It Had To Be You

Chapter 12

Phoebe ran into Bobby Tom Denton in the hotel lobby at eight-thirty on Saturday evening. Although she had just arrived in Portland on a commercial flight from O'Hare, the Stars had been there since noon because NFL rules stated that visiting teams had to be in the city in which they were playing twenty-four hours before kick-off. She knew from an earlier glance at the schedule that the players had been in a meeting until 8:00 p.m. and were now free until their eleven o'clock curfew.

"Hey there, Miz Somerville." Her $8-million man gave her a grin that was nearly as wide as the black Stetson on his head. His stylishly frayed and faded jeans molded to his runner's legs, and his snakeskin cowboy boots had been perfectly broken in so that they were neither too new nor too run-down. Viktor would have been impressed.

Bobby Tom said, "I was worried you might not be here."

"I told you I'd come."

He pushed the brim of his hat back with his thumb. "You're going to be on the sidelines during the first quarter tomorrow, aren't you?"

She nibbled the corner of her lip. "Actually, Bobby Tom, I'm having some second thoughts."

"Hold on, now. I can see you and me need to have a serious conversation." One of his nimble, receiver's hands clasped her arm and gently steered her toward the bar. She could have protested, but she wasn't looking forward to an evening in a strange hotel room without even Pooh to keep her company.

The hotel bar was quiet and dark, and they settled in a small banquette in the corner, where Bobby Tom ordered a beer. "You look like the white wine type," he said. "How 'bout one of those fancy chardonnays."

Phoebe would have loved a chardonnay but she wasn't sure she liked being classified as a "white wine type," so she requested a margarita. The waitress, who'd been gazing at Bobby Tom with hungry eyes, went off to fill their orders.

"Are you allowed to drink the night before a game?"

"We're allowed to do just about anything as long as we give the team all we've got the next day. Drinkin' and curfew are the only two things the coach isn't real strict about. We're supposed to be in our rooms by eleven, but Coach was pretty much a hell-raiser in his playing days, and he knows we all have our own ways of blowin' off steam." Bobby Tom chuckled. "He's sort of a legend."

Phoebe told herself not to ask, but when it came to Dan Calebow, her curiosity seemed to have no bounds. "What do you mean? What kind of legend?"

"Well, some of the stories about him aren't fit for female ears, but I guess everybody knows how much he hated curfews. See, the coach only needs a couple of hours sleep at night, and when he was playin', he couldn't stand the idea of being cooped up in his room at eleven o'clock. Said it wound him up too tight for the game. So what he mostly did was slide in his room for bed check and then sneak out afterward for some serious partying. The coaches found out about it, of course. They fined him, benched him; none of it did any good, because he'd still be out closing down the bars. Finally, he told them if they didn't like it, they'd could either shoot him or trade him, but he wasn't gonna change. The only bad game he had his entire first season was when they put a guard outside his room. The next day, he threw five interceptions. After that, the coaches stopped bothering him about it. 'Course he settled down a little bit when he got older."

"Not much, I'll bet," she muttered as their drinks arrived.

Bobby Tom lifted his frosty mug. "Here's to whippin' some Saber butt."

"To butt whipping." She touched her glass to his, then licked a small space in the salty rim and took a sip of her margarita.

"Miz Somerville-"

"Phoebe's fine." She took another sip. Later, she would regret the calories, but not now.

"I guess when it's just the two of us first names are okay, but since you're the owner and all, I won't do it when we're in public."

"After those pictures in the newspaper, I don't think I have to worry too much about maintaining respectability."

"Weren't they great! Even got my best side." His grin faded. "You weren't serious when you said you wouldn't be on the sidelines tomorrow, were you?"

"I'm not sure it's a good idea. Not unless we can come up with a new good luck ritual."

"Oh, no. We can't do that. Even though we lost, I had one of the best games of my career against the Broncos last week. I've been playing football for a lot of years, and when something's working for me, I stick with it. See, as soon as I start making changes, then I'm thinking about the change instead of how the zone is lined up and whether or not I can get open. You understand what I'm saying?"

"Bobby Tom, I'm really not crazy about having photos in all the Monday morning newspapers of the two of us kissing."

