But Kate has other ideas. She reaches down between us and pulls my rock-hard d.i.c.k out of my swim shorts. She strokes it expertly, until my eyes cross. "You can ma.s.sage me later. I need you to f.u.c.k me right now."

Christ. I love it when she gets bossy. With one hand, I push my shorts down the rest of the way. Then I line us up and slide slowly inside. "G.o.d d.a.m.n." Her body swells around me. Takes me in and holds me tight.

It might sound stupid-overly romantic-to say that Kate's body was made for mine. But that doesn't make it any less true. My hips pull back, and her muscles squeeze harder, not wanting to let me go. I push in deeper till Kate's a.s.s. .h.i.ts the wall behind her. I pump into her with short, hard strokes, thumping against the wall in a drumming rhythm. We gasp and moan together-cursing and humming-with every thrust.

It's not gentle. Or quiet. We're loud enough for the rest of the house to hear us. h.e.l.l, we're loud enough for Indonesia to hear us. Holding her against me, I turn around so my back's braced against the doorframe of the bathroom. I lift her up and down smoothly. My arms strain from the action, and a sheen of sweat covers our skins.

Then I take a few steps into the bathroom, to the vanity counter. I perch her on top, knocking clinking bottles of perfume and face wash to the floor. I kiss her deeply, and her tongue dances against mine. She pulls back and grips my hips with her hands, taking over the pace.

She moans and begs and orders, "Slow."

I do as she commands, rotating my hips in sensuously slow circles. Clashing against her, bringing us closer to that powerful pinnacle with every breath we take.

"f.u.c.k . . . ," I hiss, because it feels too good not to.

"Drew . . . ," she answers with a soulful whimper.

Kate's legs tremble, shake under my steady hands. I move faster, pump against her harder, greedy for the feeling of her tight, hot muscles pulsing and contracting around me. The heels of the black shoes that still encase her feet dig into my a.s.s as she matches the give-and-take of my hips with her own.

Then she's clinging to me-chest to chest-her teeth biting into my shoulder as she screams. "Yes . . . yes . . ."

When you've had as many o.r.g.a.s.ms as I have, they tend to blend together, forming one general happy memory. But every once in a while, one stands out from the rest. It's a moment I'll think about later-relive on my next business trip when masturbation is my only recourse.

This is one of those o.r.g.a.s.ms.

Ecstasy rips through me like a submarine missile tearing into the ocean. I lean forward over Kate, pressing her against me. Trying to get closer-to absorb every ounce of bliss she's giving me. I think I shout her name, but I'm not sure.

Several moments later, after the sound of my blood pounding in my ears has lessened, I look into Kate's smiling eyes. She pushes my damp hair off my forehead. Then she kisses the tattoo of our son's name on my chest.

And she hugs me-holds me-resting her cheek against my heart. "I love you, Drew."

It should be weird to have such sweet words and tender actions come after the rough and raw s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g we just enjoyed. But for us? Nothing weird about it.

For us, it's perfect.

Chapter 9.

I did eventually give Kate that ma.s.sage. Not that she needed it, relaxed as she was-but rubbing warm baby oil on Kate's body is my idea of a really good time. It doesn't take a genius to figure out how things went from there. Which is why, at the moment, Kate is pa.s.sed out cold on the bed. I'll let her sleep another twenty minutes or so before I'll have to wake her. Because it's common knowledge that women take forever and a day to get ready for a night on the town. Kate may be different from most girls in a lot of ways-but in that way? She's exactly the same.

I walk out of the bedroom to the kitchen, looking for some nourishment. Man can't live on s.e.x alone-as cool an idea as that would be. The house is quiet. Jack and Warren probably took off to escape the sounds of b.u.mping and grinding all around them.

I make myself a turkey on rye in the kitchen, then I glance out the balcony doors and spot my sister. Sitting alone on the private brick patio in the rear of the villa.

Mentally I shake my head and step out through the doors. Alexandra glances at me quickly, then turns her eyes back to the foliage surrounding the yard. Forlorn is not a look I'm used to seeing on my sister. It's unsettling.

I sit down in the lawn chair beside her and put my sandwich on the table. I should start off kindly. Unaccusing. Considerate. I should be diplomatic.

"What the f.u.c.k, Lexi?"

She takes a sip from the martini gla.s.s in her hand before placing it on the table. "Go away, Drew. I'd like to be alone."

"I'd like to buy a private island in the South Pacific and name it Drewland, but that's not going to happen anytime soon. We can't always have what we want."

I pick up the pink-concoction-filled gla.s.s and give it a sniff. My head jerks back and my nose wrinkles. Whatever my sister's been drinking smells like fruity ammonia-like strawberry-scented bat p.i.s.s.

"If you're going to poison your body, at least have the decency to use a premium-brand toxin." Cheap liquor is strictly reserved for winos and college kids who don't know any better.

