The Billionaire Beast(19)

He didn’t understand why the hell she’d think that, or why the fact she was crying made his own chest hurt. But right then and there he decided that he was going to show her there was nothing wrong with her.

So he ignored her, reaching for her hand himself and drawing it gently down between her thighs. She resisted, but he was insistent, guiding her fingers over the soft, wet flesh between her thighs.

She shuddered. “Nero . . .” Her voice was fraying, his name sounding full of too many emotions he didn’t understand. “I won’t . . . I can’t . . . Don’t make me . . .”

He ignored that, too, covering her hand with his own. “Touch yourself, Phoebe,” he ordered, pressing down with his fingers, pushing hers against her clit.

She jerked, inhaling sharply, her lashes falling closed.

Yes, now she was his. Now she was feeling it.

He watched her, mesmerized, keeping his hand on top of hers and moving it slowly, so her fingers rubbed against that little hard nub of flesh. Pleasure was beginning to take hold of her, he could see it unfurl over her face.

She gave a soft groan, her mouth opening, her hips beginning to lift with the movements of her hand and his, pressing herself against her own fingers as if searching for more of that friction.

A deep satisfaction took hold of him, and he leaned over her, putting one hand on the pillow beside her head, unable to tear his gaze from her face. She didn’t need his hand now, and indeed, when he took it away, she kept her fingers right where he’d put them, circling and rubbing at her clit, moving restlessly beneath him.

Fuck, she was beautiful like this. His little assistant, flushed and hot and ready to come, no matter how much she insisted otherwise.

Not taking his eyes from her, he let his own fingers trail down her soft wet flesh then eased one slowly into her pussy, slick heat engulfing it. Jesus, she was impossibly tight, impossibly hot.

Phoebe gasped, her back arching, shuddering beneath his touch. “Oh, my God . . .”

The sound of her voice was all husky and frayed, and the musky scent of her arousal was making him so hard he could barely think. But she was close now and he wasn’t going to ruin it by taking his own pleasure first. For the first time in his life, someone else’s needs seemed more important than his, and he was going to make sure she got exactly what she wanted.

Keeping his gaze on her face, he eased a second finger deep inside her, and a great shudder shook her body like a tree in a hurricane, her head going back on the pillow, her neck arching, white teeth sinking deeper into that soft, pouting bottom lip.

He slid his fingers out, then in again, letting her touch her clit, rubbing and circling, slicking back and forward until her whole body stiffened like she’d been electrocuted. And her mouth opened and she gave a high, desperate cry, before she came, sobbing, all over his hand.

* * *

Phoebe didn’t know what had happened to her. It was like Nero had dragged her to the edge of a cliff and very firmly tried to push her off it. She’d flung out a hand to stop herself, to try and grasp anything that would stop her from falling, a tree, a bush, a branch. Until he’d brought her own hand between her legs and made her touch herself, and she realized he wasn’t pushing her off that ledge any more. She’d jumped, falling into the abyss, screaming as her control splintered and the most intense burst of pleasure erupted inside her, annihilating every thought she’d ever had.

She couldn’t move for long minutes afterward, her eyes tightly closed, her body still shaking, feeling as if something terrible and shameful had happened.

Which, of course, it had.

She wasn’t naive. She knew what she’d experienced. She knew what Nero had given her that Charles never had. What no one ever had. And somehow that made it all worse.

Not only had another man touched her naked body, he’d given her the first orgasm she’d ever had.

It wasn’t supposed to be like that. It was supposed to be with Charles, not him.

Nero’s punishing grip on her wrists vanished and she abruptly flung her forearm over her eyes, trying to hide the sudden rush of hot tears that seemed to come out of nowhere. She felt vulnerable and exposed, like she’d lost her grip on something fundamental she’d always believed about herself.

Something that had turned out to be a lie.

Nero’s warm fingers slid around her forearm, pulling it away from her face. Charles had always allowed her space when she needed it, but apparently Nero had no such qualms.