"I'm surprised I have to remind you about this, Phoebe, but we're playing the Sabers tomorrow, and beating them is a lot more important than some newspaper pictures. They won the Super Bowl last year. The whole country thinks we're flushing this season down the toilet. We have to prove to them that we've got what it takes to be champions."

"Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why do you have to be champions? When you think about it, what's the point? It's not like you're finding a cure for cancer."

"You're right," he said earnestly. "It's not like that. It's bigger. See, you've got good and you've got evil. That's what it is. That's how important it is."

"I'm having some trouble following you, Bobby Tom."

He lifted his arm for the waitress and jabbed two fingers toward their drinks for refills. That's when she realized that she'd nearly drained hers. She had no head for alcohol, and she knew she should refuse another, but Bobby Tom was good company, and she was enjoying herself. Besides, he was paying.

"The way I figure it is this," he went on. "Mankind is aggressive by nature, you agree with that?"

"Mankind maybe, but not necessarily womankind."

Bobby Tom obviously had no interest in sexual politics because he ignored her comment. "Football lets out man's natural aggression. If it weren't for the NFL, we'd probably have gone to war with Russia half a dozen times in the last forty years. See, that's the way Americans are. The minute we get crossed, we're natural shitkickers. Pardon my language, Phoebe, but everybody knows kickin' ass is part of our national conscience. Football gives us a-whadya-call? A safe outlet."

He was actually making a convoluted sort of sense, which was when she knew the first margarita had gone to hear head. She picked up the second one, and licked another spot in the rim.

He clasped her arm and gave her a pleading look. "So, are you gonna be there for me or not tomorrow, 'cause I'll tell you God's truth-you're a fine woman, and I know you don't want a loss to the Sabers on your conscience."

"I'll be there," she sighed.

"I knew I could count on you." He gave her an engaging smile. "I like you, Phoebe. A lot. If we weren't business associates, I could really go for you."

He was so boyish and darling, she smiled right back at him. "Isn't life a bitch?"

"You said it."

Even without a margarita glow, Bobby Tom Denton was easy to be with. They talked about Mexican food, whether sports teams should be named after Native Americans, and Bobby Tom's resemblance to Christian Slater. She took more time with her second margarita, but even so, she was definitely feeling a buzz when he leaned over and brushed her mouth with his.

It was a light, friendly kiss. Respectful. A mark of comradeship and well-being. The kiss a twenty-five-year-old man gives to a thirty-three-year-old woman he'd like to go to bed with, but knows he won't, and doesn't want to spoil the friendship, but still wishes it could be more than a friendship.

Phoebe understood.

Unfortunately, Dan didn't.

"Denton!" His voice shot through the quiet of the bar like a Confederate cannon over a smoldering battlefield. "Doesn't that high-priced wristwatch of yours tell you you've got exactly three and half minutes to haul your butt up to your room or miss curfew?" He loomed over their table in his jeans and a denim shirt that was open at the throat.

"Howdy, Coach. You want to hear the funniest doggone thing? I was just explaining to Phoebe here how you've always been a little bit flexible about curfew. And then you show up. If that isn't-"

"Two minutes, forty-five seconds! And I'm fining you five hundred dollars for every minute you're not in your room."

Looking hurt, Bobby Tom got to his feet. "Dang, Coach, what's got you so riled?"

"You ran three bad patterns on Friday. How 'bout that for starters?"

Bobby Tom peeled some bills from a wad in his pocket and slapped them on the table. Then he gave Dan a long, shrewd gaze. "I don't think this has anything to do with bad patterns." He tipped the brim of his Stetson toward Phoebe. "See you on the sidelines tomorrow, Miss Somerville."

"See you, Bobby Tom."

As he disappeared, Dan barked at her like a drill sergeant. "My room! Now."

"Uh-I don't think so."

"When you start playing games with the best wide-out in the AFC, you've stepped clean over the line. Now unless you want our dirty linen aired in public, I suggest you start moving."

Phoebe reluctantly followed him out of the bar and into the lobby. She knew she should remind him that she was the boss, but as they stepped inside the elevator and began to travel in weighted silence up to the seventh floor, she found that she couldn't work up any steam.

