I sit up so that I can hug my knees as I look at him. "This is going to be hard, isn't it?"
He doesn't answer, but he really doesn't need to.
"You know, if I was another woman--" I say airily, as if the words mean nothing. "If I wasn't your sister, I could join you. Be the second girl in your bed."
His brows lift. "Would you like that?" he asks, his eyes studying my face.
"Would you?" I counter, because I'm still trying to figure out what the line is for him. What he wants. What he needs. I know because of his reputation and because I've seen it with my own eyes that he often entertained more than one girl in his bed. Is he going to miss that dynamic with me?
He is silent for so long that I think he is going to simply avoid the question. Finally, though, he answers. "I've had two women at a time. Often, actually. Most of the time, frankly."
"Oh." He's not really doing a good job of soothing me here. I mean, I'm reasonably confident of my skill in bed, but I can't be two girls. Just not physically possible.
"Do you know why?"
"Because you're an insatiable manwhore?"
He laughs out loud. "It definitely feeds the reputation, but no. Because of the distraction."
I shake my head, not understanding.
"Oh, baby, don't you get it? Not one of the women who has ever shared my bed is the woman I truly wanted. And rather than share so much intimacy with a woman I didn't really want, I'd bring in a second--or sometimes a third. But with you--oh, God, Jane, don't you know that I only want you in my bed?"
I exhale, my relief so intense I feel light-headed. He leans toward me and kisses me softly. "Okay?"
"Very much," I say, and realize that I am grinning like a fool.
He grins, too, and I see the moment his expression turns mischievous. "Now, to be clear, just because I don't need another woman in my bed doesn't mean that you can't invite one. I mean, if you want to romp naked with one of your girlfriends, possibly with whipped cream ..."
He trails off, and I smack him lightly in the arm. "You are such a guy."
"I'm very glad you think so."
"Oh, I more than think so. I can prove it." I move to straddle him, then stroke my hands over his shirt, tugging it up as I move down his body. It's untucked by the time I reach the waistband of his jeans, and as my fingers go to the button on his fly, my kisses trace the arrow of hair that leads from his abdomen to his cock.
As I following that trail to heaven, his phone rings in his back pocket. He reaches for it, pulls it out and silences it with a firm touch of a button.
I smile and ease his zipper down, watching with satisfaction the way the muscles in his lower abs tighten, evidencing his effort to keep control.
"See?" I say. "This bit of hair, these very nice muscles. Definitely a guy kind of thing."
"I do appreciate a woman who searches out the evidence."
I laugh and start to tug his jeans down, gratified when he lifts his hips to help.
He's wearing black boxer briefs, and I tug them down to reveal his very hard cock. And then, with one quick glance at him, I slowly lick him from balls to tip.
He arches up, and the sound of his moan fills me up and turns me on. I start to tease the tip, and his damn phone starts to ping, signaling a text.
"Fuck," he says, then glances at the screen. "Well, shit."
"What is it?"
He starts to answer, but the phone rings. "What it is, is that I have to take this call. It's Adele. She texted to say I need to answer. That it's important."
I lift a brow, wondering what the hell my birth father's ex-wife could be calling about that's so important. "Go ahead," I say. "Don't mind me."
"Jane ..."