She made a sighing sound, and he glanced up, wanting to see the expression on her face. She looked dazed, her head back against the doorframe, her arms lifted above her head, her knuckles white as she clutched the wood.
“Nero.” Her voice was raw. “Now.”
But he only moved his thumbs on her thighs, caressing her, drawing out the moment as long as he could. But her pussy was right in front of him, and the scent of her arousal was making his mouth water even more, his cock pressing against the front of his pants painfully hard.
Sliding his hands up to her hips, he pinned her in place and leaned in, nuzzling the soft thatch of damp, red-gold curls between her thighs. She shivered, and her hips tilted, trying to angle herself so he could taste her where she needed it most. But he pressed down harder, pinning her in place so she couldn’t move.
If she wanted to escape, he’d help her. He’d give her as much pleasure as she could stand and then some.
Spreading her gently, he uncovered her stiff little clit, lightly touching his tongue to it. Her hips lifted against his hand, a choked sound escaping her. “N-Nero . . ”
He liked that. He liked his name with the stutter at the beginning of it.
He did it again, soft, light licks against her clit, the taste of her exploding against his tongue, salty with a tantalizing hint of sweetness. So fucking delicious. She made him so hungry, goddamn starving.
He forgot himself, one hand sliding around to the back of her thigh and urging it forward, tilting his shoulder so he could hook her leg over it, opening her up to give him greater access. Then he was spreading apart the soft, slick folds of her pussy with his fingers and leaning in, licking her straight up the center before pushing his tongue deep inside her.
She groaned. “Yes . . . Oh my God, yes . . .”
He should have gone slower, he knew he should have, but he couldn’t stop himself now. The taste of her was in his mouth, in his nostrils, in his head, everywhere, and he couldn’t get it out. It was maddeningly erotic and as intoxicating as fuck, and he couldn’t get enough.
He slid the hand on the back of her thigh up to cup her delicious ass, digging his fingers into her soft flesh as he pushed his tongue deep into her pussy. Making her cry out, a shudder shaking the length of her body.
Holy fuck, he loved that throaty, husky sound. It drew a rough growl of approval from him as he stroked her wet flesh with his fingers, rubbing his thumb over her clit as he worked his tongue inside her.
Phoebe shifted her weight, leaning into him, her hips rocking against his mouth, words spilling out of her mouth, telling him to keep going and not to stop, not ever to stop.
Luckily, he wasn’t planning to.
He used his fingers, he used his mouth. He licked deep inside her, nipped at her delicate flesh, sucked on her clit until she was pleading with him. Until she wasn’t clutching the doorframe anymore but had wound her fingers into his hair and was pulling hard on it, whispering over and over, almost incoherent, “Make me come, Nero. Please, Please. I need to come. Now. God . . . please.”
So he did. One hard stroke with his thumb and a deep thrust with his tongue and she came.
Screaming his name.
* * *
Phoebe didn’t want to come down from the intense adrenaline high of the orgasm shaking her soul apart, but the hard wood of the doorframe was digging into her back and her legs felt like rubber and she knew that if she didn’t pull herself together, she’d probably fall down.
So reluctantly she opened her eyes and looked down at the man kneeling at her feet. He was staring back, his eyes full of intense, masculine satisfaction and heat. Her fingers were still wound in his silky hair, and she had the impression she’d pulled hard on it as he’d worked his wicked magic with his tongue.
A flush began to creep over her. Dear God, had she really said those things to him? Had she really told him what she’d wanted him to do to her?
She’d never been so explicit in her life before. She had certainly never said those things to Charles in bed. What had come over her?
You know . . .
Nero. It had been Nero who’d come over her. Stalking across the room toward her, trailing fury in his wake. She’d thought he’d be displeased, but she hadn’t expected him to be quite that angry with her. She hadn’t expected candlelight or dinner either. Her favorite dinner, with a white tablecloth and crystal glasses.
She’d been struggling to take that in when he’d pushed her up against the doorframe, anger pouring off him, demanding answers, and her own anger had risen—until she’d looked up into his furious dark gaze and it came to her why he was so angry. He’d been worried about her; she could see it glinting in the depths of his eyes.
