The earlier effects of that dream still glowed inside her, banked coals smoldering, ready to burst into flame at any moment, ready to burn . . .
But no. Surely, she couldn’t want Nero de Santis. Maybe she wanted to fix what was broken inside him, but she didn’t want him. Not this man sitting right next to her, leaning over her, the hot masculine scent of him surrounding her, overwhelming her. He was too much. Too big. Too demanding. Too arrogant. Too selfish.
Too exciting. Too challenging. Too sexy.
She almost shook her head. God, it didn’t matter how sexy or otherwise the man sitting next to her was, she was engaged to Charles. She loved Charles.
“What will it take to change your mind?” Nero asked roughly. “More money? I’ll pay the hospital and you six figures per month.”
Her mind reeled. That was . . . insane.
But you’d never have to worry about Charles’s care ever again.
Oh, God. The anxiety of how to pay for the hospital bills that kept piling up, month after month as Charles’s condition stayed the same, was never ending. What would it be like to not have that? To be free of it?
It would be so good not to have to worry about it. Yet this was her body he was asking for. Did he think she’d really let herself be bought? He certainly thought he could buy whatever he wanted, and sure enough, he did. But she didn’t want him to buy her. She wanted him to understand that some things were not for sale, that simply throwing money at her wouldn’t work.
She didn’t know why she was bothering, but she wanted to teach him that if he wanted her, he was going to have to pay her with something other than cold, hard cash.
Her pulse was raging in her veins, the chemistry between them snapping and crackling. And that desperate, hungry part of her was clawing at the walls. So lonely, so cold . . .
“Tell me why you came to me just now,” she said. “Tell me, and maybe I’ll reconsider.”
There was a flame in his eyes, black and hot, and it flared. “Why the fuck does that matter—”
“Because it matters to me,” she cut him off, meeting his gaze head-on. “Tell me, Nero.”
His dark brows drew down in a ferocious scowl and she didn’t know if he was going to ignore her and force himself on her again, or just get up and leave. But he didn’t do either of those things.
Instead, he said slowly, “I told you. I came because I heard you scream.”
The tight thing in her chest shifted yet again, loosening. Okay, so it was possible for him to compromise.
He must want you very badly.
She took a shaky breath. “Why did that matter to you?”
His scowl became more ferocious, as if the question bothered him. “I . . . I don’t know. Why the fuck is that important anyway?”
He didn’t know. He really didn’t know. Not only was he blind to her feelings, he was blind to his own, too. For some reason that made her feel better, though she had no idea why.
“Because I don’t want to be someone you pay to have in your bed,” she said quietly. “I don’t want to be someone you can buy.”
He bared his teeth in a snarl. “This conversation is getting old. I want you, Phoebe. Tell me I can have you.”
Electricity snaked down her spine, a white-hot thrill. He was getting impatient and some perverse part of her liked that. Liked that she was pushing him. It made her want to keep doing it. “What if I don’t want you?”
“Liar.” He raised his hand and jerked the sheet all the way off her.
Despite herself, she gasped and instinctively reached for the cotton to cover herself, but he was too fast, grabbing both her wrists and holding them in an iron grip.
She stilled, the breath shuddering in her throat. She should be terrified and yet . . . No, God, that wasn’t fear. At all. It was desire, thick and hot and absolutely overwhelming. And that was the terrifying part.
Struggling to contain the confusing knot of emotions inside her, she asked in what she hoped was a cool, calm voice, “What are you doing?”
He said nothing, merely holding her wrists, his gaze locked with hers.
The smoldering embers inside her began to glow. The look in his eyes was a breath on hot coals, and it made the fear inside her clench tight. Because she didn’t want these feelings, not when she loved another man.
He never made you feel like this though.
Without a word, Nero brought her wrists together and transferred them to one large, strong hand, holding on tightly. Then with his free hand he reached down to the long, lacy white nightgown she wore and slid his fingers beneath the hem.
Phoebe jerked as he touched her, the sound of her indrawn breath loud in the silence of the room. His fingers against her bare calf were so hot, so electric, it felt like he was conducting lightning through the tips of his fingers. “Nero,” she said hoarsely, not quite sure whether she wanted him to stop or . . .
