Cinderella's Big Sky Groom by Christine Rimmer

shoulders again, warm on her bare skin, lifting the straps of her slip and then dropping them, so they fell in twin loops down her arms.
    His lips were at her ear. “Help me, Lynn. Just a little.”
    She responded to the tender command, sliding her arms free of the straps, then pushing the slip off her hips and shimmying it down, catching it in her hand, rising to her full height again—and tossing it toward where he’d laid her dress.
    He made a sound of approval, low in his throat. And she felt his touch again, just a finger, at the base of her neck. He traced that finger downward, a slow glide along each of the bumps of her spine, pausing briefly at the back hooks of her bra. She held her breath. And then let it out as that finger continuedon its way, stopping when it reached the elastic band at the top of her panty hose.
    â€œPretty,” he whispered. “So soft…”
    She smiled to herself. After all, he must be talking about her. About her skin. About her body. He certainly couldn’t mean her everyday, unadorned underwear.
    His steely forearm encircled her. He applied a gentle but definite pressure. She did moan then, as her body melted backward into his.
    His hips cradled hers. He was still very much aroused. She could feel him, all along her back. She moaned again.
    And he slipped his other arm around her, moving both hands up enough to cup her breasts. She looked down, saw his hands there, so tan against the plain cotton whiteness of her bra.
    â€œOh…” She sighed. “Oh, my…” She knew he could feel her hardened nipples, even through the bra. His thumbs were tracing them. “My oh my oh my…”
    He chuckled in her ear, the sound as arousing as what his hands were doing to her breasts. He nuzzled her hair, then lower, putting his mouth on the side of her throat. She felt his tongue, moist and warm, tracing a circular pattern onto the tender skin of her neck.
    Still holding her close with one encompassing arm, he used his free hand to take her bra straps down.
    Seconds later, her bra was at her waist. And those hands of his cupped her naked breasts.
    She let her head fall back against his shoulder. Her eyes drooped closed. “Tell me…I’m not doing this….”
    She felt his lips against her hair. “Sorry, Ms. Taylor. But you are doing this….”
    He slipped one hand between them and with laudable dexterity unhooked her bra. It dropped away. She didn’t even bother looking down to see where it fell.
    As a matter of fact, she was not going to open her eyes. Not for a while, anyway.
    This felt absolutely lovely. But things had moved so very far beyond dangerous. She wasn’t taking any extra chances.
    She kept her eyes closed.
    His hands were roving again. The right one glided down over her stomach—and lower. She shuddered and gave another small, hungry cry as that hand slid between her thighs.
    He was…cupping her.
    She shuddered again. She could feel her own wetness—wondered wildly if he could feel it, even through the fabric of her panties and panty hose. With that cupping hand he pulled her up even tighter to him—was it possible that she could get any closer?
    He whispered something soft in her ear. It might have been the word yes —or something else, something that wasn’t really even a word at all. His cupping hand stroked her. She thought she just might faint.
    And then at last he broke that intimate hold—to take her panties and panty hose away. He slipped slow, insistent fingers under both waistbands and then eased them down.
    She helped him. Blindly, still not daring to look,her hands meeting his hands, at her waist and then lower.
    The nylon clung. Their hands kept brushing, fingers almost entwining, warm and eager and a little hurried now. Together, they managed to push the fabric down over her hips at last. She handled the rest of it herself, somehow getting it all down over her