He'd certainly worked up a full head, however, and the heat from it was burning right through her short, turquoise knit shift. Luckily for her, she didn't care. The two margaritas had left her with a cozy sense of well-being that made her want to puff out her lower lip and tell him not to be such an old fuddy-duddy.

She hadn't known their suites were so close until he stopped in front of the door across from her own. He unlocked it and gave her a none-too-gentle push inside. Then he shoved his fist, index finger extended, toward the brocade-covered sofa.

"Sit."

Although her brain had begun to issue the most alarming warnings, the warm tequila haze enveloping her made it impossible to take them seriously, so she gave him a mock salute as she followed orders.

"Yes, sir."

"Don't you get cute with me!" He splayed one big hand on his hip. "You stay away from my players, you hear me? These men are here to win football games; they're not your personal love toys, and I don't ever again want to see anything like I saw tonight!"

And that was just the beginning. He ranted and raved, turning red in the face just as he did on the sidelines when he was yelling at a ref. Finally, he paused for breath.

She gave him a lopsided smile and slipped the tip of her index finger into her mouth. "What's the matter, puddin'? Didn't you ever kiss a girl in a bar?"

He seemed stunned, as if he'd never before been sassed by a woman. God, he was cute. Cute and sexy and hunky and mean. Uhmm. Grrr… It would take a lot of woman to tame a man like him.

She uncrossed her legs.

It would take a bed, too. And the smell of jasmine drifting in through the open window. And the soft nighttime creak of a paddle wheel fan turning in the ceiling of the old plantation house.

She stood.

Young Elizabeth could tame him with her smoldering violet eyes, and her white breasts spilling like vanilla pudding over the lacy cups of her slip.

Yowl! He had come home to her, this moon-howling man. Drunk again. Dissolute. Smelling of whiskey and cheap perfume from a slut named Lulabelle. But he still wasn't sated, this hot-blooded, hot-cocked man. Only one woman could satisfy him.

Come to me, baby; I'll make you feel so good. I'm all woman, and I know how to tame my man.

She sauntered toward him, lips wet and parted, a lock of blond hair playing peek-a-boo with her lashes, every pore of her skin feeling his heat and getting ready to scorch him with her own. Why had she ever been afraid of him, a hot, dangerous cat like her? Let him see what kind of woman she was. Let him feel her sizzle.

"Phoebe?"

She stopped in front of him and cupped those hard fists hanging at his sides into the soft palms of her own hands. She gazed into his sea-green eyes and realized there was no need to be afraid of his strength when her own power was so much greater than his.

She arched her back and leaned into him. She was a cat in heat, and she kissed him with her lips parted, slanting her mouth over his, slipping out of one sandal to rub her hot pink toenails along the worn denim that sheathed his calf. As he accepted her tongue, a sense of exhilaration swept through her, fed by the knowledge of her own power. Why had she ever been afraid of sex when this was so easy, so natural?

He was making a soft, hoarse sound in his throat, or maybe it was her. Their mouths were joined, their hands clasped at his sides, and she wouldn't let the fear in. His tongue plundered. She told herself she was woman enough to meet his passion and liquor-relaxed enough to see it through to the end. Then, maybe she would be free.

"Phoebe…" He whispered her name into the warm, moist opening of her mouth, and he wasn't yelling anymore. His big hands slid up along her hips to her waist; his thumbs rose over her ribs. In a moment he would brush the undersides of her breasts, turning them into warm, living flesh. They were already tingling, waiting.

"Don't stop," she pleaded against his lips. "No matter what I say, don't stop."

Stunned, he pulled back from her. "Do you mean it?"

"Yes."

Seconds ticked by as her words slowly registered in Dan's brain. Disappointment rushed through him, followed quickly by disgust and then cynicism. Why was he surprised? He should have learned his lesson from Valerie and realized what Phoebe had wanted all along. She was another woman who needed to play submission games. All of her no's last Sunday night had meant yes. She had been manipulating him, and he'd been sucked right in.

Wearily, he gazed down at her lush curves, the soft sweep of the lashes framing those tilty-up amber eyes, the swollen lips of that wet, suck-me-up mouth. Was it too much to ask for a simple, uncomplicated romp in bed? No mind games. Nothing kinky. Just a few laughs and some good raunchy sex.

