Fancy Pants (Wynette, Texas #1)(140)

Was he right? She chastised herself. Of course he was right. This kind of sexual chemistry was just like a brushfire —it burned hot and quickly, but had no real staying power. Once again she was making too big a deal out of sex. Dallie was acting completely casual about the whole thing and so should she. This was a perfect opportunity to get him out of her blood without losing her dignity.

They walked the rest of the way to the farmhouse in silence. When they got inside, he performed all the rituals of a host—hanging up their jackets, adjusting the thermostat so the house would be comfortable, pouring her a glass of wine from a bottle he'd brought in from the kitchen. The silence between them had begun to feel oppressive, and she took refuge in sarcasm. “If that bottle has a screw top, I don't want any.”

“I took the cork out with my very own teeth.”

She repressed a smile and sat down on the couch, only to discover that she was too nervous to sit still. She got back up. “I'm going to use the bathroom. And, Dallie... I didn't—bring anything with me. I know it's my body and I consider myself responsible for it, but I didn't plan to end up in your bed—not that I've actually made up my mind about that yet—but if I do—if we do—if you're not better prepared than I am, you'd better tell me right now.”

He smiled. “I'll take care of it.”

“You'd better.” She gave him her most ferocious scowl, because everything was moving too quickly for her. She knew she was getting ready to do something she would regret, but she didn't seem to have the willpower to stop herself. It was because she'd been celibate for a year, she reasoned. That was the only explanation.

When she returned from the bathroom, he was sitting on the sofa, with one boot crossed over his knee, drinking a glass of tomato juice. She sat at the opposite end of the couch, not pressed up against the arm exactly, but not cuddled next to him, either. He looked over at her. “Jeez, Francie, I wish you'd loosen up a little bit. You're starting to make me nervous.”

“Don't give me that,” she retorted. “You're as nervous as I am. You just hide it better.”

He didn't deny it. “You want to take a shower together to warm up?”

She shook her head. “I don't want to take off my clothes.”

“It's going to be pretty difficult—”

“That's not what I mean. I'll probably take off my clothes—eventually—maybe—if I decide to—it's just that I plan to be already warmed up before I do it.”

Dallie grinned. “You know what, Francie? This is sort of fun, just sitting here talking about it. I almost hate to start kissing you.”

So she started kissing him instead, because she absolutely couldn't stand to talk anymore.

This kiss was even better than the one by the side of the road. Their verbal foreplay had put them both on edge and there was a roughness about their caresses that seemed exactly right for an encounter that was absurdly foolish for both of them. As their mouths pressed together and their tongues touched, Francesca once again had the sensation that the rest of the world had drifted away.

She pushed her hands beneath his shirt. Within seconds, her sweater was off and the buttons on the front of her silk blouse opened. Her lingerie was beautiful—lace shells of oyster silk cupping her breasts. He peeled back one of the shells to find her creamy nipple and suckle it.

When she couldn't stand it anymore, she pulled his head up and began a relentless attack on his bottom lip, tracing the curve with her tongue, gently teasing it with her teeth. Finally she slipped her fingers along his spine and pushed them inside the waistband of his jeans. He groaned and pulled her to her feet, then stripped down her slacks and slipped off her shoes and stockings. “I want to see you,” he said huskily, freeing the silk blouse from her shoulders. The fabric felt like a caress as it slid down over her arms.

Dallie caught his breath. “Does all your underwear look like it belongs in a high-class strip show?”

“Every bit of it.” She rose up on tiptoe to take a nip at his ear. His fingers toyed with the two little strings on her hip that held the tiny silk triangle of her panties in place, leaving the curve of her thigh bare. Goose bumps slithered over her skin. “Carry me upstairs,” she whispered.

He slipped his arm under her knees, lifted her, and held her close to his chest. “You don't weigh as much as a full bag of clubs, honey.”

His bedroom was large and comfortable, with a fireplace at one end and a bed tucked beneath a sloping ceiling. He laid her gently down on the spread and then reached toward the delicate ties at her hips. “No, no.” She pushed his hand away and pointed toward the center of the room. “Take it off first, soldier.”

He looked at her suspiciously. “Take what off?”

“Your clothes. Entertain the troops.”

“My clothes?” He frowned. “I was sort of thinking you might want to do that for me.”

She shook her head and leaned back on one elbow, giving him her witchiest, bitchiest smile. “Strip.”

“Now, listen here, Francie—”

Lifting a languid hand, she once again pointed toward the center of the room. “Do it real slow, good-looking,” she purred. “I want to enjoy every minute.”

“Aw, Francie...” He looked longingly toward the twin shells over her breasts and then lower to the small silk triangle. She moved her legs slightly apart to inspire him.