Free Calamity Mom by Diana Palmer Page A

you’d go.”
    She felt her cheeks becoming even ruddier. “As you said, I’m young,” she muttered. “A pushover for any experienced man,” she added pointedly.
    He wanted to believe that, but he couldn’t. He toyed with the empty wineglass, watching the light from the chandelier reflected in the faceted crystal. “No,” he replied. “It was much more than that, for both of us.” He lifted his eyes back to hers and felt the heat shoot through him like fire as he saw his own hunger reflected in her soft, sad eyes.
    His breathing roughened; quickened. “I want to make love to you, one last time.”
    Her lips parted. “Faulkner…”
    He signaled the waiter and paid the bill. Scant minutes later, he’d asked Nan to take a delighted Ben back to the girls’ motel room, and he and Shelly were walking down the dark, deserted beach.
    Shelly was much too aware of the brevity of the strappy little green sundress she was wearing with high-heeled sandals. She felt vulnerable as she thought about his strong, callused hands on her bare skin. But she had no pride left and she couldn’t pretend that she didn’t want this. It would be their last time together.
    He turned to her when they were along a sheltered bit of beach, elegant in his white dinner jacket and dark slacks. He seemed bigger somehow, towering over her, unsmiling.
    “You came with me,” he reminded her. “I didn’t drag you here by the hand.”
    “I know.” Her voice was almost drowned out by the crashing of the surf. She searched his dark eyes in the faint light. “I’m not taking anything,” she said abruptly.
    He drew in a long breath. “Shelly, we can’t make love to each other here. And I can’t take you to my room because Ben might decide to come back on his own, without Nan.” He caught her shoulders in his lean, warm hands and drew her to him. “You’re a virgin,” he whispered softly, drowning her in his strength and the drugging, delicious scent of masculine cologne as he moved closer. “I’m not quite that much of a rogue…”
    His mouth opened as it touched hers, teasing her lips apart. He felt them tremble softly as he began to increase the pressure of his mouth. She moaned, pressing against him, and he felt his body react sharply to her proximity.
    She tensed and started to draw back, but his hand swept down to the base of her spine, gently preventing the withdrawal.
    “You’re safe,” he whispered into her mouth. “This feels good. Don’t ask me to stop.”
    It felt good to her, too, but it was embarrassing. She tried to tell him, but his mouth became slowly invasive, and she clung to him as the intimacy of the kiss grew suddenly and exploded into something approximating possession.
    He felt her nails through the thick fabric of his jacket. He wanted to feel them on his skin.
    With a rough sound, his hand moved between them, his knuckles brushing over the tops of her breasts as he worked at fastenings. Seconds later, he coaxed her hands into the thick mat of hair that covered him and let her caress him.
    “Oh, God, it isn’t enough,” he whispered shakily, his mouth harder now, hungrier. “Shelly!”
    His mouth covered hers again. He moved the thin straps of her dress away from her shoulders and abruptly stripped her to the waist with deft, economic movements of his hands. Before she could utter a protest, he had her against him, inside the folds of his shirt and jacket, her breasts rubbing with exciting abrasion against his bare skin.
    His thumbs caressed her breasts while he kissed her, his teeth nibbling, his tongue probing deeply. She was trembling and so was he, and the surf was hardly louder than their erratic heartbeats.
    “Please!” she sobbed against his mouth.
    He barely heard her. His body throbbed where hers touched it. His hands were possessing her, exploring her exquisite softness in a silence that was total and overwhelming. None of the differences between them mattered when they were this close.