"Make me a story." "Hunter, I don't have a stitch of clothes on," she squeaked. One of his dark eyebrows flicked upward. "You must have clothes to make stories?" "No. I guess I...well, it might help me think." He sighed and rolled onto his back, carrying her along with him in the curve of his arm. Pressing her head onto his shoulder, he made a valiant attempt to ignore the feeling of her silken flesh against his and said, "This Comanche wears breeches. will make the story." And with that, Hunter began talking, smiling to himself every once in a while because he quickly discovered that he had as much trouble concentrating as she did when she didn't have clothes on."