The Billionaire Beast(25)

He scowled. “I’m not jealous.”

“Of course, you are. You were worried about me, and now you’re jealous I went to see Charles. That’s why you’re so angry.” Her thumbs rubbed gently on the skin of his wrists, soothing him. “But you don’t have to be. Charles is . . . suffering from a particularly stubborn infection. I wanted to make sure everything was okay.”

There was a minute break in her voice, just the slightest hitch, but he heard it. The sound did strange things to him. It made him spread his fingers so he was cradling her jaw between his palms rather than gripping her. Made him stare down into her lovely eyes so he could see what was going on with her, because suddenly that was more important than his anger or making sense of the ridiculous jealousy accusation. Had seeing her fiancé . . . upset her?

“You’re sad.” The remnants of his anger caught in his voice. “What happened?”

Phoebe blinked, as if the question had surprised her. “I . . .” She stopped, her throat moving as she swallowed, her lovely eyes filling with something he had no trouble at all reading: pain. “Yes. Yes, I’m sad.”

The feeling in his chest got tighter. “Why?”

She took a breath. “The infection is pretty serious, and it’s not responding to treatment. The doctors are talking about not resuscitating him if the worst happens.”

He didn’t really understand because he’d never loved anything in his entire life, but he could imagine.

What if that was her in that hospital bed? What if it was she who was dying?

The thought made him oddly frantic, and, because he didn’t know what else to do, he lowered his head and brushed his mouth over hers.

Phoebe went still, her fingers tightening on his wrists.

He kept his hold gentle, not even sure why because gentle was something he definitely wasn’t. Yet, like the night before, this moment—Phoebe—seemed to require it. Something about her distress, her pain, made him desperate, and even though all his instincts were telling him to take her hard, fast, and bury that desperation inside her, he ignored them.

Instead he kissed her again, another light brush with his mouth, tasting the softness of her lips against his. And this time she shuddered, a tremble he felt go through him as well, her fingers gripping his wrists as if she didn’t want to let him go.

Then her mouth opened under his and she was leaning into him, rising on her toes to meet his kiss, the taste of her taking on a desperate quality. His own desire rose, the need to take control almost overwhelming, but he held it back. Last night he’d come to her, had demanded what he wanted from her. She hadn’t made any demands herself.

Yet now, he wanted her to. Because now he wanted to give her what she wanted.

Phoebe’s head went back as she deepened the kiss, her tongue sliding against his, her mouth desperate and hot. The taste of her desire was sweet, the purest aphrodisiac, and he found himself wanting to pull back if only to make her chase him, make her even more desperate.

Abruptly she let his wrists go, winding her fingers in his hair, pressing her body against his, the softness of her breasts to the hardness of his chest, the heat between her thighs to the rigid length of his cock. She kissed him harder, deeper, a frantic edge beginning to enter into it, as if she was escaping something or throwing herself into something.

He didn’t know what that something might be, but he did know he wanted to help her. And if escape was what she was after then shit, he’d give it to her.

Reaching down, he tugged up her skirt, sliding his hand between her thighs and pressing down over the front of her lacy cotton panties.

She gave a throaty little gasp, and he could feel her resistance in the slight stiffening of her muscles. But he kept his hand right where it was, merely lifting his head and looking down into the luminous golden-brown of her eyes. “Tell me what you want,” he ordered quietly. “Tell me, and I’ll give it to you.”

Her breathing was fast and ragged, her pale skin flushed and pink. Lashes of red-gold fell as her gaze dropped to his mouth. “You know what I want.”

Of course, he did, but this time he wanted her to ask for it. “I want you to say it.”

The flush in her skin deepened. “Just . . . do what you did last night.”

He wasn’t sure why she felt she couldn’t ask for what she wanted, especially when she’d had no problems receiving it. But suddenly it was important to him that she say the words. Because he sure as hell wanted to hear them. “No,” he murmured. “Not this time. Ask for what you need, Phoebe.”