Her face is impa.s.sive. Slack and sad. She shakes her head slightly. "You don't understand."

I toss her drink onto the gra.s.s. "I resent that. I'll have you know I understand all perspectives-man, woman, or child. G.o.d and I are a lot alike that way." I pause for a second and my voice softens. "What's wrong, Alexandra? Whatever it is, maybe I can help."

Her tone is flat. Lifeless. "Steven is going to divorce me."

I snort. "With the way you've been acting lately, I don't blame him."

I ready my hand to block the gla.s.s that I'm pretty certain is about to come spiraling at my face. But nothing gets thrown at me. Instead something more shocking-more horrifying-happens.

The b.i.t.c.h covers her face with her hands and sobs into them.

I swallow hard. Then I look around. Waiting for that douche bag Ashton Kutcher to jump out and yell, "Punked!" Because Alexandra Evans isn't a crier. She's a doer-a fixer.

And throughout the history of mankind, crying has never fixed s.h.i.t.

I stutter. And ask the second-stupidest question ever. "Are you . . . are you crying?"

In my head Tom Hanks's voice echoes, "There's no crying in baseball!" Did Cleopatra cry when Egypt got sacked? Did Joan of Arc cry when the Catholic Church called her a witch? They are my sister's counterparts.

Alexandra shakes her head, but the tears keep on flowing. "It's my fault. I've pushed him away. I've been miserable to be around. I've treated him terribly."

"Well, if you know that, why don't you just . . . stop?" Seems simple, right?

Wrong.

"I can't help it. I'm so sad. And angry. It's not fair. I'm too young to be a dried-up prune!"

Now she's really going at it. Sniffling and snotting all over the place. I don't have a tissue, so I take off my T-shirt-even though it's one of my favorites-and hand it to her. Alexandra blows her nose into it. It sounds like a dying goose.

Even though I have no f.u.c.king clue what she's talking about, I know I'm supposed to say something. "Well . . . prunes have their uses. A few months ago, James's pipes were backed up. And we fed him a few of those bad boys and they did the trick. It was like edible Drano-cleaned everything out. Prunes are great."

She stops. And looks up at me with red-rimmed, perplexed eyes. "What the h.e.l.l are you talking about?"

"I have no f.u.c.king idea! I'm trying to be comforting."

"Well, it's a good thing I don't come to you for comfort often. You suck at it!" She goes back to bawling in the T-shirt.

I pinch the bridge of my nose and breathe deep. Let's try this again. "You said you were angry. Sad. Why are you angry and sad, Alexandra?"

She wipes at her face and talks quickly-rushed. "I could set my watch to my period. Every twenty-seven days on the dot. So when it didn't come, I thought, Oh, c.r.a.p, you know? And even though the test said negative, I a.s.sumed it was just too early. So I went to the doctor and I was so sure he was going to tell me I was pregnant. And even though it wasn't planned, I started to get used to the idea of another one. I was excited. But then . . . then he told me I wasn't pregnant."

A cold ball of ice settles in my stomach. "You're not . . . you're not sick, are you?"

She shakes her head. "No. I'm not sick." She takes a cleansing breath. "He said it's menopause. Early-onset menopause. I can't have any more children-ever. I'm infertile."

She weeps quietly for a minute.

I rub her shoulder gently. "Did you and Steven want a lot more kids?"

Her brow furrows slightly. "Well . . . no. We'd always planned on two. After Thomas was born, I'd even talked to Steven about getting a vasectomy. He wasn't keen on the idea."

I try to understand the problem. That fails, so I ask, "But, if you don't want any more kids-then why are you so devastated about not being able to have any more kids?"

"Because I'm a woman, Drew! Creating life. Nurturing-that's what we do."

Nope-still don't get it. "But that's not all you do. I mean, Jesus, Alexandra, it's not like you're a Handmaid's Tale breeder here. So the egg basket's empty? Big deal. You have two beautiful children-be happy with them. Maybe this is nature's way of telling you that you shouldn't have any more. I've seen what pregnancy does to your body. It ain't pretty."

Now she's glaring at me. Which is a good sign. p.i.s.sed-off Alexandra I can handle.

"I am happy with the two that I have. It's just . . . having the option to have more was nice . . . even if I never did. I feel . . . cheated. And old. I have the insides of a sixty-year-old woman, Drew. How long before the outside reflects that? And have you looked at Steven lately? Every year he gets more handsome-more distinguished looking. Soon some gold-digging bimbo is going to try to get her claws in him, and he's going to be saddled with a wife who looks like Barbara Bush!"

