Alexander studied Isobel on the couch next to him. She had disappeared into herself again. Whatever she was trying to work out in that brilliant head of hers clearly required a lot of frowning.

“Isobel? What is it?”

She looked at him. Pulled an apologetic face.

“Sorry. It’s nothing.”

Her head was cocked. Her hair fell around her shoulders. She had pulled her feet up onto the couch and was squeezing her toes. Yeah right, nothing.

“Hurting?” he asked with a nod toward her feet.

“I don’t think I was made for heels.”

“But you looked so damn hot in those shoes. Give me your foot,” he said.

She gave him a suspicious look.

“Even though it might sound like it, I don’t have a foot fetish. Give it to me.”

She tentatively stretched out her leg toward him. He took her foot and started to gently knead it.

“You have pretty feet. Maybe I’m a bit of a fetishist after all. What do you think about this?”

“It’s nice.”

He took her big toe between his forefinger and thumb. “Do you like when I squeeze it like this?”

She shook her head. “Not so much.”

“What about this, then?” He pushed his thumb into the arch of her foot, and she groaned.

“Yes. Keep doing that.”

“See, not so hard, is it? You say what you like and you get it.”

She gave him a disapproving look. “You’re really stuck on that.”

“I think it’s important for you. Having an orgasm is a feminist act. But it’s important to me too.”

“Why?”

“Don’t you see what a weird question that is? Why wouldn’t I want it?”

Who had taught Isobel to be content with less than she deserved? And why in hell had she gone along with it?

She pushed back red tresses that were falling around her face and seemed to be thinking. “I think it’s about control. I have trouble letting go.”

No shit, Sherlock. Isobel had to be the most controlling person he’d ever met.

“And the moment you say that, people always start to press and squeeze and perform and show off,” she added, then quickly falling silent, as though she’d said more than she meant to.

“By people, I’m guessing you mean your lousy lovers? Give me the other foot.”

He pressed his thumb into the arch again, and she moaned lustily.

“Massages are often better than sex, if I’m honest.”

But he didn’t fall for that. “Now we’re getting somewhere. Honesty. If you turn round, with your back to me, I’ll do your neck, too.”

He saw uncertainty flash across her face, as though she couldn’t comprehend his doing something for her without an ulterior motive.

“Come on, Isobel, you know you want to. I have magic hands.”

She hesitated, but then turned around on the couch so that she was facing away from him. Alexander pushed down the blanket, placed his hands on her shoulders, and worked his fingers in beneath her hair.

“God, that’s so good,” she mumbled as he worked away.

Alexander leaned forward, bit her shoulder. She trembled. So, she liked that. He continued massaging her neck, worked his way down her shoulders and back. Her skin was soon glowing, and she was making a faint humming sound. He allowed one of his hands to creep round, cup her breast, massage her nipple. She didn’t say anything, but he heard her breathing change. She raised one arm and put it around his neck, pulled him close to her. He got up, onto his knees, hard against her back. He bent down, still cupping her breast with one hand and working his way down her stomach with the other, cupping her red curls.

She was wet, and she breathed heavily in his ear. She definitely liked this.

“I want to make it nice for you,” he murmured.

“It is nice.”

“Lie down, on your back.”

His couch was one of the deepest models, and Alexander moved down alongside her, didn’t want to ruin the moment by suggesting they go to the bedroom.

“Show me how you want it. Show me with your hands,” he said, taking her hand and placing it over his own. “Touch yourself.”

At first, she lay still.

“Do it, Isobel, please.”

She slowly moved her hand along her thigh. He followed her movement and carefully parted her legs. She turned her head, looking wide-eyed at him.

“Keep going, don’t stop. I want to watch.”

Isobel’s hand wandered up, over her stomach, and then back down, slowly. She closed her eyes, raised her legs slightly, and grazed the inside of her thigh.

“Go on,” he mumbled hoarsely, quickly pulling off his clothes and lying back down beside her again. He placed one hand on the inside of her thigh. She was as smooth as silk. He pulled her apart a little farther.

“Yes,” she breathed. Her hips moved. “Come.”

He got up and lay down on top of her, resting on his hands. She still had her eyes closed, as though she were in a world of her own, and he studied her face—the long eyelashes, the tightly closed eyelids, the high cheekbones—before he pushed her legs farther apart using his knees. He heard her pant, and made a mental note.

