The Billionaire Beast(18)

She blinked at him. “But I’m not a passionate woman.”

What? Where the fuck had she gotten that idea from? From her fool of a fiancé? Jesus Christ, if the man hadn’t been in a coma, Nero would have punched him in the face for that crime alone.

“Aren’t you?” He stared at her, holding her gaze. “Is that what you really think?”

“I . . .” She stopped, emotion flickering over her face. Emotion he didn’t know how to read.

Christ, why was he talking? Why wasn’t he simply taking what he wanted the way he always did? Yet he couldn’t. A soft, protective feeling was pressing against his ribs, making him want to go slowly, carefully. Not frighten her the way he had in his library.

Because it occurred to him suddenly that he knew fear. Back when he’d been a kid, when the police had come, dragging him out of that room and into the bright light, he’d been so afraid. He hadn’t wanted to go, had fought to stay in there, back where it was safe. He’d screamed when they’d carried him out and even though it had been a rescue, all he’d felt was violation.

Had she felt that back in the library? Did she feel that right now? As if she was being dragged out of her place of safety? Was that why she was fighting him so hard? Why she was resisting?

It was strange to get a glimpse of understanding another person, or at least imagine he understood. It was strange, too, to have the answer.

He didn’t want that for her. He didn’t want her to be afraid. Yet he didn’t want her and all that red and gold fire she blazed with, that he knew burned beneath that tightly coiled bun and those prim little pencil skirts, to be trapped and suffocated, either.

He wanted to set it free. He wanted to see it burn. And he wanted to burn with it.

“I can show you, Phoebe,” he said softly, intently. “I can show you how much bullshit that is.”

Her chin firmed, something sparking in her eyes. “No, you can’t. Charles couldn’t and I love him. I mean, I was with him for years, and I never even—” She stopped all of a sudden, flushing.

Nero frowned. “You never even what?”

Her red-gold lashes fell, veiling her gaze. “It’s nothing. Forget I said anything.”

Oh, no, he wasn’t having that.

Firming his grip on her chin, he lowered his head so they were almost nose to nose. “You know I don’t like to repeat myself, Phoebe Taylor. So tell me what the fuck you were talking about.”

Her gaze flicked to his, then away again, her cheeks going an even deeper red. “I’ve never had an orgasm, okay? And please don’t take that as a challenge, because it wasn’t meant as one.”

Nero was conscious of a deep sense of surprise, because that made no sense to him at all. Beneath her calm and that cool reserve, beneath those pencil skirts and corporate blouses, she was fire and passion and sensuality. He’d sensed it the moment he’d walked into his office the day he’d interviewed her.

How had that damn fiancé of hers not managed to release it?

You could though.

Oh yes, he could. And he would. He didn’t want her to be afraid of the passion she kept locked away inside her or the pleasure it could give her. She must be so hungry for it, so desperate.

“You should know better than that,” he said roughly. “Everything is a challenge to a man like me.”

She looked up at him, and he could see it now, fear clear in her eyes. “Don’t.”

“Why not?” Nero let go of her chin and looked farther down, where the fabric of her nightgown stretched across her breasts and he could see the tight, hard points of her nipples. “What are you so afraid of?” He lifted a hand and brushed his fingers lightly over the outline of one nipple then circled slowly, gently.

She shivered. “I can’t. I’ve tried.”

“Then perhaps you’re trying too hard.” He kept circling with his finger, feeling her nipple harden even more. “It’s not a competition.”

“I know, but I—” She sucked in a breath as he lightly pinched the hard tip of her breast through the fabric of her nightgown. “Oh . . . Nero, stop.”

The front of the nightgown was fastened with seemingly a million tiny buttons that would take him all day to undo, and it would be easier by far to rip it apart, make all those buttons go flying. Yet he reined himself in, forcing himself to go slow, taking that first tiny button between his fingers. “You don’t have to do anything,” he murmured, undoing it. “All you have to do is lie there and let me make you feel good. And I will, Phoebe.” He undid the next one, fumbling slightly because they were so very tiny and his fingers were large. “I’m not your fiancé. I know what I’m doing.”

