Diana Palmer Texan Lovers. Diana Palmer
that.” Calhoun scowled at her. “My God, you shouldn’t use language like that.”
“What language?”
“That song Justin taught you,” he muttered, topping the staircase and heading down the hall toward her room. “It’s vulgar as all hell.”
“He didn’t say it was.”
“Of course he didn’t. He wouldn’t have taught it to you if he’d been sober. He’ll have a heart attack if he hears you singing it when he’s back on his feet.”
“Want me to teach it to you?” she asked.
“I already know it.”
“That isn’t surprising,” she sighed. She closed her eyes as he walked through the open door into her room and kicked it shut behind him. There were memories in this room, he thought angrily as he headed toward the bed. Abby, half-naked on that pink coverlet. Abby’s soft body under his against that far wall—where she’d put a bookcase. He frowned at it. The new furniture arrangement was fairly revealing. Why would she shift the bookcase there unless it bothered her to remember?
He laid her down on the bed and watched her curl up. “No, you don’t,” he murmured. “You can’t go to sleep like that.”
She yawned. “Yes, I can.”
He pulled off her shoes, and after a moment’s hesitation his hard fingers went to her skirt. He removed it and about a hundred layers of full underskirts, and then her panty hose and blouse. Under it all, she was wearing dainty pink lace briefs and a matching bra that was no cover at all over her full, firm breasts.
This, he thought as he looked at her, was a hell of a mistake. But she was the most delicious little morsel. Her body was perfect, the most beautiful he’d seen in his life. And when he realized just how innocent she was, how untouched, his body rippled with pleasure mingled with need.
She sighed then, and her eyes opened. She searched his face, watching where his gaze had fallen. “You undressed me,” she said.
“You couldn’t sleep in that rig,” he replied tautly.
“I guess not.” She knew it should bother her that he was seeing her like this, in those wispy pink things she’d been crazy enough to buy at Misty’s insistence. But if the way he was staring at her was any indication, he seemed to like what he saw.
“Do you have pajamas or a gown?” he asked after a minute.
“A gown. Under my pillow.”
He managed to make his legs move and took out a bit of material that would cover no more of her than her underwear. “You’ll freeze to death in this thing,” he muttered.
“Misty said it was a sexy outfit,” she said drowsily. She moved, her long hair framing her oval face with its delicate flush, her pale blue-gray eyes enormous as they searched the faintly blurred outline of his body. “I thought I’d seduce Ty,” she added. “He likes me.”
His face hardened. “Like hell you will,” he said shortly.
“You did that to Shelby,” she accused. “Shame on you, when Justin loves her.”
“I didn’t touch Shelby,” he returned. “I left her at her front door and went back to the dance hall looking for you.”
“I wasn’t there,” she murmured.
“Obviously.” He didn’t mention that he’d had to fight the urge to go looking for Tyler’s car in case he and Abby were parked somewhere. The thought of her with Ty made him want to do something violent.
“Justin is going to beat you up when he can stand up again,” she told him gaily.
“I guess he’s entitled.” Calhoun sighed. “I sure as hell made a mess of things.” He sat down beside her, his eyes reluctantly leaving the long, sweet line of her legs and hips and the open seductiveness of her almost-bare breasts. “Do you know how perfect you are?” he said absently.
She was suddenly cold sober. Her eyes opened wide, searching his. “Me?”
“You,” he said harshly. “From your legs to your hips to those sweet, pretty brea—” He stopped, hating his own vulnerability. “Come here.” He put the gown in her lap and drew her into a sitting position, watching the tips of her firm breasts suddenly harden. He caught his breath.
She looked up at him curiously. “What’s wrong?”
“This.” He touched her delicately, only the back of his knuckles rubbing softly against her nipples. She pulled away, her breath audible, and he lifted his head to search her shocked eyes.
She looked back at him, relaxed from the alcohol, all her deeply buried longings surfacing without the restraint of a usually protective mind. She touched the back of his hand and intertwined her fingers with his. And then she pulled gently, watching as she drew his hand across her breasts.
“Abby…” he ground out.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “About what I said that morning. About how I…reacted.” She swallowed, searching for courage. She opened his fingers and pressed them hesitantly just underneath her breast, lifting them so that he could feel the swell against his skin.
“Don’t, for God’s sake,” he groaned.
She moved his hand against her, drowning in the sweetness of his touch, arching toward it. Both her hands went there, pushing his fingers completely over her. “Calhoun,” she moaned. She felt so weak that she thought she’d have to lie down again, but she couldn’t let go of his hand.
“You aren’t sober enough,” he whispered roughly, although the feel of her was doing terrible things to his self-control. He was already going rigid with need as he followed her down.
“I’m not sober enough to be afraid,” she whispered. Her eyes searched his glittering eyes. “Teach me.”
He actually shuddered. “I can’t.”
“Why?” she asked. “Because I’m plain and unsophisticated, because I’m not blond—” Her voice broke.
So did his control. He leaned down, his smoky breath mingling with hers as his hand cupped her. “Because you’re a virgin,” he breathed into her mouth as he took it.
She moaned. It was sweet, so sweet. Nothing like that other time, when he’d been rough and hadn’t given her enough room to respond. He’d been impatient and demanding, but now he was gentle. His fingers stroked her body from her breasts to her waist to her flat stomach. His mouth teased at hers, probed it, traced it in a silence that was thick with sensual pleasure. Abby felt warm all over, safe and cared-about. She let her lips admit the probing of his tongue, admit him into the sweet darkness of her mouth. She didn’t even protest when the kiss grew much deeper, much slower, or when she felt his hand slide under her to find the catch at her back.
The air was cool on her body. He removed the lacy covering that was no covering at all, and his hands were heaven on her hot skin. She moaned, helping him, pressing his fingers against her, drawing them over her hungry body.
“Abby,” he groaned against her mouth, half-crazy with the hunger to make love to her completely, to salve the ache that was throbbing through his body.
She opened her eyes, letting her gaze fall lazily to his chest. Her hands went to his shirt, and she worked at the buttons, feeling him tense. But he didn’t protest, even though his heartbeat was shaking his big body as it lay beside hers.
“There,” she whispered when she could see and touch the thick wedge of hair that ran down to his belt. “I’ll bet women love to touch you there,” she murmured as she pressed her fingers hungrily against him.
“I’ve never let a woman touch me like this before,” he said huskily. “I didn’t like it until now.”
Her