He was suddenly furious. As furious as he'd been when he'd found Bobby Tom drooling over her in the bar. She'd probably been feeling him up under the table. Rubbing against him with those long, bare legs. Brushing her centerfold tits against his arm. Hitting him with a whole load of shit. Don't stop just because I say no, Bobby Tom. I really mean yes.

Maybe Valerie had warped him, but it seemed as if the women in this country had gotten irredeemably screwed up when it came to sex. They either wanted to be stomping high heels into your chest or having you handcuff them to the bedposts. There didn't seem to be any middle ground.

He'd been down this path a hundred times, and he could play the tough guy without even thinking about it. After what she'd put him through, a little rough stuff with Phoebe Somerville might be just what he needed to get rid of those images of her that kept popping up in his mind at the worst times. Tonight, he would put an end to it.

"Whatever you say, baby."

Phoebe heard the edge of menace in Dan's voice, but she was feeling too good to let it frighten her. He lifted one hand to the back of her neck and plowed into her hair, catching it in his fist and tugging on her roots a bit too hard. With the other, he began to open the small covered buttons at the neck of her dress. The heel of his hand brushed her breasts, and the material fell open.

He gave a snort when he saw her plain white bra. Doubtless he was accustomed to sexier lingerie, but she'd never felt right in it. Her bare shoulders caught the chill of the air-conditioning as he pushed the bodice of the dress down to her elbows, trapping her arms in the sleeves. He worked the three heavy hooks that secured the wide elasticized strap of the bra in the back.

"You're big, baby, but you're not Dolly Parton. One of those sexy little underwires from Victoria's Secret would do the job."

The sneer in his voice penetrated her tequila haze, diffusing some of her feeling of power. She tried to pull her arms from the constriction of her dress, but at that moment, her bra gave, and her breasts tumbled free.

"Damn." The softly uttered word sounded more like a tribute than a curse.

Before she knew what had happened, he had pulled her wrists behind her back and caught them in one hand. The rough movement thrust her breasts forward and up, and the helplessness she felt in that position produced little flutters of panic in the pit of her stomach. He bent his head. His warm breath touched her skin along with the light abrasion of his whiskers. He flicked one nipple with his tongue. It pebbled. He took it into his mouth and sucked on it.

Her bones began to feel as if they were buckling. The sensations were so exciting that she forgot about her pinioned arms. He moved to her other breast, licking and then sucking. She sagged against him.

When his hand slipped under the hem of her short dress and cupped her bare thigh, her panic returned, and she knew she had to get her arms free before she could let him go any farther. His fingers moved upward.

"Wait," she whispered. She tried to pull away, but his athlete's hands held her fast. "Let me go."

"I don't think so."

"I mean it."

"Sure you do."

"Dan!"

"Whatever the lady wants." He released her, but only long enough to yank her dress down over her hips. Her bra slipped off, leaving her standing there in one sandal, an ankle bracelet, and a pair of waist-high white cotton panties.

"You sure don't believe in spending your money on fancy underwear."

Her confidence dissolved and all the old ghosts were back. She grabbed for her dress to cover herself, but before she could reach it, he had picked her up and carried her into the bedroom. As he dropped her onto the bed, her lone sandal flew.

He loomed over her, and he was no longer a fantasy figure, but a real man stripping off his denim shirt, revealing an alarmingly well-developed chest with bulging pectorals, mountainous biceps, and veins standing out like ropes on his arms. A thick pelt of hair in the middle of his chest tapered into an arrow-straight line that disappeared along a hard, flat stomach into the waistband of his jeans.

She knew that he worked out in the weight room every day, and she'd seen him do laps around the field in the evening, but she still wasn't prepared for his powerfully muscled body. All thoughts of young Elizabeth fled from her mind. She felt like an eighteen-year-old virgin instead of a thirty-three-year-old woman who'd had both too many and too few lovers. She had set herself up to play with a pro when she couldn't even handle the amateurs.

His eyes were on her breasts as he unsnapped his jeans. She grabbed for the edge of the bedspread.

"Drop it."

