped him, running hungrily up his spine, to his shoulder blades, around to his hard ribs and, daringly, to the muscular stomach above his belt.
He shuddered and lifted his head. She stared up at him with dazed, misty eyes and a swollen mouth.
"Shouldn't I touch you like that?" she whispered.
"I like letting you touch me like that," he replied huskily. "Unfasten it."
She flushed. "No, I couldn't!"
He held her hands against him, tenderly. "It's my body, isn't it?" he whispered. "If I don't mind, why should you? Aren't you curious?"
She was. She'd never wanted to touch a man that way, not even Ben when she was eighteen, and the realization shook her to her very shoes.
"Mandy," he said quietly, "I wouldn't seduce you. You'd have to want it, too, before I'd go that far."
"But..."
"But what, honey?" He bent and brushed his lips across her eyebrows, her closed eyes.
"Why... are you making love to me?"
His mouth smiled. "Because it feels good. Because I've never made love to a virgin."
She drew back and studied him curiously. "Never?" she whispered.
He shook his head, smiling. "You're my first."
She felt young and shy and a little embarrassed. Her eyes fell to his bare chest and she tingled just looking at it. "You're... my first," she confessed. "I never let anyone..."
"Never let anyone what, baby?" he whispered.
"Touch me...the way you did yesterday," she said finally.
"Here?" he asked softly, and brushed his knuckles over her soft breast.
"Y...yes," she faltered. She pressed close to him, shivering a little. He made her feel the wildest hungers.
His hands smoothed down her back and around to her hips. He moved her body lazily against his and caught his breath at the rush of sensation.
"Don't faint," he teased when she stiffened. "Think of it as private tutoring, Mandy. You're teaching me to be a gentleman. Let me teach you how to be a woman."
"I'm afraid!"
"I won't force you, precious," he whispered. "I won't ever force you. Let me show you what magic two people can make. Let me show you how sweet it can be."
He lifted her gently in his arms and looked down into her hungry gray eyes while his own blazed with pale blue flames. "I've got to have more of you than this," he whispered. "I want to feel you under me, just once, just for a few seconds."
"Carson...!" she moaned against his suddenly devouring mouth.
"Sweet," he whispered unsteadily, biting at her open, pleading lips. "God, you're so sweet—"
She felt him moving, but his mouth was seducing hers, and she clung to him and closed her eyes. She knew he was taking her to the bedroom. She knew, too, that once he had her down on the mattress and could feel her body yielding under the hard pressure of his own that no power on earth was going to stop him from taking her. Despite all the promises, he was on fire for her. And she was on fire for him. It was going to happen, and she wasn't even sorry. She sensed something in him that calmed her, that made her relax and return his tender caresses.
He carried her into the dark bedroom and laid her down on the soft coverlet. His hand traveled down from her shoulder, tracing her breasts, her waist, her stomach, the long line of her legs.
"I won't make you pregnant," he promised tautly, "and I won't hurt you. Okay?"
She trembled a little as she realized what he was saying, how explosive the passion between them had become. She felt his hands easing her dress down to her waist, over her hips. There was nothing under it but her briefs, and very gently he removed those, too, so that she was nude.
"You're trembling," he whispered as one big, warm hand rested on her belly. "You've never been nude with a man, either, have you?"
"No," she managed weakly.
"Your body feels like cream, Mande-lyn," he said softly. He ran his hands over her, letting her feel their rough tenderness as he learned the soft contours of her body. "Slender, and beautiful, and soft to touch. Honey and spice and cotton candy..."
He bent and his mouth touched her stomach. She cried out, shocked by the intimacy of his lips there and by her own violent reaction to it.
"Hush, baby," he whispered in the darkness. "Hush now, there'
s nothing to be afraid of. I know what I'm doing."
"Yes, I know," she laughed shakily, "that's why I'm frightened. You...you said you wouldn't..."
"I want you," he whispered. "I've wanted you for so long, Mandy. I look at you and ache. Couldn't you pity me enough to give me one night?"
She wanted that night, too, but pity wasn't what was motivating her. She saw his head bend, his face a pale blur in the darkness and a piercing sweetness washed over her. Carson. He was Carson, and as familiar as her own face in the mirror, and no part of him was repulsive to her. She wanted him, too.
