Tempt Me Tonight by Toni Blake Page A

man before. And this is the first time I’ve worn a dress that could double for lingerie.
But confiding in him would be a mistake. Even the birth-control-breast-growth issue had felt too…honest, or personal, the moment she’d said it. So instead, she settled on, “I’m glad you liked it.”
    “I liked it
all,
” he said, nuzzling her, then dipping to rake his tongue over one still-beaded nipple. She hissed in her breath at the flurry of sensation. “But now,” he went on, sliding his arms behind her to handily unhook her bra, “I want to take it all off you.”
    She blinked up at him. “Why?”
    His voice came slow, serious. “Because I want you naked.”
    “Why?” she asked again.
    “It’s been a long time I’ve waited for this,” he rasped. “And your body is beautiful.”
    Oh boy. She knew he hadn’t
really
been waiting for her all this time—but the sentiment got to her just the same. Being told she was beautiful didn’t hurt, either. Well, as long as she didn’t count her peace of mind. Since this would soon be over and she’d probably spend years recovering.
    But as it was, she didn’t quite have the strength to respond, so she simply lay there, letting him remove her bra, then her shoes, before he carefully undid the garters and rolled the stockings painstakingly down her legs. She bit her lip, watching him, trying not to moan or sigh or do anything to let him know how much she felt it—every touch, every whisper across her skin. He reached behind her to unsnap the garter belt and she tried to ignore the little pinch that came with understanding this wasn’t his first time with such an apparatus. Finally, he peeled her sexy panties down and off, tossing them over the back of the couch.
    When she was completely naked, he skimmed one hand slowly across her skin from breast to knee, then dragged it lingeringly back up between her thighs. “Damn, Trish,” he breathed. “I can’t believe you’re lying here with me.”
    “Neither can I,” she said, melting in a whole new kind of intimacy—having him study her in the dim lighting, knowing he’d never seen her like this before.
    Stupid, stupid, stupid.
Why had she thought this would be easy, meaningless? Why had she thought it would be like sex with any other man?
    Suddenly, she suffered the urge to wrap herself around him, press her body against his—so she followed it, twining her arms around his neck, soaking up his masculine warmth, and pulling him close enough that he wouldn’t be able to see the tear she feared was about to roll down her cheek.
    He held her, too, just as tight. “Still like pancakes?” he whispered warm in her ear.
    God, somehow he made even
that
sound sexual. And the question whisked her back in time, made her remember being at her house, or his, when she would suddenly decide she wanted pancakes—maybe on a Saturday afternoon, or while doing homework on a school night—and they’d stop everything and make them together, exchanging kisses over a bowl of batter.
    “Mmm-hmm,” she said against his neck, a small lump in her throat.
    “Tomorrow morning,” he murmured, “we’ll make pancakes. And you’ll tell me about your life, cupcake. I want to know you again.”
    His warmth, all around her, his voice in her ear—it was like being back in that Trans Am by the lake. But this time he wasn’t asking for sex. He was simply asking to know her, just know her. It made her heart beat faster than she could understand. “All right,” she whispered back softly.

    When Trish awoke, she was aware only of the scent and feel of his body draped heavy about her. As she remembered where she was and the insanity of it all, her eyes took in other things: the shadows of trees outside the windows; family pictures hanging on a wall by the front door, their shiny frames gleaming in the dim lighting…the shape and feel and texture of his home.
    It was comfortable. Warm. The furniture slightly worn but cozy.
    He wasn’t a bad