"No, I'm not doing this." She drew the corner of the quilted fabric to her chin at the same time she slid to the opposite side of the bed.

"Right on schedule." Reaching down, he snared her ankle and sent her sprawling back against the pillows.

She let out a soft, strangled exclamation. The deadly sense of purpose in those ice green eyes sent fear rushing through her. She remembered his strength when he'd dragged her to the gazebo, and she clutched at the bedspread as her only protection.

"Please, Dan…" Her voice sounded helpless instead of strong, and she knew she had lost all control.

"You were the one who wanted fun and games."

"I didn't. I-"

"Shut up." He unzipped his jeans. "Now show me those tits again."

His rough vulgarity galvanized her. She spun away from him toward the opposite side of the bed, thrusting her legs out from under the twisted spread. She was off the bed and running toward the door. Dimly, she heard him grumbling from behind her.

"I'm getting too old for this."

She snatched up a damp towel he'd tossed on a chair after his shower and frantically raced into the living room for the door. Just as she yanked it open, he slapped it shut again with the palm of his hand.

"You're even crazier than Val!" He swung her around by her upper arm. "You don't have any clothes on. Do you want everybody to see you?"

"I don't care!" she cried, her heart pounding. "I told you to stop."

"You also told me not to listen, and that's just what I'm doing."

He whipped her up in his arms as if she weighed nothing, carried her back into the bedroom, and dropped her on the mattress.

"I'm not hitting you, so if that's what you're after, you'll have to find another stud." He knelt beside her, his big hand shackling her upper arm, and spoke almost indifferently. "How do you want it?"

She realized it was going to happen again. The liquor had made her let down her guard, and she was helpless.

That was when she screamed.

He was on her in a second, covering her mouth with his palm while he clamped her wrists above her head with his free hand. "Jesus," he hissed. "Not so loud." The denim of his jeans chafed her thighs as he glowered down at her, looking more disgusted than angry.

She went wild when she realized he actually expected her to keep quiet while he did this to her. Tears stung her eyes as she began to buck beneath him, twisting her hips and trying to free her legs. She bit hard into his hand and he released her with an angry exclamation.

"That's it!" He rolled off her, shaking his hand. "I've tried to be liberated and understanding, but I'm not doing this anymore!"

She was so startled she quit struggling.

He shot to his feet. "I'm hard as hell right now, but I'd rather disappear into that bathroom with a copy of Penthouse than keep on playing these caveman games. I don't care that you told me not to stop, because I'm stopping! I'm sick and tired of feeling like some slug who can only get laid if he beats up women." He loomed over her. "If you ask me, you've got enough notches on your bedpost to have a little more sensitivity when it comes to men." Bracing his hands on his hips, he glowered down at her. "From now on, when a woman tells me to stop, I'm stopping, even if she's already told me not to pay any attention when she tells me to stop."

Bewildered, she stared at him.

"Maybe I'd like to get strong-armed for a change!" he exclaimed. "Maybe I'd like to be so irresistibly sexy that I got tied to the bed for once! Would that be too much to ask?"

Understanding came slowly. She remembered what she had whispered to him, how she had told him not to stop no matter what she said. She remembered his twisted relationship with Valerie, and as it all came back to her, her relief was so sharp a bubble of hysteria rose in her throat.

He sank down on the corner of the bed, propped his forearms on his splayed knees, and gazed glumly out toward the living room. "Maybe it's divine justice. When I was in my twenties, I took part in so much kinky stuff with all those groupies that now I can't seem to manage something simple and uncomplicated."

She drew the spread to her chin. "Dan-uli-Could I say something?"

"Not if it involves whips and dog collars." He paused. "Or more than two people."

The bubble rose higher in throat. She gave a choked sound. "It doesn't."

"All right, then."

She spoke to his back, picking her words carefully. "I didn't mean what you thought I meant. When I told you not to stop no matter what I said, I was talking about kissing. You're really an-uh-an excellent kisser." She took a deep breath, pressing on even though she knew she was making a muddle of it. "I get-Well, I have a couple of hang-ups. Not hang-ups, really; hang-ups is too strong a word. More like-like an allergy. Anyway, sometimes when I'm kissing a man, I have this sort of reaction."