Her lashes rose, her gaze lifting from his mouth. The gold of desire glittered in her eyes, along with what he thought was probably distress and a certain amount of desperation. She didn’t want to say it, he could see that.

He moved his hand, adjusting the pressure so his middle finger was pressing down on her clit. The breath hissed in her throat, her pupils dilating, her mouth opening. “Oh God . . .” Her voice was husky and thick.

“Ask me.” He shifted his finger, circling the pressure on her clit, watching her face. “Do you want my hands, my mouth, or my cock? Which is it, Phoebe? Tell me.”

Another shudder went through her and her head tipped back against the wood of the doorframe. She wasn’t resisting now, letting him use his fingers on her pussy. But that wasn’t what the point of this was, he knew that now.

She looked up at him from underneath her lashes, her body shaking as he kept the pressure on, rubbing against her clit. Then at last she whispered thickly, “Your m-mouth.”

His own hunger flared at her surrender, at the needy note in her voice, but he kept himself under control. There would be plenty of time later to take what he wanted. This was for her.

“Where?” he growled, altering the movement of his finger, varying the pressure, and was rewarded by another gasp. “Where do you want my mouth?”

The sound of her breathing loud in the space between them. “I . . . I want it . . .” She took a ragged breath, her breasts pressing against his chest. “I want it . . . where your hand is.”

Jesus, she was such a prim little thing.

He lifted his free hand and put it on the doorframe above her head, leaning against it. Then he bent his head, brushing his mouth against her jaw, before moving down to the side of her neck. “Your pussy,” he breathed against her skin. “Is that where you want my mouth?”

“Yes . . . God, yes.”

But he wasn’t letting her off the hook that easily. She found it hard to ask for what she wanted, that much was clear. Which meant he was going to make her.

He nipped her ear, making her jerk against him, and at the same time he increased the pressure on her clit. The heat coming off her was incredible, and he could smell the musky scent of her arousal. Christ, she was desperate.

“Then say it.” He gave her another nip. “Give me the words. All the dirty ones, Phoebe.”

A low, frustrated moan broke from her. “Your mouth on my p-pussy, Nero.” She stumbled only a little on the word. “That’s what I want. Please. God, please.”

A surge of triumph made him open his mouth against her neck and bite the delicate cords at the side of it, not hard, but enough to give her an extra jolt of sensation as a reward. She inhaled sharply and he grinned against her skin. “Good girl,” he murmured. “Your wish is my command.”

He dropped to knees in front of her, his mouth already watering, desperate to taste her because he hadn’t gotten a chance the night before.

His first instinct was to shove her skirt up around her waist, rip her panties off, and dive right in. But this moment wasn’t about what he wanted, it was about her and her needs, so even though it was more difficult than it should have been to do so, he made himself take it slow, sliding her skirt up her thighs in a caressing movement.

She shivered, and he tipped his head back to look up at her. She was leaning back against the doorframe, staring down at him, her eyes darkening except for those brilliant golden flecks. Her cheeks were red, her mouth lush and full, and she was looking at him as if she were drowning and wanted him to save her.

Holy Christ, he wanted to be the one who saved her, the one who gave her the most pleasure. Right now, right here, he wanted to be the one she escaped into. If she was going to drown, she was going to drown in him.

“Put your hands above your head,” he murmured, keeping his gaze on hers. “And hold onto the doorframe.”

She didn’t even hesitate, lifting her arms and doing exactly what he said.

He made an approving noise, spreading his fingers on her thighs, caressing them lightly. Then he slid them into the waistband of her white lace panties and slowly—so very slowly—eased them down her legs.

Goosebumps rose over her skin as he pulled her underwear down to her ankles, her breath catching as he gently lifted one foot then the other, helping her step out of them. The sound made him want to go slower, turn this into an exquisite torture for her, make her pant and call his name and beg. Make her forget everything but his hands on her, his mouth on her.

Make her forget everything except him.

Nero closed his fingers around her slender ankles, then he slid his palms around to the back of her calves before easing them up, caressing her satiny skin to the backs of her knees, then up farther to her thighs.