It Had to Be You (Chicago Stars #1)(56)

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.