Books By Diana Palmer

by Palmer, Diana

  His mouth found her eyes and kissed them shut. "Don't," he whispered roughly. "I'm not saying it to shame you. I only want you to remember why it ended the way it did. You were grass green and I didn't know it. I encouraged you to be uninhibited, but I'd never have done it if I'd known what an in­nocent you were." His mouth slid over her forehead with breathless tenderness while his hands slid to her lower back and pulled her even closer. "I was going to take you," he whispered. His hands contracted and his body went rigid with a surge of arousal that she could feel. His legs trembled. "I still want to, God help me," he breathed at her temple. "I've never had the sort of arousal I feel with you. I don't even have to undress you first." His hands began to tremble as he moved her sensually against his hips. His mouth slid down to hers and softly covered it, lifting and touching and probing until she shivered again with pleasure.

  "I thought you knew," she whimpered.

  "I didn't." His hands moved to the very base of her spine and lifted her gently into the hard thrust of his body. He caught his breath at the wave of pleasure that washed over him immediately. "Dorie," he breathed.

  She couldn't think at all. When he took one of her hands and pressed it to his lower body, she didn't even have the will to protest. Her hand opened and she let him move it gently against him, on fire with the need to touch him.

  "Eight years," she said shakily.

  "And we're still starving for each other," he whis­pered at her mouth. His hand became insistent. "Harder," he said and his breath caught.

  "This...isn't wise," she said against his chest.

  "No, but it's sweet. Dorie...!" He cried out hoarsely, his whole body shuddering.

  Her hand stilled at once. "I'm sorry," she whis­pered frantically. "Did I hurt you?"

  He wasn't breathing normally at all. His face was buried in her throat and he was shaking like a leaf. She brushed her mouth over his cheek, his chin, his lips, his nose, whispering his name as she clung to him.

  His hand gripped her upper thigh, and it was so bruising that she was afraid she was going to have to protest. He fought for sanity, embarrassed by his weakness.

  She was still kissing him. He felt her breasts mov­ing against his chest, intensifying the throbbing, hell­ish ache below his belt,

  He held her firmly in place with hands that shook.

  She subsided and stood quietly against him. She knew now, as she hadn't eight years ago, what was wrong with him. She felt guilty and ashamed for pushing him so far out of control.

  Her fingers touched his thick, cool hair lovingly. Her lips found his eyelids and brushed softly against them. He was vulnerable and she wanted to protect him, cherish him.

  The tenderness was doing strange things to him. He still wanted her to the point of madness, but those comforting little kisses made his heart warm. He'd never been touched in such a way by a woman; he'd never felt so cherished.

  She drew back, and he pulled her close again.

  "Don't stop," he whispered, calmer now. His hands had moved up to the silken skin of her back, and he smiled under the whisper of her lips on his skin.

  "I'm so sorry," she whispered,

  His fingers slid under the blouse again and up to explore the softness of her breasts. "Why?" he asked.

  "You were hurting," she said. "I shouldn't have touched you..."

  He chuckled wickedly. "I made you."

  "I still can't go to bed with you," she said mis­erably. "I don't care if the whole world does it, I just can't!"

  His hands opened and enfolded her breasts ten­derly. "You want to," he murmured as he caressed them.

  "Of course I want to!" Her eyes closed and she swayed closer to his hands. "Oh, glory," she man­aged to say tightly, shivering.

  "Your breasts are very sensitive," he said at her lips. "And soft like warm silk under my hands. I'd like to lay you down on my grandfather's desk and take your blouse off and put my lips on you there. But Mrs. Culbertson is making coffee." He lifted his head and looked into her dazed, soft gray eyes. "Thank God," he whispered absently as he searched them.

  "Thank God for what?" she asked huskily.

  "Miracles, maybe," he replied. He smoothed the blouse up again and his eyes sketched her pretty pink breasts with their hard dark pink crowns. "I could eat you like taffy right now," he said in a rough tone.

  The office was so quiet that not a sound could be heard above the shiver of her breath as she looked up at him.

