He wanted her to touch him. He wanted her on her knees, on her back, straddled, spread, any way he could get at her, right here where the heat from their bodies would burn up the floorboards and send them plunging straight down to the fiery center of the earth.

He could feel her wildness matching his, her maniac hands digging into his arms, her hips pushing and thrusting against him, grinding. She was crazy, as crazy as he was, and just as needy. And those sounds, almost like fear, almost like . . .

He went rigid as he realized that she was trying to get away from him, and he was holding her against her will.

“God damn!” He pushed himself away, knocking over a chair in his haste.

Her mouth was swollen and bruised from his kisses. Her breasts heaved and her hair was tousled, as if he’d plunged his hands through it, which maybe he had because he sure as hell didn’t know what he was doing anymore. As he looked into her stricken eyes, he felt sick. He’d been with a lot of women, and this was the first time he’d ever had any trouble sorting out no from yes. The accusation in those tilty-up eyes made him feel like a criminal, and that wasn’t right because they’d gone into this together.

“I’m not apologizing again, goddammit!” he shouted. “If you didn’t want me to kiss you, all you had to do was say no!”

Instead of arguing with him, she lifted her hand in a small, helpless gesture that made him feel like the world’s biggest bully. “I’m sorry,” she whispered.

“Phoebe . . .”

She grabbed her purse and ran from the kitchen, from his house, from the dangerous heat of two bodies on fire.

11

11

Phoebe felt muzzy and depressed as she sipped her first cup of morning coffee. Slowly swiveling in her chair, she looked out through her office windows onto the empty practice fields. It was Monday, “Bumps and Bruises Day,” when the players picked up the grade they had been given by the coaches for their performance during the game, had physical checkups, and looked at films. They didn’t practice again until Wednesday, and she was grateful she wouldn’t have to spend the day watching Dan run up and down the sidelines in a T-shirt and shorts, yelling and screaming and throwing clipboards as if he could propel his team to football glory through the sheer force of his will.

Why had she let him kiss her last night when she’d known that she wasn’t woman enough to see it through? She couldn’t blame him for his anger; both of them knew she had gone into his arms willingly. But when she had heard the hot rasp in his breathing, felt his strength, and known she couldn’t control him, she had panicked.