Read Online A Dixie Christmas by Sandra Hill - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Sandra Hill
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backing up a bit till his back hit the wall. He probably needed it to support his sore foot, or maybe his suddenly weak knees.
Oh, swell! I’m scaring him. Slow down, Annie. Play it cool. Pretend he’s just hairy old Frankie Wilks.
Hah!
“No joke, Clay. You have a chest that would cause a cloistered nun to melt, and I already have a fever to begin with. So take off the darn shirt, for crying out loud.” Her voice had turned shrill at the end.
“All right, all right,” he said, raising a palm in surrender. “Let’s backtrack to step one. You want me to take off my shirt because you like my chest?”
“Yes.” She stood and walked slowly toward him.
He smiled then, one of those glorious deals that bared his even white teeth and caused those irresistible dimples to play peek-a-boo with her heart. “What if someone walks in . . . like your aunt?”
She pooh-poohed that idea. “Do you think Aunt Liza hasn’t seen a male chest before? In a house with five males?”
“But Annie,” Clay explained with exaggerated patience. “If you want me to take off my shirt, I’m pretty sure I’ll be wanting you to take off your shirt.” He flashed her a “So there!” grin.
“Oh.” Delicious images swam in Annie’s head at that suggestion. She stood several feet away from him, but she could feel his heat. “Well, I guess I forgot to mention that Aunt Liza is dead to the world once her head hits the pillow. Her alarm clock, set religiously at 4 a.m., is the only thing that will awaken her now.”
“Yes, you did forget to mention that fact.” His grin didn’t waver at all. “And your brothers?”
“The same. Besides, there’s an unwritten rule in the Fallon house. Nobody walks in unannounced on a courting couple . . . not that you and I are courting, mind you. Don’t get your feathers all ruffled in that regard. I’m not out to trap you.”
“My feathers aren’t ruffled,” he protested indignantly. Then, understanding that they wouldn’t be interrupted, he immediately pulled off the flannel shirt and raised the tee shirt over his head. Superman couldn’t have done it faster. After that, standing still, he waited for her to make the next move. He wasn’t smiling now.
He was so beautiful. Wide shoulders. Narrow waist and hips. A thin frame, but not too thin. Muscles delineating his upper arms and forearms and the planes of his chest and abdomen—not muscle builder, puffed-up flesh, just healthy, fit male muscle. Dark silky hairs peppered his chest, leading down in a vee to the low-riding jeans.
Under her sweeping appraisal, he never once lowered his eyes. Women faltered under such close scrutiny, but not men . . . not this man.
“Can I touch you?” she whispered.
The hard ridges of his stomach muscles lurched.
Heat curled in her stomach, almost a mirroring reflection.
At first, he closed his eyes and a low strangled sound emerged from his lips. He appeared to be out of breath, panting. When he lifted his eyelids, Annie almost staggered backwards under the onslaught of the blue fire. “If you don’t touch me, I think I’ll go up in smoke,” he whispered back.
Well, that sounds encouraging. She stepped closer and put her hands on his shoulders. He tried to take her in his arms, but Annie swatted his hands away. She wanted to do this herself, with no distractions. “Let me . . . I want . . . ,” she murmured, her brain reeling with a feverish urgency. “I want to do things to you. So many things.” Things? What things? Where are these outlandish thoughts coming from? And how am I getting up the nerve to say them aloud?
“Annie . . . ,” he started to say, then paused, lost for words. “You take my breath away.”
“Don’t move,” she ordered and ran her fingertips down both sides of his tension-corded neck, over his shoulders, skimming over the light furring on his arms to
Oh, swell! I’m scaring him. Slow down, Annie. Play it cool. Pretend he’s just hairy old Frankie Wilks.
Hah!
“No joke, Clay. You have a chest that would cause a cloistered nun to melt, and I already have a fever to begin with. So take off the darn shirt, for crying out loud.” Her voice had turned shrill at the end.
“All right, all right,” he said, raising a palm in surrender. “Let’s backtrack to step one. You want me to take off my shirt because you like my chest?”
“Yes.” She stood and walked slowly toward him.
He smiled then, one of those glorious deals that bared his even white teeth and caused those irresistible dimples to play peek-a-boo with her heart. “What if someone walks in . . . like your aunt?”
She pooh-poohed that idea. “Do you think Aunt Liza hasn’t seen a male chest before? In a house with five males?”
“But Annie,” Clay explained with exaggerated patience. “If you want me to take off my shirt, I’m pretty sure I’ll be wanting you to take off your shirt.” He flashed her a “So there!” grin.
“Oh.” Delicious images swam in Annie’s head at that suggestion. She stood several feet away from him, but she could feel his heat. “Well, I guess I forgot to mention that Aunt Liza is dead to the world once her head hits the pillow. Her alarm clock, set religiously at 4 a.m., is the only thing that will awaken her now.”
“Yes, you did forget to mention that fact.” His grin didn’t waver at all. “And your brothers?”
“The same. Besides, there’s an unwritten rule in the Fallon house. Nobody walks in unannounced on a courting couple . . . not that you and I are courting, mind you. Don’t get your feathers all ruffled in that regard. I’m not out to trap you.”
“My feathers aren’t ruffled,” he protested indignantly. Then, understanding that they wouldn’t be interrupted, he immediately pulled off the flannel shirt and raised the tee shirt over his head. Superman couldn’t have done it faster. After that, standing still, he waited for her to make the next move. He wasn’t smiling now.
He was so beautiful. Wide shoulders. Narrow waist and hips. A thin frame, but not too thin. Muscles delineating his upper arms and forearms and the planes of his chest and abdomen—not muscle builder, puffed-up flesh, just healthy, fit male muscle. Dark silky hairs peppered his chest, leading down in a vee to the low-riding jeans.
Under her sweeping appraisal, he never once lowered his eyes. Women faltered under such close scrutiny, but not men . . . not this man.
“Can I touch you?” she whispered.
The hard ridges of his stomach muscles lurched.
Heat curled in her stomach, almost a mirroring reflection.
At first, he closed his eyes and a low strangled sound emerged from his lips. He appeared to be out of breath, panting. When he lifted his eyelids, Annie almost staggered backwards under the onslaught of the blue fire. “If you don’t touch me, I think I’ll go up in smoke,” he whispered back.
Well, that sounds encouraging. She stepped closer and put her hands on his shoulders. He tried to take her in his arms, but Annie swatted his hands away. She wanted to do this herself, with no distractions. “Let me . . . I want . . . ,” she murmured, her brain reeling with a feverish urgency. “I want to do things to you. So many things.” Things? What things? Where are these outlandish thoughts coming from? And how am I getting up the nerve to say them aloud?
“Annie . . . ,” he started to say, then paused, lost for words. “You take my breath away.”
“Don’t move,” she ordered and ran her fingertips down both sides of his tension-corded neck, over his shoulders, skimming over the light furring on his arms to
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