Keep going?
He said nothing, his gaze never leaving her face, watching her as his fingers slid to the back of her calf, curling around it, cradling it. Then sliding slowly higher, to the back of her knee.
The coals inside her got hotter, bursting into a small, insistent flame, while the prickling sensation washing over her skin got more intense. She shivered, the restless, achy feeling she’d experienced in the dream returning.
“If you don’t want me,” he murmured, low and dark, “then why are you shivering?”
“I-I’m not.”
She tried to remain still, but the hand at the back of her knee was moving higher, to her thigh. The tips of his fingers felt a little rough as they trailed over her skin and it felt so good.
Her mouth dried, and she was abruptly conscious of the press of her cotton nightgown over her breasts, the cotton cool against her tight, aching nipples. And maybe he knew, because his gaze dropped briefly to her chest before lifting her face again, and she could feel herself flushing bright red.
“Your nipples are hard.” His voice was full of a deep, very masculine kind of satisfaction. “And it’s not cold.”
“Nero . . .”
His hand slid higher and higher up her leg, until his palm was beneath the top of her thigh, his fingers brushing lightly against the soft damp cotton of her knickers, right against the crotch. She pulled against his imprisoning grip on her wrists, trying to shift away from his questing fingers. But they followed her movement, brushing over her more firmly, then pressing down.
The breath escaped her in a sharp rush, pleasure following in its wake, making her go hot all over.
“You’re wet for me, Phoebe.” His gaze was like a dark fire, consuming her, and for some reason she couldn’t look away. Because it was all there in his eyes, all laid out for her to read, hiding nothing. Raw, primitive desire. Calling to the animal part of herself, the part that was hungry, that wanted him.
Phoebe shivered, her breathing hoarse, responding to Nero’s dominant touch whether she wanted to or not.
“Say it.” His fingers moved again, stroking a hot line up the center of her sex, pushing against the fabric of her knickers. “Tell me you want me.”
She couldn’t speak, the words locking in her throat, the part of her that was still Charles’s fiancé not wanting to give in.
Nero’s hand moved again, sliding beneath the fabric, and she couldn’t stop the sound that broke from her as his fingers found her hot, damp flesh.
Phoebe groaned and closed her thighs, but it was too late. His hand was between her legs, big and rough and insistent, spreading her open with his fingers, stroking through the slick folds of her sex with careless skill. As if he knew exactly how to touch her and where.
Charles never touched you like this. You never let him . . .
The thought shuddered through her, a realization she didn’t want. And she tried to shake it away, but it remained stuck in her head all the same. Those times in bed with Charles, giving him all the attention, because it was easier than having him ask her every single time what she liked and what she didn’t. Questions she didn’t know how to answer and never had, even with her first boyfriend. It was like an emptiness opened up inside her every time someone asked her: What do you want? She never had an answer, because she didn’t know what she wanted. And that scared her. For some reason, it felt too hard, too exposing to have to think about, so she ensured she didn’t have to.
Except now, with Nero touching her, his big, rough hand between her legs, watching her every expression, she felt vulnerable. As if he was uncovering parts of herself she didn’t even know were there.
But they are there. You just never wanted to acknowledge them.
“I respect honesty, Phoebe,” Nero said, his voice a rough growl, his fingers sliding through the folds of her sex again, in a long slow downstroke, then testing gently the entrance to her body, circling around it. “So be honest with me now. You want me. Your pussy is all slippery and hot for me. Your body doesn’t lie, so why do you?”
Another shudder ripped through her, the liquid heat of pleasure flooding every muscle, making her want to lie back and spread her legs, let him touch her however he wanted. To move her hips under his hand and find the cure for this relentless ache.
Why not? He gave you what you wanted. He told you why he came here.
Yes, but admitting she wanted him was wrong, and she couldn’t shake that guilt. And yet . . . It had been so long since anyone had touched her and she hadn’t thought she’d miss it. But she did. For the past two years, all she’d had was constant worry and desperate loneliness and anguish. So would it really be so bad to let Nero make her feel good? Just for a night? After all, Charles would never know . . .