Calder Storm by Janet Dailey Page A

his hands. Her voice breathy with the disturbances he’d created within.
    His fingers released the folds of her slip. She imagined that he expected her to remove it. Instead she went to work unfastening the buttons of his shirt. He was quick to help her by tugging the tails loose from his jeans. With the release of the last button, he shrugged out of it and gave it a toss behind him, leaving Sloan free to feast her gaze on the breadth of his shoulders and all his tanned, hard flesh.
    She studied the complex roping of muscle, lean, and sharply defined, as if by a sculptor’s hand. From the ridged flatness of his stomach to the broadening sweep of his chest and shoulders, therewasn’t an ounce of fat to be found. He was the image of youthful manhood, virile and strong.
    â€œI wish I had my camera,” Sloan murmured even as she smoothed her hands onto the center of his ribs.
    â€œOh no you don’t. You aren’t hiding behind any lens tonight.” His voice had an edge to it that held its own warning.
    â€œNot tonight,” Sloan agreed and let her hands glide up to invade the wiry nest of chest hairs, then traveled on to the masculine flatness of his breasts and their pebble-like nipples.
    Curiosity had her lipping one, an action that drew a half curse from Trey. She smiled, pleased that her touch disturbed him, and let her hands slide down to his waist.
    Moving against him, she used her hands and her body to nudge him backward toward the bed. “I’ll help you off with your boots,” she told him, tipping her head to smile at him.
    He responded with a small, negative shake of his head. “Nope. Your slip, then my boots.”
    The smoldering darkness of his gaze had her heart tripping over itself, but she managed a soft laugh. “A negotiation, is it?”
    â€œOr a fair trade.” His quick hands had already caught hold of the slip and gave it an upward pull.
    Acquiescing, Sloan raised her arms. Like liquid, the slip slid up and over her head, then went sailing after his shirt. When she focused on his face again, her breath was taken by the caressing way his gaze moved over the lacy cups of her underwire brassiere, then down to her matching lace briefs.
    There was so much desire in his face that it took her a moment to find her voice. “Your boots.” In another attempt to seize the initiative, she gave him a quick, firm shove, overbalancing him and sending him backward onto the bed.
    He sat down heavily, the springs creaking under his weight. Not giving him a chance to recover, Sloan quickly picked up his left foot and swung around to straddle it facing the boot, cupping a hand under its heel.
    â€œYou push. I pull,” she instructed.
    Just as she tightened her grip on his boot, he clamped his hands on her waist and pulled her sideways and down, onto the bed beside him. The suddenness of it drew an outcry of surprise from her, then a laugh when she bounced on the mattress.
    â€œThat’s not fair,” she protested.
    â€œIt wasn’t fair that there was no place for me to do any pushing, not as dirty as the soles of these boots are.” He leaned forward and proceeded to tug off his own boots. “As attractive as the view was, it would have taken too long.”
    â€œI could have managed,” she murmured idly, taking advantage of the chance to study, unobserved, the rippling movements of his arm and shoulder muscles.
    â€œBut I couldn’t.” One boot after the other thudded to the floor, followed by his socks. Swiveling around, he leaned back on an elbow beside her. “The trouble is—a man has no graceful way to get out of his clothes—not like a woman does.”
    She marveled that he would think that. Honesty made her say, “It feels just as awkward for a woman.”
    â€œThat’s reassuring.” The slow spread of his smile was incredibly sexy and warm. Sloan couldn’t help being moved by it. Like him, she