She buries her face in the shirt again, and I can't help but laugh. Just a little. "Lexi . . . you're hardly Barbara Bush. I'd say you're more of the Christie Brinkley variety. And besides-Steven loves you. You. Not your G.o.dd.a.m.n ovaries. You're the b.i.t.c.hy-boss center of his universe. You always have been. When the rest of us were jerking off to thoughts of Sister B, Steven was jerking off to thoughts of you." And don't think I'm comfortable knowing that. "He'd never trade you in for some skinny-legged twit who's only interested in the size of his bank account. Steven is too smart for that."

She looks up. Almost hopefully. "How would you feel if Kate told you she couldn't have any more kids?"

I take a moment to ponder. To imagine the possibilities. "If Kate told me I could bang her all I wanted and I never had to worry about knocking her up? I'd do the Irish jig down Fifth f.u.c.king Avenue. It'd be like Christmas every day. No more PMS, no more abstaining for three to five days every month . . . unless you let Steven go wading in the crimson tide? Which, if you do, please lie to me."

Period s.e.x is a deal breaker for Kate. No matter what I say, no matter what I do, she's not interested. Which I will never understand. We're hunters, ladies. We like blood. It's part of the reason action flicks and war movies have so much of it. We don't think it's gross. We don't think it's messy. It's just . . . more lubrication.

Don't look at me like that. I'm just being honest.

The tears have almost dried up. Alexandra sniffles and hiccups. "But don't you want more children?"

"Sure, I want more. James is the best. I'd have twenty with Kate. In theory. Reality's a different story. Kids are hard."

Alexandra nods.

"You need to talk to Steven. You're torturing the guy. It's cruel and unusual punishment."

"What if he looks at me differently?"

"He won't."

"How can you be sure?"

I lean forward and try to find the right words. "Because . . . because when Kate was pregnant with James? She was as big as a house-and I still wanted to f.u.c.k her every bit as much as I want to right now. Because when I look at her? I just see Kate . . . the woman who walked into my life five years ago and screwed it all up. Who shook me out, turned me upside down, and made me . . . more. So even when she gets wrinkly or gray? She'll still be Kate. She'll still make me laugh and make me crazy . . . and she'll still love me more than I will ever deserve. And I know that Steven feels the same way about you."

Alexandra wipes her eyes with my shirt one last time. She starts to look more like herself. "So . . . you're saying I'm making a bigger deal about this than it is?"

"I'm saying if you tell Steven, it won't feel so big anymore."

She gives me a small smile. "You're right. I know you're right. I'll talk to him tonight."

"Good."

Alexandra stands up, leans in, and hugs me. I squeeze her back, letting her know that I'm here for her. To listen, and to kick her in the a.s.s whenever the rare opportunity presents itself.

"And don't go making a habit out of this falling-apart thing," I chastise. "I have an exclusive on self-destructive behavior in this family."

She chuckles and heads toward the house. Then she pauses and turns toward me. "Hey, Drew?"

"Yeah?"

"When did you get so smart?"

That's an easy one. "About five years ago."

After I finish my sandwich, I head back to the bedroom to wake Kate. But when I get there, she's already up and in the shower. Washing the body I obsess about and singing.

n.o.body does it half as good as you Baby, you're the best Her voice floats around the bathroom and echoes off the tiles. It's a cheesy song-Carly Simon-from some seventies James Bond flick. But pleasure still rises up from my gut and spreads out through my chest at the sound. Because as sure as I know Delores will one day be committed to a home for the criminally insane, I know Kate is singing about me. I fold my arms, lean back against the door, and watch her through the steamed gla.s.s. She tilts her head back under the hot stream of water. Her rack juts out high and proud-more tantalizing than any Vegas showgirl's set. Her long hair brushes against her a.s.s, playing peekaboo with the b.u.t.terfly tattoo on her lower back.

Kate turns off the water and steps out of the shower. She smiles when she sees me. "Hey, you. Where'd you go?"

I should probably hand her a towel. It would be the nice thing to do. The bathroom tiles are cool, and if her pointy nipples are any indication, she's a bit chilled. But you don't really think I'm going to do that, do you?

Come on.

Like I would ever pa.s.s up the chance to eyef.u.c.k Kate Brooks in all her wet, bare-a.s.s beauty. And pointy nipples are awesome. So, like the giggly, perverted schoolboy part of me still is, I don't move an inch as Kate scurries across the bathroom and grabs a robe off the hook on the far wall, then covers up my favorite viewing pleasure.

"I was on the patio with Alexandra."

Kate twists a second towel around her head in that high-crown style that only women are capable of. Then she frowns worriedly. "She really hasn't been herself lately. I hope she'll talk to me tonight about whatever's going on between her and Steven."

"Way ahead of you. It's all taken care of."

"What's happened?"

I reach into the shower and turn the water back on full blast. Then I slip off my boxers. Despite the seriousness of the conversation, Kate does a little eyef.u.c.king of her own.

Nice.

"Her baby-making factory got an early foreclosure notice."