Diana Palmer - Lacy

His hands went out to her hips. In his kneeling position, he drew her roughly to his body and pressed her belly into his. He watched the shock in her eyes dilate the pupils until they were black, and he laughed bitterly as he felt her body stiffen in the blatantly intimate embrace.

“Do you feel that, Katy? Has your Chicago gangster taught you what it means?” he asked suggestively, dragging her hips slowly against the hard thrust of his to let her feel graphically the tangible proof of his desire.

Her nails bit into the hard round muscles of his arms through his brown-patterned shirt and she trembled. Her eyes were on his mouth now, because what he was showing her embarrassed her.

“I’ve seen you in your room at night,” he said his lips against her forehead, his voice husky and rough, “standing in front of the curtains to undress, your arms lifted, your breasts straining against those thin gowns you wear. And I’ve gone running into town to have a woman, to forget, to get rid of what you’ve done to me.”

“I didn’t…know,” she whispered, her voice as unsteady as his. She could feel her breasts swelling against him, even through the two thin layers of fabric. His chest was warm and hard, and she felt the cushy springiness of hair that must cover it.

“Does he make love to you, that slick gangster?” he whispered.

“Not—not yet.”

“Are you going to let him, Katy?” he asked under his breath.

“Yes!” she said recklessly. “Yes, because you won’t!”

“Oh, but I will, tidbit,” he breathed, bending. His hands slid down her hips to her waist, then up still farther to her unbound breasts. He cupped their small softness, taking their warm weight, his thumbs teasing the nipples hard. She bit back a cry, and he slid his mouth down to hers to take it into the warm darkness past his lips.

It was the first kiss, the very first one she’d ever shared with him. Her eyes closed, her head went back to give him full access. Her mouth opened hungrily, eagerly, letting his tongue probe inside, letting it tangle with her own in the hot, still darkness of the barn.

His fingers had a faint tremor now. She felt them on the buttons of her dress. She stiffened, but she didn’t stop him. This was all she’d have of him when she left with Danny. Because she was going. After this, after what she’d told him, after what she was going to do with him in this dark barn, she’d have to leave.

“You know what this is going to lead to?” he asked, his mouth poised just above her own as he found the last button at her waist.

“Yes,” she said, shaking. “I’ll be…leaving with Danny,” she told him. She would, she’d have to, because of what was going to happen now. She’d have to ask Danny to take her away, today. He would, she knew. She couldn’t tell him why, but he’d do what she asked. Meanwhile, she wanted this man obsessively. And these few minutes with him, even without his love, would last all her life. “You don’t have to love me. Just be my lover. I’ll live on it…all my life!” Her voice broke. “Because I lied. I do love you. I always have, always will. I love you, Turk!” Her voice broke as his hands moved.

“You little fool! You’re not old enough to know what love is. This is just sex,” he whispered angrily. But it didn’t feel like just sex as he pulled the fabric slowly away from her pretty pink breasts and peeled it down to her waist, his darkening eyes sensuous on the creamy flesh with its dark pink tips gone hard with desire. “And speaking of little…” he murmured, reaching out to touch the tips with warm, slow fingers, watching her body tauten and tremble, her breath indrawn sharply.

She let him lay her down, let him remove the dress and the chemise and the garter belt and hose and shoes, until she was nude under the dark warmth of his eyes and the scent of her own body filled her nostrils.

“Cole and I used to talk about women when we were overseas,” he whispered, kneeling over her as he stripped off his shirt. “He said that your grandfather was a full-blooded Comanche, and that the old man used to say that Indians could smell a woman. Now I know what he meant.” He tossed his shirt aside and reached for his belt, smiling sensually as she watched him. “Don’t turn your face away, Katy,” he said gently as he began to lower the tight jeans and shorts he wore under them. “You let me see you. Now I’m going to let you see me.”

Her eyes widened as the jeans slid away from his body…and she saw for herself the wild difference between man and woman, between male and female.

“My God, what an expression!” He laughed softly as he moved away long enough to remove the rest of his clothing.

“I’ve never seen a man…like that,” she whispered as he stretched alongside her.

“Not even the Chicago hood?” he taunted.

“Oh…no,” she said, her voice faltering, her eyes widening as he loomed above her.

“Don’t worry. I won’t hurt you too much,” he said softly, Cole’s warnings and his own misgivings drowning in a passion too-long denied. His hand smoothed down her body, feeling the softness of her breasts, brushing over her belly and down to the exquisite softness below it. He touched her with blatant intimacy, and she flinched and caught at his hand.

“Shh,” he whispered. He opened his mouth on hers, tasting its soft trembling, and ignored the dainty little hand tugging halfheartedly at his fingers as he found a moist opening and began to play around it.

Her body arched and her voice broke on a faint little cry.

His lips lifted until they were just brushing hers. “I don’t have anything to use,” he whispered. “And I’m just not confident enough to try rolling away from you in time. So we’re going to make love this way. I’m going to be your first man, but not technically. Do you understand? I’m going to fulfill you without the risk of pregnancy, and then I’m going to show you how to do it to me.”

“But…” she protested as his fingers moved again. She cried out, gasping, as he found more sensitive tissue and began to stroke it.

“Look at me,” he whispered as he increased the pressure and the rhythm, holding her shocked eyes. “Let me watch you.”

Her face went bloodred as he stroked and tormented. She began to writhe helplessly, and his dark eyes were all over her, watching her breasts swell and tauten even more, watching the restless movements of her long, elegant legs, hearing sweet, whimpering sounds that aroused him unbearably.

He was hurting. Worse. Dying. He grasped one of her hands and pushed it against his swollen flesh, wrapping it around him, holding it there when she would have jerked it away.

“God, I hurt,” he whispered, his voice tormented even as his hand grew more bold where it touched her. “Like this…Help me!”

He taught her the movement, whispered explicit, embarrassing instructions that she was too aroused to protest. She touched him, stroked him, closed around him, and felt him throb. Her eyes looked up into his, and he saw her pupils beginning to dilate.

“Turk!” she cried out, her voice frantic, rasping.

His free hand was behind her neck, holding her still, his other hand feverish, his eyes shockingly thorough as he held her wild gaze. “Now,” he whispered roughly. “Feel it, Katy. Feel it. Feel it, and let me watch!”

Spasms of hot lightning shot through her virginal body. She arched up against that tormenting hand and cried out, forcing him to fulfill her. Her body went into convulsions, and he watched, feeling them as his hand probed gently past the maidenhead. He shook all over, and in that moment of feverish arousal, forgot caution.

“To hell with this!” he groaned. He forced her back into the hay with the hot pressure of his open mouth. His body rolled onto hers and he thrust her legs apart with his hand. He went into her with rough, piercing motion, burying himself, and she was so involved in her own culmination that she didn’t even feel pain. She welcomed him, arching up to his hard, hot body, her hands finding his hips, her nails digging in.