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.