Another thing she hadn’t expected, just like she hadn’t expected the strength of her own reaction to it. She couldn’t remember the last time someone had been worried enough about her that they’d gotten angry. Sure, her father got angry with her a lot, but it wasn’t because he was worried. It was because she wasn’t Lily, she knew that. Her mother, sometimes, but it wasn’t worry for Phoebe. It was worry for herself and her “nerves.”
And Charles? Well, he hadn’t worried about anything much when she’d first met him, which she’d found refreshing and a relief. Except . . . sometimes she wondered if his lack of worry about her meant he didn’t care.
Nero did though. Judging from his rage, he cared a lot.
She’d told him she visited Charles, and he’d become incensed. And another realization had hit her; he was jealous. Worried and jealous. Of course, he’d denied it, but she knew the truth.
It had made her chest hurt. Made her want to reach out and touch him, stroke his face, calm him, soothe him. Tell him that it was okay, she was back, and he had no need to be jealous, not of Charles, because it wasn’t like he was going to wake up any time soon.
And then—perhaps the most unexpected thing of all—Nero had picked up on the slight sound of pain in her voice, the sadness and grief she always felt after visiting the hospital, and he had wanted to know why she had those feelings.
The question had shocked her, because wasn’t it obvious why? But the look on his face . . . he’d been totally genuine. She’d tried to explain, but it soon became obvious that he didn’t really understand. Which had felt . . . painful to her.
Not because he didn’t understand her, but because of what it revealed about him. If he couldn’t imagine losing someone he loved, then he’d either never lost anyone or he’d never loved anyone. And she suspected it was the latter.
It made pity curl inside her chest, because surely—surely—he’d experienced love in some form. That he had problematic relationships with his family was clear, but he must have loved his parents? She’d wanted to ask him more about it, but then he’d kissed her, light and gentle, as if he wanted to comfort her, but didn’t know how.
It had made her heart hurt. Brought home to her the awareness that she wasn’t alone. That she wasn’t back in the apartment she’d once shared with Charles, with nothing but reminders and loneliness everywhere. That there was a man right in front of her who was alive and vital and warm. Who’d been worried about her. Enough that he’d gotten into a rage that she hadn’t turned up. Who’d given her candlelight and dinner. A man who was broken inside and yet was trying to know her all the same.
A man she was abruptly so hungry for she felt like she’d fall into pieces if he didn’t touch her right away.
Phoebe looked down at that man now, studying his brutal, beautiful face. Straight dark brows and that proud blade of a nose. Broad cheekbones and the hard line of his strong jaw. His mouth with its surprisingly sensual bottom lip and the thick, inky lashes that framed his eyes. And, God, those eyes. Black as night, full of rough heat and darkness one moment, obsidian-sharp and glittering the next. Eyes that made her feel for the first time that she was being looked at by someone who actually saw her . . .
Something pulled tight inside her chest. “Thank you,” she said, not realizing she was going to say it until it came out.
His mouth curved. “For making you tell me what you wanted or for making you come?”
“For both.” She swallowed. “I’ve never actually asked before.”
“Why not?”
Of course, he’d ask and she should have expected that he would—Nero always asked the difficult questions.
Heat crept up her neck. She didn’t like talking about this. “I . . . don’t know. I suppose I never felt very comfortable with the idea.”
“Are you ashamed?”
“No,” she said slowly, thinking about it. “It’s not because of that.”
“Then what?” Carefully, he began to smooth her skirt down. “There’s nothing wrong with asking for what you want, Phoebe.”
She took a breath, the careful, almost tender movements of his hands on her pulling at the tight thread in her chest. “No, I know. But . . .” She paused. “I guess it feels selfish sometimes.”
A black flame leapt in his eyes. “There’s nothing selfish about wanting me to eat you out, sweetheart, believe me.”
Her cheeks heated at the words, which was ridiculous since that’s exactly what he’d just done to her. “What about you?” she asked, changing the subject as he got to his feet. “Don’t you want me to . . .” She gestured at the hard ridge of his cock pressing against his fly.