  His pale eyes were almost apologetic. "I think I have a death wish," he began huskily as he bent.

  She watched his mouth hover over her breast with a sense of shocked wonder. Her eyes wide, her breath stopped in her throat, she waited, trembling.

  He looked up, then, and saw her eyes. He made a sound in the back of his throat and his mouth opened as he propelled her closer, so that he had her almost completely in that warm, moist recess.

  She wept. The pleasure grew to unbearable heights. Her fingers tangled in his hair and she pulled him closer. She growled sharply at the sensations she felt. Her hips moved involuntarily, searching for his body.

  The suction became so sweet that she suddenly arched backward, and would have fallen if it hadn't been for his supporting arm. She caught her breath and convulsed, her body frozen in an arc of pure ec­stasy.

  He felt the deep contractions of her body under his mouth with raging pride. His mouth grew a little rough, and the convulsions deepened.

  Only when he felt her begin to relax did he lift his head and bring her back into a standing position, so that he could look at her face.

  She couldn't breathe. She sobbed as she looked up into his pale eyes. The tears came, hot and quick, when she realized what had happened. And he'd seen it!

  "Don't," he chided-tenderly. He reached for a handkerchief and dried her red eyes and wiped her nose. "Don't be embarrassed."

  "I could die of shame," she wept.

  "For what?" he asked softly. "For letting me watch you?"

  Her face went red. "I never, never...!"

  He put a long forefinger against her lips. "I've never seen a woman like that," he whispered. "I've never known one who could be satisfied by a man's mouth suckling at her breast. It was the most beautiful experience I've ever had."

  She wasn't crying now. She was staring at him, her eyes wide and soft and curious.

  He brushed back her wild hair. "It was worth what I felt earlier," he murmured dryly.

  She colored even more. "I can't stay here," she told him wildly. "I have to go away..."

  "Hell, no, you don't," he said tersely. "You're not getting away from me a second time. Don't even think about running."

  "But," she began urgently.

  "But what?" he asked curtly. "But you can't give yourself to me outside marriage? I know that. I'm not asking you to sleep with me."

  "It's like torture for you."

  "Yes," he said simply. "But the alternative is to never touch you." His hand slid over her blouse and he smiled gently at the immediate response of her body. "I love this," he said gruffly. "And so do you."

  She grimaced. "Of course I do," she muttered. "I've never let anyone else touch me like that. It's been eight years since I've even been kissed!"

  "Same here," he said bluntly.

  "Ha! You've been going around with a divorcee!" she flung at him out of frustration and embarrassment.

  "I don't have sex with her," he said.

  "They say she's very pretty."

  He smiled. "She is. Pretty and elegant and kind. But I don't feel desire for her, any more than she feels it for me, I told you we were friends. We are. And that's all we are."

  "But...but..."

  "But what, Dorie?"

  "Men don't stop kissing women just because they get turned down once."

  "It was much worse than just getting turned down," he told her. "I ran you out of town. It was rough living with that, especially when your father took a few strips off me and told me all about your past. I felt two inc
hes high." His eyes darkened with the pain of the memory. "I hated having made an enemy of him. He was a good man. But I'd never had much interest in marriage or let anyone get as close to me as you did. If you were afraid, so was I."

  "Cag said your parents weren't a happy couple."

  His eyebrow lifted. "He never talks about them. That's a first."

  "He told me to ask you about them."

  "I see." He sighed. "Well, I told you a little about that, but we're going to have to talk more about them sooner or later, and about some other things." He lifted his head and listened and then looked down at her with a wicked grin. "But for the present, you'd better fasten your bra and tuck your blouse back in and try to look as if you haven't just made love with me."

  "Why?"

  "Mrs. Culbertson's coming down the hall."

  "Oh, my gosh!"

  She fumbled with catches and buttons, her face red,, her hair wild as she raced to put herself back together. He snapped his shirt up lazily, his silvery eyes full of mischief as he watched her frantic efforts to improve her appearance.