"Yes," she breathed. "Oh yes."
He seemed to freeze for a moment, and then he crushed her to him. "Let me turn on the light," he whispered hoarsely. "Let me watch you when it happens."
His hand went out before she could respond. He turned on the bedside lamp, flooding the room with light. She shrunk from him slightly in embarrassment. But he wasn't looking at her. His eyes were on the large color photograph in the ornate silver frame on the bedside table. His face paled. He reached out a hand and picked it up and stared down at the boyish face through the glass and his hand shook.
"Who?" he asked, his voice sounding dazed.
Her eyes barely focused. "It's Ben. Ben Hammack. He... was my fiance."
Chapter Six
“Your fiance?" He spoke as if he wasn't sure he'd heard her in the first place, and his eyes were riveted to the photograph.
The lovely, sultry sweetness between them had been dissipated by the stark light, and she fumbled with the coverlet, drawing it quickly over her body.
"You were engaged?" he persisted. "When?"
"Before I came out here," she faltered.
He stood up, replacing the photograph. His hand ran roughly through his disheveled hair, and she stared up at him helplessly. His shirt was still open and his mouth was faintly swollen from the pressure of the kisses they'd given each other. His eyes still bore traces of frustrated passion when they burned down into hers.
"Why didn't you tell me about him before?" he demanded. "When I asked if you'd ever wanted a man before."
She shivered at the accusation in his tone.
"It was when I was eighteen, Carson," she said, tugging the coverlet closer.
"Stop that," he growled. "I know every inch of you now, so stop behaving like a little prude. Was that a lie, too, are you really a virgin?"
"I haven't lied to you!"
"By omission!" he returned. "You never said anything about a fiance! So where is he now? Did he throw you over? Are you still hung up on him, is that it?"
"Will you calm down?"
"Calm down, hell!" he ground out, glaring at her as he fumbled to light a cigarette. "I hurt all over. How could you let me make love to you with the image of another man sitting right here beside the bed ...!"
She dropped her eyes, clutching the coverlet, embarrassed. "I was out of my head," she said miserably.
"So was I. I've never in my life wanted a woman so much. And if I hadn't turned on that damned light, we wouldn't be talking now. I'd be loving you."
The way he said it caused shimmers of sensation all over her bare body. "Yes, I know," she whispered.
"You'd have hated me for it," he added curtly.
"Would I?" she murmured.
His face hardened and he turned away from her to smoke the cigarette. "Where is he, this ex-fiance?"
She sighed and stared down at her hands, unconsciously letting the coverlet slide a little. "He's dead."
That seemed to startle him. He turned around and came back to her, sitting down on the bed beside her. "Dead?"
She drew in a slow breath. "He was killed in a plane crash, on his way to a banker's convention in Washington, D.C. It was a small plane and it crashed into a hillside. You see, they...picked him up in pieces...."
He caught her hand reluctantly, and held it firmly in his. "I'm sorry. That would have made it worse."
She nodded. Her hand clung to his. "He was twenty-three, and I loved him with all my heart." Her eyes went past him to the photograph, and Ben looked very young to her now, with his blond hair tousled and his green eyes wicked and mischievous. "He came from a very old Charleston family. We had the same background and our families were friendly. He was brilliant, cultured and he could have gone to the moon. I could hardly believe it when he asked me to marry him. I wasn't his usual kind of girl at all. I was shy and quiet and he was so outgoing—" She shrugged and the coverlet, unnoticed, slipped again. Carson's eyes dropped as she spoke, his face going rigid as he stared at the soft, exposed curves. "After he died, I very nearly went crazy. Uncle had inherited the real estate office here and the ranch, and he'd planned to resell it. But when he saw what was happening to me, he moved us out here instead. I think it probably saved my sanity. I couldn't stop thinking about the way Ben died. It was killing me."
He forced his eyes back up to hers. "That's why you didn't date," he said suddenly.
"Of course." She stared at the photograph. "I loved him so much. I was afraid to try again, to risk losing anybody else. I went out with one or two clients over the years, in a strictly platonic way. But most men won't be satisfied with just companionship, and when I realized that, I just gave up on it completely."
"Now it makes sense," he murmured.
She looked up. "What does?"
