Her eyes closed briefly, and he wasn’t sure if she were composing herself or convincing herself. But either way, when her eyelids lifted, it was determination and anticipation he saw in those beautiful brown depths, not trepidation.

Picking her up with a squeal, he tossed her on the bed and jumped on top of her. He reached into her nightstand and fished around for one of the condoms they’d thrown in there the evening before. Then he stood, shucked his jeans and donned the protection. He slithered back on bed and rolled them so she was on top, straddling him.

“Off you go.”

She glared at him. “Off I go? What, like I’m a racehorse now?”

“No,” he said slowly, enjoying himself more than he could ever remember before. “But I’d been ready for some girl-on-top sex on the couch, and you deprived me of it. I think it’s only fair you make up for it now.”

Her scowl was adorable, and totally unbelievable. “Make up for it, hmm?” Grasping him with her hand, she squeezed once, and he swore he saw stars behind his eyelids. “You want me on top, riding you, like we were on the couch? You want me to do all the work, so you can watch me bounce around?”

“Yes, please.” He grinned when her annoyed look only darkened further. “Bounce away!”

She positioned herself over him, slid down his length, taking him entirely. He moaned, knowing she liked the sound of reassurance. “There we go. God, that’s good. You’re amazing, Reagan.”

She huffed.

“A goddess. Temptress.” She pulsed around him without moving a muscle. “Ah . . . siren. Pick a noun, it’s yours.”

She rocked, just a little. “Let’s try tease.”

His eyes flew open. “No, please. Back to goddess. That was a good one.” When she simply stared at him, unmoving, he added, “Reagan, please move.”

“I’m not in a very bouncing mood currently. But maybe just a little . . .” She squeezed and rolled an inch. The smile she shot him was sharp. “You did say you wanted me to do all the work. Me on top, riding you. I get to pick the pace. Girl on Top’s prerogative.”

“Dammit!” He swore, then reached up and pulled her down for a kiss. She complied easily, meeting his thrusting tongue. But her hips stayed irritatingly still, minus little pulses just random enough in tempo to keep him guessing.

“C’mon baby,” he whispered as he worked down her jaw to her neck. “You can pick the speed—” He gritted his teeth when she pulsed around him, rolling forward and back quickly before stopping with a cheeky grin. “You can pick the motion, anything.” His hands glided over the smoothness of her spine, around her hips, to where they were joined. She sucked in a breath, but stayed stubborn. “Maybe this will help?”

He fought for his most contrite look when she reared back and glared at him. But as his fingers played through her intimate curls, then found and played with her folds, her eyes closed as if in unbelievable pleasure. He removed his hand, and her hips rocked forward to find his fingers once more. He did it again, playing for a moment then removing, and she moved without thinking, seeking his touch. Then her eyes popped open, aware of the game he played.

“You suck,” she bit out, thrusting again. “You suck so bad.”

“But you like it.” He grasped her hips, pulled her hip a bit, then let her naturally slide back down. Their twin groans were in harmony. “Let’s do this, Reagan.”

As if those words unlocked her willingness, she started to move. Slow at first, then gradually picking up steam. Relief at finally having a pace he could match, could anticipate was quickly covered by the realization he was going to come way faster than her.

Those little pulses and quick thrusts, frustrating as they were, had done a number on him.

“Not so fast,” he muttered, finding her clit once more with his thumb.

“You wanted fast. You begged for fast.” She let the motion of their hips rock her, and she arched back, face tilted to the ceiling. She was a goddess. “Now you want me to slow down?”

“No, I . . . forget it.” He pinched her between two fingers. From the way she tightened around him, he’d found what she wanted. “You do whatever you want, baby. Your show.”

“You say that now, after you manipulated me to—oh!” She shot up straight as an arrow, looking down at him. “Do that again.”

With a grin, he did. She fell forward until her hands landed beside his shoulders. “I’ll pay you a million dollars to never stop . . . never stop . . . that.”

“For you, Reagan, I’ll do it for free.” He didn’t stop, until neither of them could slow down the inevitable climax that gripped them both.

Spent, she draped over him, their sweat causing a suction of skin to skin along their bellies.

“Bouncing,” she grumbled, biting his collarbone. He yelped, because she wanted him to, and smacked a hand over her ass playfully.

“You do wonderful work in that department, baby.”

*   *   *

GREG was currently hogging the shower—and all the hot water for the day. Reagan debated a moment fighting him for it—ha! like she’d win that one—then gave up. Let him have the hot water. She’d go surf online for a bit. Maybe dig up some dirt on Mr. David Cruise that would have him begging forgiveness.

Probably not. But it was a nice thought, at least for the moment.

She sat down at her computer, tapped a finger to the mouse pad to illuminate the screen, then just stared at it for a moment. There was nothing pressing, at least not yet. But it wouldn’t hurt to get started on another round of positive campaign ideas. Maybe something about the yoga lessons. She could work that into making the boxing team sound more gentle and nurturing . . . you know, when they weren’t beating the crap out of others inside the ring.

Her phone vibrated beside the laptop, and she glanced at the readout. Mom. Before she could even think twice, she sent the call straight to voicemail.

Two minutes later, she received a text from her younger brother, Dale, who was three years behind her.

Dale: Answer mom’s call. I’m sick of listening to her bitch about it.

A few moments later, the phone vibrated with another call from her mother. She hesitated, checked to make sure Greg was still in the shower, then answered.

“Mom? Everything okay?”

“Well, you answered this time.” Huffing out a breath, her mother sounded like a wheezing chew toy that had the squeaker ripped out. “Figured you’d send me to your answering machine again.”

She recognized that tone. No, there was no problem. Just her own mother’s impatience and belief that there was nothing more important in this world than your mama’s call. “It’s a cell phone, Mom. No answering machine, just voice mail.”

Reagan could actually visualize the eye roll her mother was now performing in Wisconsin.

“Never mind that. Tell me how things are going.”

“Going good. Everything’s good. I’m . . . good,” she finished, then winced. That wasn’t even remotely believable.

And her mother, using the maternal intuition that must be created along with the hormones in pregnancy, caught on immediately. “Reagan Marie Robilard, tell me right now what’s going on.”

She could lie. It wasn’t as if her mother were going to know the difference. If she lied and said all was fine, or hedged and gave half-truths, she could make it out of the phone conversation without bleeding.

That’s wrong. You just mentally scolded Greg for not being up front with you. Start taking your own advice. Don’t hide from your own mother. Maybe this time, she’ll surprise you.

“Well,” she said, fingers nervously tapping on the desktop, “I’ve had some trouble with my job recently.”

“Trouble?” Her mother’s voice sharpened. “What kind of trouble?”

“Just . . . stuff. Vandalism issues with the team, which aren’t my fault of course. But I’m struggling to keep everyone and everything together, and keep the PR spun the right way. There’s a reporter who can smell blood, and my supervisor won’t get off my ass about it and . . .” She bit her lip, and the feeling of helplessness swarmed her once more. Which only served to piss her off. “I’m not sure how much longer I can hold on.”