She knew she was babbling from the way he turned his head to stare at her. His chest distracted her. Cast in bronze and sitting in the front window at her old gallery, it would have made them a fortune.

She swallowed hard. "I was just trying to tell you that if I had it-this reaction-you could sort of…"

"Ignore it?"

"Right. But the other-When we weren't kissing. When you were touching me." The bubble dissolved. "When I said stop, I meant stop."

His eyes darkened with regret. "Phoebe…"

"If I ever say stop to you, I mean stop. Always." She drew a deep breath. "No questions. No second-guessing. I'm not your ex-wife, and sexual violence isn't a game I play. With me, stop means stop."

"I understand, and I'm sorry."

She knew she would burst into tears if she had to listen to another basket load of regrets from him that would only make her feel even more inept.

"About this kissing allergy." He rubbed his chin, and she thought she detected amusement in his eyes. "What if the two of us decide to kiss each other again. And you have this allergic reaction, and you say stop. Am I supposed to stop then?"

She looked down at the bedspread. "Even then, I guess. I'm not going to send out any more mixed signals."

Reaching forward, he brushed her cheek with the back of his knuckles. "Promise?"

"Promise."

She had intended to get up and put on her clothes, but now as he touched her so gently, she couldn't move. She felt his warmth as he came closer and knew he was going to kiss her again. She was no longer afraid. Instead, the slow heat of desire rekindled inside her-not a raging fire, but a small, cozy flame.

"You don't like my underwear," she whispered against his mouth.

"No." He nibbled at her bottom lip. "But I like what's inside it a whole lot." His fingertips trailed along the bumps of her spine as his mouth settled over hers.

The kiss was both gentle and passionate, full of sizzle and sweetness. At that moment she wanted to make love with him more than she'd ever wanted anything. His tongue invaded her mouth. Her hands slipped to his arms, but then she wished she hadn't touched him there because she didn't want to be reminded of his strength, only his gentleness. How did she know he would stay gentle?

"Dan?"

"Uhmm."

"I know you said you didn't want any-you know-any kinky stuff."

She could feel him stiffen, and she almost lost courage as he drew away. Sinking back against the pillows that bunched at the headboard, the spread still clutched to her chest, she spoke in a rush. "This isn't all that kinky. Really, it's not."

"Maybe I'd better be the judge of that. And I'm warning you-I'm getting more conservative every day."

Her courage left her. "Forget it."

"We've gone this far; you might as well get it off your chest."

"I was just-Never mind."

"Phoebe, if things keep progressing at their current rate, it's about eighty percent guaranteed we're going to be intimate before this night's over, so you'd better tell me what's on your mind. Otherwise, the whole time we're going at it, I'll be waiting for you to bark like a dog or tell me to call you Howard."

She gave him an unsteady smile. "I'm not that imaginative. I wanted to ask-I mean, would you mind very much if we-" She got stuck and tried again. "If we pretend I'm a-"

"Lion tamer? Prison guard?"

"A virgin," she whispered and felt her cheeks flush with embarrassment.

He gazed at her. "A virgin?"

She dropped her eyes, mortified at what she'd revealed. "Forget it. Forget I said anything. Let's just do it."

"Phoebe, darlin', what's going on here?" He brushed his index finger over her lips.

"There's nothing going on."

"You can tell me. I'm sort of like a bedroom priest; I've pretty much heard it all. Have you ground out so many miles between the bedposts that you want to turn back the odometer a little?"

"Something like that," she murmured.

"I don't have a whole lot of experience with virgins to draw on. Matter of fact, I don't recall that I have any. Still, I's'pose I could use my imagination." And then his eyes narrowed. "I don't have to pretend that you're sixteen or anything, do I, because that kiddie stuff turns me off."

"Thirty-three," she whispered.

"That old?"

He was teasing her, and she knew it, so she tried to sound offhand. "Why not? Maybe one of those dried-up women who's secretly afraid of men. Somebody like that."

"Now this is getting kinda interesting." His thumb brushed along the very top of her breasts, just above the edge of the bedspread. "I don't suppose a woman like you would let me have another look at what you've got hidden under here?"

"As long as you don't say anything nasty about them."

"I wouldn't do that."