  "Lucky I didn't lay you down on the desk, isn't it?" he said, chuckling.

  There was a tap on the half-closed door and Mrs. Culbertson came in with a tray. She was so intent on getting it to the desk intact that she didn't even look at Dorie.

  "Here it is. Sorry I took so long, but I couldn't find the cream pitcher."

  "Who drinks cream?" Corrigan asked curiously.

  "It was the only excuse I could think of," she told him seriously.

  He looked uneasy. "Thanks."

  She grinned at him and then looked at Dorie. Her eyes were twinkling as she went back out. And this time she closed the door.

  Dorie's face was still flushed. Her gray eyes were wide and turbulent. Her mouth was swollen and when she folded her arms over her chest, she flinched.

  His eyes went to her blouse and back up again. "When I felt you going over the edge, it excited me, and I got a little rough. Did I hurt you?"

  The question was matter-of-fact, and strangely tender.

  She shook her head, averting her eyes. It was em­barrassing to remember what had happened.

  He caught her hand and led her to the chairs in front of the desk. "Sit down and I'll pour you a cup of coffee."

  She looked up at him a little uneasily. "Is some­thing wrong with me, do you think?" she asked with honest concern. "I mean, it's unnatural...isn't it?"

  His fingers touched her soft cheek. He shook his head. "People can't be pigeonholed. You might not be that responsive to any other man. Maybe it's wait­ing so long. Maybe it's that you're perfectly attuned to me. I might be able to accomplish the same thing by kissing your thighs, or your belly."

  She flushed. "You wouldn't!"

  "Why not?"

  The thought of it made her vibrate all over. She knew that men kissed women in intimate places, but she hadn't quite connected it until then.

  "The inside of your thighs is very vulnerable to being caressed," he said simply. "Not to mention your back, your hips, your feet," he added with a gentle smile. "Lovemaking is an art. There are no set rules."

  She watched him turn and pour coffee into a ce­ramic cup. He handed it to her and watched the way her fingers deliberately touched his as he drew them away.

  He wanted her so much that he could barely stand up straight, but it was early days yet. He had to go slowly this time and not push her too hard. She had a fear not only of him, but of real intimacy. He couldn't afford to let things go too far.

  "What sort of things are we going to talk about later?" she asked after she'd finished half her coffee.

  "Cabbages and kings," he mused. He sat across from her, his long legs crossed, his eyes possessive and caressing on her face.

  "I don't like cabbage and I don't know any kings."

  "Then suppose we lie down together on the sofa?"

  Her eyes flashed up to see the amusement in his and back down to her cup. "Don't tease. I'm not so­phisticated enough for it."

  "I'm not teasing."

  She sighed and took another sip of coffee. "There's no future in it. You know that."

  He didn't know it. She was living in the past, con­vinced that he had nothing more than an affair in mind for them. He smiled secretively to himself as he thought about the future. Fate had given him a second chance; he wasn't going to waste it.

  "About these books," he said in a businesslike tone. "I've made an effort with them, but although I can do math, my penmanship isn't what it should be. If you can't read any of the numbers, circle them and I'll tell you what they are. I have to meet a prospec­tive buyer down at the barn in a few minutes, but I'll be somewhere close by all day."

  "All right."

  He finished his coffee and put the cup back on the tray, checking his watch. "I'd better go." He looked down at her with covetous eyes and leaned against the arms of her chair to study her. "Let's go dancing tomorrow night."

  Her heart jumped. She was remembering how it was when they were close together and her face flushed.

  His eyebrow lifted and he grinned. "Don't look so apprehensive. The time to worry is when nothing hap­pens when I hold you."

  "It always did," she replied.

  He nodded. "Every time," he agreed. "I only had to touch you." He smiled softly. "And vice versa," he added with a wicked glance.

  "I was green," she reminded him.

  "You still are," he reminded her.

  "Not so much," she ventured shyly.

  "We both learned something today," he said qui­etly. "Dorie, if you can be satisfied by so small a caress, try to imagine how it would feel if we went all the way."