Her breathing was getting faster. Harder. “And if I don’t come? Will you fire me?”

He lifted his attention from the buttons, staring into her sharp little face, anger and fear glowing gold in her eyes. “No,” he murmured and smiled at her, hungry and feral. “I’ll just try again.”

She swallowed, a convulsive moment. “Nero, I can’t—”

But he was done talking. Instead he covered her lips with his, silencing her.

Fire, sweetness, and honey swamped him, and he let his weight pin her to the mattress, sliding his tongue into her mouth, tasting her again. Her head went back and she shuddered, her wrists straining against the grip he still had on her wrists. He didn’t let her go, kissing her deeper, the way he had back in the library. Only this time, he took it slow, a leisurely, sensual exploration, the hot, distinctive flavor of her going straight to his head.

Fuck, she tasted so good. It made him want to rip away her nightgown and get her bare, get inside her as quickly as he could.

But no, tonight he wasn’t going to demand or take. Tonight he was going to try giving. And he didn’t quite understand why, only that it was important that she not be afraid, not of this.

Physical pleasure was real, it was concrete. It was the only good thing he had left in his life, and he wanted to show her she could have it, too, if only she let herself.

Phoebe made a soft, desperate sound against his mouth, her body arching beneath his, pressing against him as if she couldn’t help herself.

Holy fuck, she was responsive.

He kept on kissing her as he pulled at the fabric of her nightgown, ripping away the rest of the little buttons and easing aside the white cotton. Then he lifted his head to see as he bared one milky white breast. There was a soft dusting of freckles over it, her nipple the color of fresh raspberries.

He stared, feeling her tremble as he slid his hand over her warm, silky skin, cupping her breast in his hand. Then he brushed his thumb over that tight nipple, and she trembled even harder, making that odd protectiveness shift inside him once more.

“Easy,” he murmured. “I just want to make you feel good.”

“I . . . can’t, Nero,” she whispered in a husky little voice, and he could feel the race of her heartbeat beneath his palm. “It won’t work. It never does.”

He ignored her, because her flesh was warm and generous in his palm, just what he liked. Fucking exactly what he liked. And when he bent his head and licked her nipple, she jerked in reaction, her sharply indrawn breath hissing in his ear. He liked that, too, so he did it again and again, then he drew her nipple into his mouth and sucked hard.

This time the sound that escaped her was a gasp, then a groan, choked off and hoarse, so he kept sucking on her nipple then flicking it with his tongue, teasing her. She shifted beneath him again, another groan escaping and turning into a sob.

Desperate to get the nightgown off her and not wanting to face those fiddly little buttons again, he ripped the rest off her in a series of hard, one-handed jerks, taking her panties with it.

Phoebe inhaled sharply and her hands lifted as if to cover herself. But he caught them against his chest and held on. “Let me see you,” he ordered, his voice starting to get even rougher than it normally was. “I want to see how beautiful you are.”

She went red, turning her head away, but when he let go her hands and shifted back so he could see her body, she didn’t attempt to cover herself again, letting him look.

And fuck, yes. She was exactly as he’d imagined, an intriguing combination of generous curves and delicate bones. Freckles and fragile skin. Soft, silky curls between her thighs, the same red-gold color as her hair . . .

His breath caught, his cock hard and aching against his zipper.

Go slow. You don’t want to break her.

No, Christ, that was the last thing he wanted to do.

Controlling himself wasn’t his natural inclination, but he kept an iron grip on the lust that was growling for release, glancing back up to her face again.

She’d turned back to him, her eyes wide and dark, smoky with desire, and yet fear still lingered there.

He didn’t understand why she was afraid of this, but one thing was for sure. He was going to take that fear away from her for good.

“Give me your hand.” He made it another order.

“Nero . . . I don’t know what you’re—”

“Did I ask you to speak? No, I don’t think so. I asked you to give me your hand, so do it.”

A fine tremor shook her, and there was a sheen of tears in her eyes. “You don’t understand. I can’t do it.” Her voice was a frayed whisper. “I think . . . something’s wrong with me.”