"You did. You told me to show you my-"

He pressed his finger over her lips. "That wasn't me. Only a real jerk would talk like that."

She loosened her grip on the spread. Slowly, he lowered it, letting the cover fall to her waist.

"Now a man like me would appreciate a sight like this." Despite his words, he didn't even look. Instead, he was studying her face.

Before she knew it, she was the one touching him. She ran her palms over his arms and along his shoulders. She was entranced with the contrast between his iron-hard muscles and the gentle way he nuzzled her neck. He trailed kisses along her jaw, nibbled her chin, the corner of her mouth. Finally he drew back and looked down at her breasts.

They had been painted by Flores and viewed by multitudes, but she felt as if they were being seen for the first time. He touched her. Just the pads of his thumbs on the very tips of her nipples, and the feeling was so exquisite that she sighed, an expression of desire and pleasure that spread all the way to her toes.

"Lean back," he whispered.

She sank into the pillows. He continued to touch her like that, just the very tips of her nipples, until she didn't think she could bear it any longer. She had never experienced desire like this, so warm and liquid with no place for fear. He slipped his hand farther into her panties.

"Stop."

He immediately withdrew.

She smiled. "I want to see you." Going up on her knees, she reached for his zipper, then found the courage to slide it down over the heavy bulge that strained the denim.

"Hold on a minute, darlin'." He stilled her hands before she could go further and got up from the bed to disappear into the bathroom. He reappeared a moment later.

Her lips curved as he tossed a handful of foil-wrapped condoms on the table at the side of the bed. "What an ego."

"How would a maiden lady like you even know what those are?"

"Public television."

Now he was the one with the grin, and she realized this was the first time she had ever laughed in bed with a man. Until this moment, she had never imagined that laughter and sex could go together.

"Where were we?"

She was amazed at her own boldness as she reached for the open V of his jeans. "Right here, as I remember." She couldn't believe how urgent her need was to see him. Instead of being afraid, she was experiencing a heady mixture of curiosity and lust.

"Don't faint on me."

"I'll try not to." She pushed the denim away and then swallowed hard as he sprang free from a pair of white cotton briefs.

"Oh, my." Her gasp wasn't feigned.

He chuckled. "Take deep breaths."

"Maybe it's just because your hips are so narrow. The contrast…"

"That's one way of looking at it." He smiled as he pulled off what was left of his clothing and stood naked before her.

She couldn't take her eyes off him. His shoulders were broad and powerful, his hips narrow with an almost concave abdomen. One of his knees was scarred, as was his opposite calf.

"This peep show works two ways, you know." He nodded toward the part of her still hidden beneath the spread that had settled in her lap.

"I'm too shy," she replied, sinking back on her heels.

"I guess I can understand that. Considering your inexperience and everything." The mattress sagged as he settled down on the edge. "What I'm going to suggest is this. Since you're a maiden lady, you might be less embarrassed if you just reached under the cover, slipped off what you've got left, and handed it out."

Lowering her eyes, she leaned back into the pillows and did as he suggested. As she dropped her panties at the side of the bed, she could barely control her excitement over this crazy, unpredictable seduction.

He lay down next to her on a bent elbow, slipped his other arm under the cover and drew up her knee to play with her ankle bracelet. "You just tell me to stop any time you get nervous."

An overwhelming flood of emotion washed through her. Even though he was teasing, he would never know how much those words meant.

Leaning forward, he started kissing her again: lips, breasts, sweet, hot kisses burning her skin, while she kissed him back and his hand moved higher under the covers until he was stroking her inner thighs.

"Spread open just a little bit for me now," he whispered.

She moved her legs. The cover fell away except for a small corner between her thighs. He brushed it aside.

She waited for him to make some crack about her being a natural blonde, but he didn't say anything. She drew a deep, shuddering breath as he began to explore her.

"Does that feel good?"

"Yes. Oh, yes."

"I'm glad."

"Would you stop?"

He withdrew his hand.

Joy and lust swirled inside her when she realized he had done as she'd asked. His compliance gave her courage. She twisted her body so that she was above him, her breasts gently swaying, the nipples stirring the hair on his chest. She watched his expression as she began her own sensual mission, trailing her hand down over his chest to his belly, which was covered with a thin sheen of perspiration.

