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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."
