The Billionaire Beast(14)

But he didn’t let her finish, bringing her mouth to his.

Taking what he wanted.

She made a little sound, but he ignored it, firming his grip. The cushiony softness of her lips felt even better than he thought it would, though her lips firmed as she closed her mouth against him. But he was having none of that, lifting his other hand and using his thumb to push down her lower lip, granting him access to the heat of her mouth.

Another sound escaped her, soft and desperate, yet he ignored that, too, deepening the kiss, sliding his tongue inside and tasting her. Sweet, again, just as he’d thought. Christ, so fucking sweet. And hot. Who’d have thought that prim Phoebe Taylor would taste like this? Like candy, like ice cream licked up on a hot summer day.

He spread his fingers out on the back of her neck, his fingertips grazing the silkiness of her hair, at the same time as his other hand slid to her chin and gripped it tight, keeping her exactly where she was.

She’d stiffened, and he could feel her resistance, the muscles beneath his hand on the back of her neck tensing. Yes, she definitely wanted to pull away, but he wasn’t going to let her. He didn’t want her pity, he didn’t want her to look at him as though he was a child. As if he was a fucking idiot.

He’d rather have her anger. He’d rather have her hitting him again.

She’d let go of the laptop, her hands landing on his chest and trying to push him away, but he only slid his tongue deeper into her mouth, exploring her, relishing the taste of her anger. And something else, something even more intoxicating . . .

A shudder went through her, her muscles relaxing minutely, the feeling of resistance growing fainter and fainter. Then he felt it, the spread of her fingers on his chest, no longer pushing him away but pressing down as if she was relishing the feel of him.

Desire flared like a torch inside him, bright and hot. Because yes, he fucking knew it. She wanted him.

He took his hand from her chin, sliding it along the satiny skin of her jaw, his fingers pushing deep into her hair, trying to loosen her little bun. She was leaning into him now, her mouth opening to him, her tongue tentatively touching his. Responding to the kiss.

It made him growl, made him pull at the pins holding her hair in place until he felt the soft weight of it uncurl against his fingers and fall over the backs of his hands. Like a silk scarf unfurling over his skin.

It was even better touching it now than it had been when he’d taken it down that day in his office. Because now he had her mouth under his, the taste of her desire on his tongue, and he could wind his fingers in silk and hold on.

Her body was leaning heavily into him, and all it would take would be a small tug to bring her down into his lap. He sat up in preparation for getting rid of the irritating computer sitting between them, adjusting his grip so he could pull her down onto him. It would be easy enough to push her skirt up and get her to sit astride him, to ease aside her panties and slide his hand between her legs, stroke her, feel how soft and hot and wet she was for him.

Christ, he’d bet she’d be soaking. Enough for him to slide right in and, she’d feel so tight and perfect . . .

Quite suddenly Phoebe ripped herself away from him and before he could react, she was already halfway across the room, backing toward the door, her hair cascading down around her shoulders. Her cheeks were bright pink, her mouth full and red and swollen from the kiss. Gold blazed in her eyes and he thought it was fury, and he was half out of his chair after her before he realized it wasn’t fury at all.

It was fear.

It shouldn’t have stopped him, because he took what he wanted, and he didn’t give a shit about anything else. But he found himself stopped in his tracks now, his cock hard, his heartbeat banging like a drum in his ears, his fingers closing around empty air.

Phoebe didn’t say anything as she reached the door, but her chest was heaving as if she’d run a long, hard race, and something glinted in the corner of one eye. Small and bright as a diamond.

“Phoebe,” he said thickly. “Stay.”

But she didn’t.

She turned around and was out the door before he could say another word.





Chapter 6


Phoebe was in the middle of a very pleasant dream. Someone was touching her, trailing their fingers lightly over her body. It felt so good, making her want to arch and stretch like a cat. God, it had been so long since she’d been touched that the pleasure of it was indescribable.

Charles’s fingers of course, because who else would be touching her like that? So gentle. So light. So sensual. As if she was a precious and sacred object that he was worshiping.

Then the dream changed, a thread of doubt winding through her, because there was something wrong. Something that she couldn’t quite put her finger on. The touch changed, too, becoming more demanding, more overtly sexual, pinching her nipples and pushing between her thighs. Making her restless and hot and needy in a way that Charles never had.