"The way you've been with me," he said quietly. "As if you were starving to death for a little love."
Her mouth trembled. "I'm not!"
"Aren't you?" He reached out, and slowly peeled the coverlet back, letting it drop to her waist. And he looked down at her creamy, hard-tipped breasts with an expression that pleased her almost beyond bearing. "You see?" he said. "You like it when I look at you."
She did. Her hands trembled as she jerked the coverlet back in place, her face red, her eyes wild. "I don't!"
"Deny it until hell freezes over, but you would have given in before I turned on the light," he said hotly. "You wanted me, damn you!"
Her eyes closed and her hands trembled, clutching the fabric. She couldn't answer him, because he was right and they both knew it.
He got up abruptly and turned away. "God, this is rich," he said, a note of despair in his voice. He paced, smoking like a furnace. "I thought it was because you were a virgin, that being made love to was new and you were learning things about me that you liked. And all the time, I was substituting for a ghost."
That shocked her. "No," she began, because she couldn't let him believe that. It just wasn't true.
"A dead man. A shrine." He seemed to get angrier as he went along. His eyes burned when he whirled suddenly to glare down at her. "Why did you let me bring you in here?" he burst out.
She shivered a little at his tone. "I don't know."
He lifted the cigarette to his lips jerkily and his eyes went involuntarily to the photograph. "You were still mourning him when we met, weren't you?" he asked. "That's why you got so mad at me when I made a pass."
"I couldn't bear the thought of another relationship," she hedged, staring down at the coverlet.
"Hell! You mean, you couldn't bear the thought of some ruffian wanting you. I didn't measure up, did I? I wasn't fit to wear his shoes!"
“Carson, no!" she said fiercely. "No, it isn't like that!"
"I'm rough and hard and I've got no manners," he ground out. "I don't come from a socially prominent family and I didn't go to Harvard. So I'm not even in the running. I never was. You've built him into a little tin god and you keep his picture by your bed to remind you that you've climbed into the grave with him, isn't that it!"
She got up, dragging the cover with her, and went to stand in front of him, her eyes wide, her heart aching. He was hurting, and she'd done that to him. All because of a past she couldn't let go of.
"Carson," she said softly, reaching out to touch his hard arm.
The muscles contracted. "Don't do it, honey," he cautioned in a dangerously soft
voice. "I'm feeling pretty raw right now."
"Well, so am I," she burst out. "I didn't want you to start pushing your way into my life, to back me into a corner! I didn't start kissing you…"
"As if you ever would have," he said quietly. His eyes were bleak, his face pale and hard. "I guess I've been dreaming. You're as far out of my league as I am out of yours. It's just as well that you aren't civilizing me for yourself, isn't it?"
Her smooth shoulders lifted and fell. "I guess so." She stared down at his boots.
"We'd better forget the dancing lessons," he said coldly. "And before you start getting the wrong idea about what happened tonight, I told you once that I've been without a woman for a while. You went to my head, that's all."
That hurt. She had to fight down a flood of tears. Her eyes lifted proudly to his. "Same here," she said curtly.
"Yes, I know that," he said with a mocking smile. He nodded toward the photograph. "Why don't you take that to bed with you, and see if it makes you burn the way I did."
She lifted her hand, but he caught her wrist and held it easily, letting her feel his strength.
It brought her to her senses like a cold shower of rain. "You can let go," she said defeatedly. "I won't try to hit you."
He dropped her wrist as if it had scorched him. "Hadn't you better put your clothes on? You might catch cold—if ice can."
Her eyes flashed at him. "I wasn't cold with you," she said fiercely.
The hasty words seemed to kindle something in him. His eyes narrowed and glittered. He reached out and caught the back of her head and before she could turn her mouth, his lips crushed down on it. He twisted her mouth under his, hurting her for an instant, before he lifted it again and glared into her eyes.
"Firecracker," he said heavily, "if you weren't worshipping a damned ghost, I'd throw you down on that bed and make you beg for my body. But as things stand, I'd say we both had a lucky escape."
He let her go and strode out of the room. Seconds later, the door slammed, and she heard his car start and roar away. The house was so still that she could hear the clock in the living room, like a bomb. Tick. Tick. Tick.
Books By Diana Palmer Page 7