Cinderella's Big Sky Groom by Christine Rimmer Page B

hand.” It was a command, but couched in velvet.
    Was she afraid of him right then?
    Yes. Definitely. Afraid of the male power in him. Afraid of what she was about to do with him, which could bring great pleasure.
    But which also could hurt her. Probably would hurt her, no matter how much care he exercised.
    â€œTake it,” he said.
    Too late to back out now, she thought, sitting up straight again, extending her arm.
    His fingers closed over hers. He pulled her slowly to her feet and then laid her hand on his chest. On that hardness, that heat. She felt the silky, slightly wiry hair, the expansion and contraction as he drew breath. And also the beating of his heart.
    The beating of his heart.
    The same as she’d felt it downstairs, when he’d kissed her, and even before that, when he’d dared her to let the woman inside her get free.
    Well, here she was. Getting free.
    She was also feeling more than a bit skittish.
    And downstairs, the clock was chiming. The sound reached them. Neither spoke until all nine chimes had rung out.
    Then he said, “We can still call a halt to this.”
    His eyes said something else altogether.
    She didn’t really know, at that moment, what he would do if she said, All right. Take me home. I’ve changed my mind.
    And she would never know anyway, what he might have done.
    Because she was not going to back out.
    She closed her eyes, shook her head. “No. I want to stay, I do.”
    Beneath her hand, his chest contracted again as he released a long breath. “Good.” He bent forward, nuzzled her mouth, then her cheek, then her temple, catching a few strands of hair between his lips and tugging on them gently.
    She let out a long, shuddery sigh, her hand fisting of its own accord against his chest.
    His naked chest.
    Naked. The word got stuck in her mind, so scary and raw.
    Naked.
    In a few minutes, more than likely, he would expect her to start undressing, too. He would actually see her without her clothes on.
    Would he like what he saw?
    Lord, she hoped so.
    After all, she was now slimmer than she used to be. Her stomach didn’t pooch out—at least, not too much. And her breasts were…okay. There was really nothing wrong with them. Was there?
    And her legs were long. That was one good thing about being tall. Long legs.
    But still. Would she be…pretty enough?
    Without her magical red dress?
    Underneath, she was wearing a plain cotton slip. And her bra and panties…they were white. Boring and ordinary, as were her drugstore panty hose. Beneath the dress, everything belonged to the woman in brown.
    Would he look at her and wonder why he’d wanted her to stay?
    â€œTurn around,” he whispered, his lips brushing her temple.
    â€œI…what?”
    â€œJust do it. Turn around.”
    â€œOh. Oh, I don’t know….”
    â€œDo it. Turn around.” He took her shoulders and slowly guided her so that she faced away from him. She found herself staring at the broad expanse of his bed. His hands slid down over her arms, then under them, to rest at the curve of her hips. “Better?”
    Somehow, it was. Now, whatever he was looking at, she didn’t have to know. She felt his hands moveagain—to the top of the zipper, beneath her hair, at her nape.
    He smoothed her hair aside. And then he took that zipper down in an endless, nerve-flaying sizzle of sound. She felt the air against her back, and then his lips, at her nape, his breath against her skin.
    She closed her eyes, suppressed a moan as he peeled the cashmere fully open, guided it over her shoulders and down. The top of the dress dropped away and he pushed it over her hips until it fell to the floor. She stepped free of it and he bent to pick it up.
    She didn’t dare look, but she knew that he turned. She heard him, felt the loss of his body heat as he moved away from her enough to lay the dress over a chair.
    He came back. His hands were at her