It’s not Charles and you know it.

She’d loved him, she still did. But Charles had never touched her like that. He wasn’t a sensualist, and he wasn’t much for lingering. He didn’t demand. He liked sex, but his tastes had always been simple. He never took his time . . .

In the dream, Phoebe tried to close her legs to the marauding hand touching her, but it pushed between her thighs anyway, and then there was a firm pressure against her clit, insistent, and a finger sliding inside her. And there was no resistance at all, because she was wet, so very, very wet . . .

She sucked in a desperate breath, wanting to open her eyes, see who it was, because although she was certain it was Charles, there was that thread of doubt. Making her afraid that it wasn’t Charles after all.

Then the dream changed again and she wasn’t in a bed being touched by someone, but in a car on a dark road, speeding faster and faster. Headlights appeared, coming toward her, and she pushed on the brake to slow down. But it didn’t work. No matter how hard she put her foot down, nothing happened. And those headlights kept coming, racing toward her, getting brighter and brighter, becoming the only thing she could see.

She screamed, terror gripping her by the throat, her whole body bracing itself for the impact.

And then she woke up, the sound of her scream echoing off the walls, her heartbeat deafening her.

She lay there for a moment, staring up into the blackness, her mouth dry, her body trembling, her sheets damp and sticking to her skin. Fear was pulsing through her, yet weirdly the arousal from the way the dream had begun lingered. The combination was . . . disturbing.

God, she hadn’t had a sex dream for a long time, or a nightmare for that matter, so why on earth she was now was anyone’s guess.

Guilt perhaps?

Yet before she had a chance to explore that thought, her bedroom door was thrown open with such force it bounced off the wall. The sound jolted her, making her heave in a breath and push herself groggily upright, clutching at the sheet and squinting toward the doorway to see what the hell was happening.

Someone was standing in the doorway.

Someone very large.

The fear lingering from her nightmare bolted down her spine as her brain tried to make sense of the looming shape.

Definitely a man. Very tall, with massively broad shoulders.

Nero.

She knew the security he had in his house, no one else would get past it unless he himself let them. Which meant that of course it was him. And that should have made her feel better, but it didn’t. If anything, it only made the fear worse.

That kiss . . .

Her mouth burned, her heartbeat getting faster, the memory of what he’d done to her in the library echoing through her entire body. Hot. Desperate. Shattering.

She’d never been kissed like that before, not without her permission. Not without being asked. Charles had asked before he’d kissed her that first time, his blue eyes full of gentle desire and hope. It had been light and tentative and she’d been utterly charmed by it.

Nero’s kiss had not been charming. It had not been light or tentative. There had been no gentle desire in it, no desperate hope. He’d taken that kiss whether she’d wanted to give it to him or not, and he’d been ruthless. Pushing down her bottom lip with his thumb, his tongue sliding deep into her mouth, one hand hard on the back of her neck, the other hard on her chin. Keeping her in place, holding her there. Making her take it. Taking without permission like he hadn’t heard what she’d told him, that he needed to respect her choice.

But that wasn’t the worst thing. No, the worst thing was how something inside her had just erupted like a volcano exploding. A wild, primitive, out of control part of her that she’d had no idea was even there.

A part that didn’t care about the fact that she was engaged, that her fiancé was lying in a hospital bed in a coma. A part that didn’t care that she was in love with one man while being kissed by another. A part that Charles, with all his gentle desire had never woken, not even once.

But it was awake now. Nero had woken it. And it wanted his kiss, his touch. The warmth of all that animal energy that lived in him. The fire in his eyes when he focused on her. The intensity of his attention.

It wanted all of that and more because the silence and loneliness of that hospital room had frozen her right through.

The realization had terrified her.

She’d run from the library, thinking of nothing but putting distance between her and Nero. The taste of him was in her mouth, hot and alcoholic and delicious, and she knew that if she stopped running, she might very well turn around and go back into the library for more. She didn’t stop running until she’d gotten to her room, where she’d locked the door then turned on the shower, switching it to cold. And she’d stood under the icy spray until her teeth had begun to chatter and the heat inside her had cooled. Then she’d gotten out, wrapped herself in her favorite dressing gown, and ordered the women Nero had wanted.