She slipped lower and touched him. He caught his breath. She felt him rigid and pulsing in her hand, straining for release, and once again, fear mingled with desire. This time, however, desire was stronger.

"We're getting close to the point of no return," he whispered hoarsely.

She shook her head. Fondled him. "You promised."

"Stop," he groaned.

She did.

He rolled over so that he was once again looking down at her. "Let's get you ready, virgin lady," he whispered, " 'cause I don't think I can hold off much longer."

It was so good.

He prepared her with his fingers as if she were brand-new. Emotions she couldn't name filled her heart while his deep stroking sent waves of fire surging through her. His breathing was heavy, his skin flushed. He stopped to reach for one of the foil packets and sheathed himself before he returned to his caresses.

"You're so tight," he whispered, as he shifted his hips and poised himself to enter her. "It's almost like-"

"Stop," she sobbed, even though she knew he had gone past the point where he would listen.

But he rolled off. Fell back. Sweat beaded his forehead. "You're killing me," he gasped, his chest heaving.

She couldn't believe he'd kept his promise, and in those moments she loved him. She told herself it wasn't a permanent emotion, not happily-ever-after, but an ephemeral love born of gratitude. Along with her heart, her whole body opened to him, demanding that he fill her and trusting him to do no damage. She clutched at his shoulders, drew him back.

He clasped her behind the knees and spread her thighs.

"Slow," she pleaded. "Don't hurt."

"Oh, I won't, darlin'," he said as he parted her. "I wouldn't hurt you for anything."

And he didn't. His entry was achingly slow, and he watched her the whole time, green eyes half-lidded, neck muscles rigid, skin damp. She could feel his iron control, even as her body stretched to take him. He began pumping inside her, and her own control slipped away.

"That's right," he whispered, as her head thrashed on the pillow and tiny moans slipped through her lips. "Make some noise for me, baby. Make all the noise you want."

He thrust deeply, and she moved with him. The sensation was wonderful and frightening. She began to spiral, and now it was not his loss of control that threatened her, but her own. Her fingers dug into the steely bands at his shoulders. Something was happening to her. Something wonderful. Something terrifying. If she lost control… She opened her mouth and sobbed, "Stop!"

The sound he made was barely human, a strangled exclamation deep in his throat. This time she knew he wouldn't listen. He had traveled too far and her request was no longer fair.

But he withdrew. This iron-willed man who could have overpowered her in an instant acceded to her wishes and fell back into the pillows, skin flushed, veins throbbing in his neck, chest heaving.

With his acquiescence, the shackles that had bound her for so long broke away, and joy took their place. She fell on him. Kissed him with her tongue. Took his hair in her fists as she reclaimed her womanhood and loved him with all her heart.

It seemed natural for her to mount him.

She slipped her leg over his hips and gradually took him into her body, his size forcing her to go more slowly than she wished so she could accommodate him. When she had completely impaled herself, she gazed down at him. His eyes were open, but glazed, his lips taut. She began to move, timing the strokes as little sobs slipped through her lips. He cupped her buttocks so she didn't lose him, his fingers soothing her where they were joined.

She splayed her hands in the hair on his chest, arched her back, and rode him higher and higher. Her hair began to fly. She had become a glittering blond amazon who had claimed the mightiest of men to service her. He bucked, but she stayed with him, her thighs gripping his powerful hips. She was in command. He was hers to take.

He was blowing now. His chest heaved as he emptied and filled his lungs, an athlete reaching for the limits of his endurance. She understood then that he was determined she would shatter first. He was a man who thrived on competition, and in this particular game, second place earned the trophy. He didn't know how it was with her. He didn't understand that she couldn't.

But there was something she didn't understand. To him, winning was everything. And he wasn't above cheating.

With his fingers, he found her most vulnerable spot. She gasped for air, her head fell forward. He deepened that thrilling, unfair touch. The room whirled around her, spinning faster and faster, and the boundaries between what was his and what was hers dissolved.

It couldn't be happening. It never happened…

A great cry spilled from her very center. She heard a dim, answering roar and felt his fierce shudders. Spinning free of gravity, they hurtled into oblivion.