Lady Be Good (Wynette, Texas #2)(92)

He paled. Was that a film of perspiration on his forehead? Poor baby. She stroked herself again. Her antics might be a little skanky, but they sure were effective. Still, as she looked up at him with half-lidded eyes, she tried to prepare herself for disappointment. Dex was an egghead, not a stallion, and he was bound to be a dud. Even so, she’d come here to settle things with him, and nothing would do that more effectively than bad sex.

He stood, and his hands went to the buttons on the cuffs of his oxford shirt. A thrill of victory shot through her as he began unfastening them.

He, however, looked displeased. “You do understand that I’m philosophically opposed to the two of us having premarital intercourse.”

His eyes were glued on her fingers as she toyed with her lacy thong. She shifted one knee a bit to improve his view. “You’ve made your opinion on the subject real clear.”

He began opening the front of his shirt. “Unfortunately, a weakness in my character is making it impossible for me to continue standing by my principles.”

“That must be real painful for you.”

“You have no idea.”

She couldn’t repress a grin.

His shirt dropped to the floor, and then one eyebrow arched in amusement. “You’re having the time of your life, aren’t you?”

She grinned, let a hand drift to her breast, and, like a male sexual fantasy come to life, caressed herself through the dress.

His earlobes turned red. Then he set his jaw in a stubborn line and crossed his arms over a lean, but nicely formed, chest. “If we have intercourse, we’re getting married.”

“Will you stop calling it intercourse! It’s f—”

“Torie . . .” His voice sounded a low, warning note. “Until we’re both naked, you’ll watch your language.”

Abandoning her porn queen routine, she threw her arms over her head and groaned. “You are such a geek!”

“Exactly. And don’t you forget it.” He set his knee on the bed, cupped her inner thigh, and then stretched out beside her. For the first time, she noticed little golden lights dancing in his eyes, as if he possessed some secret knowledge that had escaped her. She began to feel uneasy. His fingertips brushed the soft skin of her thigh.

“If, at any time, my size bothers you, please say something at once.”

Her eyes popped open.

He smiled.

She swallowed. “When you say size, Dex, you’re talking about your height, right? I mean, you’re a tall man, and . . .”

“No, Victoria. That’s not what I’m talking about.”

“Oh.” Just like that, she lost the upper hand. She tried to think how to get it back, but his gentle caresses were screwing up her brain waves.

“I’m going to kiss you now.”

She glowered at him. “Jeez, are you going to announce every damn thing you’re—”

“I want to avoid miscommunication.”

She thought about slugging him, but then his lips settled over her own.

Mmm . . . Dex did kiss nice. Her days of nicotine deprivation no longer felt like such a sacrifice as he managed to find that perfect point between dry and sloppy, with his tongue giving a delicious hint of things to come. She decided she could kiss Dexter O’Conner for hours.

And then she realized that he’d let her. Unlike her ex-husbands, Dex was a man who appreciated process, not just results, and he didn’t appear to be in any hurry to get to the main event. He stroked the inside of her mouth and let their tongues play. It was soft, sweet, and thrilling. She ran her hands over his back, his hips, appreciating the textures of him, the clean, honest scent. For the first time in her life, she felt as if she were making love with a man instead of a series of boys. Her eyes teared.

He sensed the change in her mood and drew back slightly. But instead of asking her a lot of stupid Dex-questions, he simply kissed her eyelids, then returned to her mouth.

That made the tears pour in earnest.

He drew back again. Through a haze, she saw the concern reflected in his serious, thoughtful face. “Do you need some time?”

She shook her head.

He took her at her word. He kissed her eyelids again, sipping up the moisture, then returned to her mouth. Her arms wrapped themselves around him, and she no longer felt like crying. This was too sweet to spoil with tears.

Once again, he seemed to sense her change of mood, and once again, he drew back and whispered to her. “I’m going to touch you now. Not inside your panties. Just outside.”

She felt herself nod.

He traced the little strap of moist lace between her legs. Up and down. Rubbing. Stroking. Thrilling her beyond belief.

It went on and on until she could barely stand it. Then his lips met her earlobe. “I have to take off your dress. I need to see you.”

And she wanted to show him. Oh, yes . . .

He removed her dress with an uncharacteristic clumsiness. Then he touched the clasp on her bra. “After I take this off, I’m kissing your breasts.”

Was he going to broadcast every move? “You don’t have to ask for permission.”

“Oh, I’m not.” He pushed aside the cups of her bra and gazed down at her. “Just giving you a chance to prepare yourself.”

Then he set about making her feel as if her breasts were the most precious objects on earth. He studied them, kissed, tweaked, suckled, and studied them again. “I think,” he said, “it’s time for me to take off your panties.”