She tried to jerk her arm from his grip, but it was like trying to shake off an iron manacle. She turned her head away from him instead, closing her eyes, determined to shut him out, trying to preserve what privacy she had left.

Yet he wouldn’t let her do that either.

Those relentless fingers transferred to her chin, turning her head back, and there was heat against her bare skin, the heavy weight of him pressing her down. His pants were rough against the inside of her thighs, the firm ridge of his cock pressing against her acutely sensitized clit, sending more electric shocks through her.

“Look at me,” he ordered in that rough, dark voice.

But she didn’t want to. He’d already made her touch herself, made her surrender to the grip of the phenomenal pleasure that had overwhelmed her. She didn’t want to give him any more power than he already had.

“Look. At. Me.” It was a command, issued with all the authority of a man who expected to be obeyed without question.

“No,” she whispered, keeping her eyes tightly shut. “Leave me alone.”

“If you don’t look at me right now, you’re fired.”

Bastard. She hated him. Hated him. Charles would have known to leave her alone, to give her space. Because Charles knew her. He did. No, he hadn’t ever managed to give her an orgasm, but it wasn’t his fault she didn’t much like sex.

Except maybe you do. He put your fingers between your legs, but you didn’t take them away.

There was a thickness in her throat, tears threatening, but she’d already revealed far too much as it was. She didn’t want to give Nero the added satisfaction of seeing her cry yet again. She wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of firing her either, so she got herself together and made herself open her eyes.

And instantly she wanted to close them again, because his face was inches from hers, that sharp, obsidian gaze focused intently on her.

“Tell me again that you can’t come, Phoebe Taylor.” There was something dark and feral in his eyes. “Tell me again that you’re not a passionate woman, that your fingers aren’t all wet from rubbing that little clit of yours till you screamed. Tell me again there’s something wrong with you.”

The words made her feel even more exposed than she already was. “I don’t know why that happened. It wasn’t supposed to. It’s never happened before.” She was beginning to be achingly conscious of the weight of him pressing down on her. By his heat and that scent of masculine spice. By the way her hips wanted to lift, to press against the hard ridge of his cock that rested between her thighs. By the hungry thing that had gotten loose inside her and wanted more, more than she could ever give it.

“You know why it happened.” His hips rocked against hers, his cock nudging at her clit in an insistent, subtle rhythm. “You want this. You want me. I don’t know what was wrong with your fiancé that he never managed to get you off, but he’s not here now and I am. So why don’t you let yourself have me? Why are you resisting so fucking hard?”

It was happening again, the slow ache of desire rising inside her like a tide, and she was helpless to hold it back. Just like she was conscious of the heat and power of his body on hers, of the firm, hard-packed muscle of his shoulders where her hands were resting. As if she liked the feel of him. As if she wanted to slide her hands down his back and hold on tight . . .

No. She couldn’t do that. Because there hadn’t been anything wrong with Charles. She’d been the one who wasn’t good at sex. No matter how many times Charles had tried to give her pleasure, she hadn’t been able to let go enough to enjoy it, and he hadn’t been a patient man. It had frustrated him. In the end, she’d decided it was easier to give him pleasure than to receive it herself, and hey, it meant at least one of them got off. Charles had never complained after that, perfectly happy to lie back and let her do the work. And she hadn’t felt bad about it. She’d only felt relieved since it meant the pressure was off her.

But this is not the same. And Nero is not Charles.

Yet she didn’t want to think about that either. Didn’t want to admit the flaws in her relationship with Charles or the possibility that perhaps her fiancé had been selfish. Because if a man like Nero had managed to get her off, then why not the man she’d been going to marry?

Doubt wound a cold thread through her.

“I’ve told you why.” She tried to make her voice firm and certain, like she was trying to convince herself. “Do I really have to repeat myself?”

He said nothing, looking down at her. Then he moved, and she thought for a moment that he was actually going to get off her and leave.

But soon it became clear he wasn’t going anywhere.

He shifted, then rose up above her, his knees pressing down into the bed on either side of her hips. And with a rough movement, he pulled open his shirt, shrugging out of it and discarding it over the side of the bed.