Page 110 of Fancy Pants (Wynette, Texas 1)

“You do it,” she replied.

He sat down on the edge of the bed and reached toward one of the satin ribbons. She stilled his hand. “With your mouth.”

He chuckled, then leaned over and did as she had ordered. As he pulled the silky triangle from between her legs, he kissed her and then began stroking the insides of her thighs. She took off on an exploratory mission of her own, her hand greedy to touch him. After a few minutes, he groaned and broke away to reach into the drawer of the bedside table. When he turned his back to her, she laughed and lifted herself up on her knees to nuzzle his neck. “Never send a man to do a woman's job,” she whispered. Reaching around him, she took over his task, dallying and teasing until his skin was damp with perspiration.

“Damn, Francie,” he said huskily, “you keep on like that and you're not going to get anything out of this encounter but a boring memory.”

She smiled and slipped back onto the pillows, parting her legs for him. “Somehow I doubt that.”

He took advantage of what she was offering him, tormenting her with expert caresses until she begged him to stop, and then kissing her breathless. When he finally entered her, she dug her hands into his hips and cried out. He reared up, driving himself deeper. They began talking in breathless little words.

“Please...”

“So good...”

“Yes... hard...”

“Sweet...”

Each was accustomed to being a cool lover—considerate, giving, but always in control. Now they were hot and wet, strung out on passion, oblivious to everything but the mad cry of one beautiful body reaching out for the other. They came, seconds apart, spilling open in gushing, noisy abandonment, filling the air with cries, moans, and breathless obscenities.

Afterward, neither could have said who was the more embarrassed.

Chapter

29

They ate a tense meal, with both of them cracking jokes that weren't all that funny. Then they went back to bed and made love again. With their mouths glued together and their bodies joined, they couldn't talk, but talking was something neither of them wanted to do much of. They slept restlessly, waking in the wee hours to find that they still hadn't gotten enough of each other.

“How many times was that?” Dallie groaned after they were finished.

She nuzzled closer under his chin. “Uh—four, I think.”

He kissed the top of her head and muttered, “Francie, I don't think this fire burning between us is going to be as easy to put out as we figured.”

It was past eight the next morning before either of them stirred. Francesca stretched lazily and Dallie pulled her close for a cuddle. They were just beginning to fool around a little when they heard footsteps coming up the stairs. Dallie cussed under his breath. Francesca jerked her head toward the door and then watched in alarm as the knob began to turn. An ugly vision flashed through her mind of an army of Dallie's old girlfriends stalking in, each with a house key dangling from her fingers. “Oh, God...” She couldn't help it. She slid down beneath the covers and pulled the sheet over her head. At that exact moment, she heard the door open.

Dallie sounded mildly exasperated. “For Pete's sake, couldn't you even knock?”

“I was afraid I'd spill my coffee. I hope that's Francie under there or I'm going to be embarrassed.”

“As a matter of fact, it's not Francie,” Dallie said. “And you should be embarrassed.”

The mattress sagged as Holly Grace settled down on the side of the bed, her hips brushing against Francesca's calves. The faint fragrance of coffee penetrated the sheet.

“The least you could do was bring me a cup, too,” Dallie complained.

Holly Grace apologized. “I wasn't thinking; I've got a lot on my mind. You were kidding, weren't you, about that not being Francie under there?”

Dallie patted Francesca's hip through the covers. “You stay right there, Rosalita honey. This crazy person'll be gone in a few minutes.”

Holly Grace tugged on the top of the sheet. “Francie, I need to talk to both of you.”

Francesca clutched the sheet tighter and muttered something in Spanish about turning left at the corner to get to the post office. Dallie chuckled.

“Come on, Francie, I know it's you,” Holly Grace said. “Your underwear's all over the floor—what there is of it.”

Francesca saw no graceful way out. With as much dignity as possible, she lowered the sheet to her chin and glared at Holly Grace, who sat on the edge of the bed wearing old jeans and a Cowboys sweat shirt. “What do you want?” she demanded. “For three days you've refused to talk to me. Why did you have to pick this morning to get chatty?”

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