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him.
    He wasn’t a talker during sex. Usually. But something about
the sound she made egged him on. “You like that, Andrea?”
    She moaned again.
    “Tell me,” he urged, balancing on his palms, watching each
expression on her face, though her eyes had drifted shut. “Tell me how you like
fucking me. That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?”
    His body followed his words, fucking her in time to them. “Tell
me. Tell me how you feel.”
    Each slide of his cock out of her wet pussy had her inner
muscles clenching to hold him there, each thrust back in made him feel like a
conqueror being welcomed back into the gates of the city.
    But eyes closed, she resisted his urging to speak.
    Abruptly, he pulled out of her and her eyes opened just as
he came up on his knees.
    “What are you—”
    He flipped her over so that her perfect ass was right in
front of his cock and she looked over her shoulder in confusion.
    “On your knees.” He wrapped one arm around her waist and
tugged her up.
    “Oh.”
    Positioning her aggressively, he kneed her legs open,
pushing her shoulders down so she was at more of an angle, her glistening wet
pussy open to him.
    He slid inside, holding her hips, making her take him deep. Then
he held himself there, motionless, both of them breathing heavily as he pulsed
inside her. When he started up again, it was fierce and fast, the jiggle of her
breasts as he thrust into her just visible over her shoulder. Christ, she felt
good.
    “Oh, you’re so deep,” she murmured and he came with one last
thrust, milking it as he felt her come as well.
    Collapsing on top of her, he kissed her damp shoulder,
moving her hair from her face. “You really are perfect.”
    “I don’t like it when you say that.”
    A little of the clipped tone had crept back into her voice
and he rolled off her onto his back.
    “Why not?”
    “I’m not perfect. Nobody’s perfect.”
    “Except Michael maybe,” he said with a laugh.
    “You wouldn’t say that if you saw how he treated most of the
women he’s ever been with.”
    Evan had been worried maybe Andrea was a little in love with
his brother. Her tone took care of that. Nobody was a hero to their own valet,
or some shit like that. He didn’t like to think maybe Andrea didn’t even like
Michael, though. His big brother was a pompous tight-ass most of the time, but
at heart he was a good guy.
    “The Reynolds men are notoriously hard on their women. It
runs in the family.”
    She stiffened. “Except when they’re in bed with them, I
suppose.”
    He knew when not to step into a minefield. “At least Michael
seems to have found his match in this Vanny.”
    “Yes, she’s a strong girl. She’ll be good for your brother.”
    He got up to take a sip of his half-finished beer. “Why
don’t you drink?” he asked casually.
    “I don’t like what it does to people.”
    “Relaxes them?”
    “Makes them numb to things they should feel.”
    When he looked back at her, he saw she had retrieved her
phone and was playing with it, presumably switching the ringer back on. He
peeled the condom off, though he was by no means done with Andrea Prentiss. “Do
you want to order dinner?”
    Her phone rang and without hesitation she picked it up and
conversed, buck-naked. This time it was French and he did know a smattering of
that thanks to his mother’s tendency to drag him along with her on shopping
trips to France when he was a boy. She was always looking for that perfect
little black dress, tantalizingly out of reach in some wildly expensive hole-in-the-wall
shop off the Champs-Élysées.
    Andrea seemed to be talking to one of the foreign offices of
Reynolds Industries, not Paris since it was too early for it there, but
someplace with a colonial legacy where they still spoke French. Indonesia
maybe. Who the hell knew? She was assuring them that “ Monsieur Reynolds n’est pas mort ,” but instead would be just fine. It took a good five
minutes but he supposed the entire