“Keep going,” he said. She was breathing more heavily now. He entered her, and she let out a moan and her eyes flew open. He loved her eyes, he thought, as he started to move inside her. But this wasn’t about what he wanted, this was about forcing Isobel Sørensen to let go a little. He pulled out.

“What’re you doing?”

A good question. Why did he care so much whether she came? If it felt good for him, why was it important that he was better than all her previous lovers? The simple answer was, of course, vanity. The more complicated answer … was something else.

“You know what I want,” he said. “I want you to touch yourself, and I want to watch. You like it, I can see that.”

“You’re pretty stubborn, you know that?”

He lifted her hand to his mouth. He took a finger, put it into his mouth, and sucked it. She liked that. He took the next finger too, sucked on it, knew that it zapped every single erogenous zone in her body. He pulled the finger from his mouth, cupped her hand in his, and held it to his chest.

“I’m planning to fuck you now,” he said in a low voice as he rolled on a new condom. “And you’re going to keep touching yourself while I do it. And if I do something you really like, you’re going to tell me. Okay?”

He waited until her right hand crept in between her thighs again. She closed her eyes and part of him felt regret. But then he followed his intuition, took her middle finger, and started to suck it again. She shuddered. He pushed back into her, studying her carefully. Whenever he was gentle a frustrated look appeared on her face, but whenever he was rough she began to move her hips. So, she liked it a little rough, his Isobel. He moved more firmly, angling himself so that she had better access with her hands. She was sweating now, her head rolling back and forth, gasping sounds coming from her lips. He took her with much more force than last time. She was breathing heavily, and then she raised her hips and came with an unexpectedly explosive orgasm, and it was so fucking sexy that it tipped him over the edge too. He came with a force that shook him, that rocked through him, that made him grab her and hold on.

“Isobel,” he panted into her neck.

She simply breathed, her heart thundering beneath him.

He collapsed next to her, his body shaking. He turned so he could see her. She was sweaty, her hair plastered to her forehead. Gently he pushed it away, kissed her, lay face-to-face, kissed her mouth. He looked more closely.

“Are you crying?”

“No. Maybe. A little. I’m just a bit shocked. No, not shocked. Surprised.”

“Can I ask you something?”

She shook her head. “Absolutely not.”

“When did you last come?”

“The other day.”

He laughed. “With a man. Isobel, when did a man last give you an orgasm?”

She closed her eyes, shut him out in the way she always did. He waited. She sighed.

“It’s not so easy for me. I don’t know why it matters to you. If I’d known you talked so much, I never would’ve followed you home.”

He snorted. “You practically threw yourself onto me.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

“It’s for my own sake. The more orgasms you have with me, the more often you’re going to want to sleep with me. Basically, it’s a deeply selfish act. I’m selfish, we’ve already established that. You’re the idealist. I’m the cynic.”

Isobel laid her chin on his chest, played with his gold ring with one of her long, sensitive fingers.

She talked about control and safe sex and rationality as if they were the most important things in the world, but there was more to her, beneath the sensible surface. She’d been so wet when he was a little rougher, told her what to do. She got turned on when he talked dirty, and she might sneer at the luxury and glamor of his lifestyle, but she liked it.

He supposed it ought to make him happy. He pulled her close and kissed her. It was best when they were making out or making love. Only when he started to think did things get unclear in his mind.

“Should I get you something to drink?” he asked.

She shook her head slowly. “You should stay right here,” she said. “I need your chest to rest my chin on.” She kissed his skin, then stuck out her tongue and licked the gold ring. “I think I will have to reassess my thoughts on piercing.”

How many women had he seduced, only to end up in this same position? Women who liked the idea of Alexander De la Grip, who enjoyed the glamorous surface, but who didn’t know him deep down. He had seen exactly that satisfied, contented look so many times before, and he’d never had a thing against it, quite the opposite—it had actually been his goal.

Women saw him as entertainment, as some kind of sexual conquest. He knew exactly what to do to get a woman to come. Not even Isobel and all of her “secrets” had been beyond him once he’d made up his mind. And now she was next to him, purring like a cat.

She wasn’t even the first woman he’d ordered to touch herself to climax. Sex was a fundamentally lonely activity. He’d always told himself that he had no need for closeness and had never felt shut out when a woman closed her eyes and came on her own. So. He had given her exactly what she wanted and he had found release. She was humming with contentment and he was satisfied. He really was.

Isobel had no other expectations of him than this.

He hadn’t had any other expectations.

All was as it should be. All.