  Her eyelids flickered. Her breath came like rustling leaves.

  He bent and drew his mouth with exquisite tender­ness over her parted lips. "Or is that the real prob­lem?" he asked at her mouth. "Are you afraid of the actual penetration?"

  Her heart stopped dead and then ran away. "Cor-rigan!" She ground out his name.

  He drew back a breath so that he could see her eyes. He wasn't smiling. It was no joke.

  "You'd better tell me," he said quietly.

  She drew her lower lip in with her teeth, looking worried.

  "I won't tell anyone."

  "I know that." She took a long breath. "When my cousin Mary was married, she came to visit us after the honeymoon was over. She'd been so happy and excited." She grimaced. "She said that it hurt awfully bad, that she bled and bled, and he made fun of her because she cried. She said that he didn't even kiss her. He just...pushed into her...!"

  He cursed under his breath. "Didn't you talk to anyone else about sex?"

  "It wasn't something I could discuss with my fa­ther, and Mary was the only friend I had," she told him. "She said that all the things they write about are just fiction, and that the reality is just like her mother once said—a woman deals with it for the pleasure of children."

  He leaned forward on his hands, shaking his head. "I wish you'd told me this eight years ago."

  "You'd have laughed," she replied. "You didn't believe I was innocent anyway."

  He looked up into her eyes. "I'm sorry," he said heavily. "Life teaches hard lessons."

  She thought about her own experience with mod­eling. "Yes, it does."

  He got to his feet and looked down at her with a worried scowl. "Don't you watch hot movies?"

  "Those women aren't virgins," she returned.

  "No. I don't guess they are." His eyes narrowed as he searched her face. "And I don't know what to tell you. I've never touched an innocent woman until you came along. Maybe it does hurt. But I promise you, it would only be one time. I know enough to make it good for you. And I would."

  "It isn't going to be that way," she reminded him tersely, denying herself the dreams of marriage and children that she'd always connected with him. "We're going to be friends."

  He didn't speak. His gaze didn't falter. "I'll check back with you later about the books," h
e said quietly.

  "Okay."

  He started to turn, thought better of it and leaned down again with his weight balanced on the chair arms. "Do you remember what happened when I started to suckle you?"

  She went scarlet. "Please..."

  "It will be like that," he said evenly. "Just like that. You won't think about pain. You may not even notice any. You go in headfirst when I touch you. And I wasn't even taking my time with you today. Think about that. It might help."

  He pushed away from her again and went to the desk to pick up his hat. He placed it on his head and smiled at her without mockery.

  "Don't let my brothers walk over you," he said. "If one of them gives you any trouble, lay into him with the first hard object you can get your hands on."

  "They seem very nice," she said.

  "They like you," he replied. "But they have plans."

  "Plans?"

  "Not to hurt you," he assured her. "You should never have told them you could cook."

  "I don't understand."

  "Mrs. Culbertson wants to quit. They can't make biscuits. It's what they live for, a plateful of home­made buttered biscuits with half a dozen jars of jam and jelly."

  "How does that concern me?''

  "Don't you know?" He perched himself against the desk. "They've decided that we should marry you."

  "We?"

  "We're a family. Mostly we share things. Not women, but we do share cooks." He cocked his head and grinned at her shocked face. "If I marry you, they don't have to worry about where their next fresh bis­cuit is coming from."

  "You don't want to marry me."

  "Well, they'll probably find some way around that," he said pointedly,

  "They can't force you to marry me."

  "I wouldn't make any bets on that," he said. "You don't know them yet."

  "You're their brother. They'd want you to be happy."

  "They think you'll make me happy."

  She lowered her eyes. "You should talk to them."

  "And say what? That I don't want you? I don't think they'd believe me."

  "I meant, you should tell them that you don't want to get married."

  "They've already had a meeting and decided that I do. They've picked out a minister and a dress that they think you'll look lovely in. They've done a rough draft of a wedding invitation..."