She turned around and was out the door before he could say another word.
Chapter 6
Phoebe was in the middle of a very pleasant dream. Someone was touching her, trailing their fingers lightly over her body. It felt so good, making her want to arch and stretch like a cat. God, it had been so long since she’d been touched that the pleasure of it was indescribable.
Charles’s fingers of course, because who else would be touching her like that? So gentle. So light. So sensual. As if she was a precious and sacred object that he was worshiping.
Then the dream changed, a thread of doubt winding through her, because there was something wrong. Something that she couldn’t quite put her finger on. The touch changed, too, becoming more demanding, more overtly sexual, pinching her nipples and pushing between her thighs. Making her restless and hot and needy in a way that Charles never had.
It’s not Charles and you know it.
She’d loved him, she still did. But Charles had never touched her like that. He wasn’t a sensualist, and he wasn’t much for lingering. He didn’t demand. He liked sex, but his tastes had always been simple. He never took his time . . .
In the dream, Phoebe tried to close her legs to the marauding hand touching her, but it pushed between her thighs anyway, and then there was a firm pressure against her clit, insistent, and a finger sliding inside her. And there was no resistance at all, because she was wet, so very, very wet . . .
She sucked in a desperate breath, wanting to open her eyes, see who it was, because although she was certain it was Charles, there was that thread of doubt. Making her afraid that it wasn’t Charles after all.
Then the dream changed again and she wasn’t in a bed being touched by someone, but in a car on a dark road, speeding faster and faster. Headlights appeared, coming toward her, and she pushed on the brake to slow down. But it didn’t work. No matter how hard she put her foot down, nothing happened. And those headlights kept coming, racing toward her, getting brighter and brighter, becoming the only thing she could see.
She screamed, terror gripping her by the throat, her whole body bracing itself for the impact.
And then she woke up, the sound of her scream echoing off the walls, her heartbeat deafening her.
She lay there for a moment, staring up into the blackness, her mouth dry, her body trembling, her sheets damp and sticking to her skin. Fear was pulsing through her, yet weirdly the arousal from the way the dream had begun lingered. The combination was . . . disturbing.
God, she hadn’t had a sex dream for a long time, or a nightmare for that matter, so why on earth she was now was anyone’s guess.
Guilt perhaps?
Yet before she had a chance to explore that thought, her bedroom door was thrown open with such force it bounced off the wall. The sound jolted her, making her heave in a breath and push herself groggily upright, clutching at the sheet and squinting toward the doorway to see what the hell was happening.
Someone was standing in the doorway.
Someone very large.
The fear lingering from her nightmare bolted down her spine as her brain tried to make sense of the looming shape.
Definitely a man. Very tall, with massively broad shoulders.
Nero.
She knew the security he had in his house, no one else would get past it unless he himself let them. Which meant that of course it was him. And that should have made her feel better, but it didn’t. If anything, it only made the fear worse.
That kiss . . .
Her mouth burned, her heartbeat getting faster, the memory of what he’d done to her in the library echoing through her entire body. Hot. Desperate. Shattering.
She’d never been kissed like that before, not without her permission. Not without being asked. Charles had asked before he’d kissed her that first time, his blue eyes full of gentle desire and hope. It had been light and tentative and she’d been utterly charmed by it.
Nero’s kiss had not been charming. It had not been light or tentative. There had been no gentle desire in it, no desperate hope. He’d taken that kiss whether she’d wanted to give it to him or not, and he’d been ruthless. Pushing down her bottom lip with his thumb, his tongue sliding deep into her mouth, one hand hard on the back of her neck, the other hard on her chin. Keeping her in place, holding her there. Making her take it. Taking without permission like he hadn’t heard what she’d told him, that he needed to respect her choice.
But that wasn’t the worst thing. No, the worst thing was how something inside her had just erupted like a volcano exploding. A wild, primitive, out of control part of her that she’d had no idea was even there.
A part that didn’t care about the fact that she was engaged, that her fiancé was lying in a hospital bed in a coma. A part that didn’t care that she was in love with one man while being kissed by another. A part that Charles, with all his gentle desire had never woken, not even once.
But it was awake now. Nero had woken it. And it wanted his kiss, his touch. The warmth of all that animal energy that lived in him. The fire in his eyes when he focused on her. The intensity of his attention.
It wanted all of that and more because the silence and loneliness of that hospital room had frozen her right through.
The realization had terrified her.
She’d run from the library, thinking of nothing but putting distance between her and Nero. The taste of him was in her mouth, hot and alcoholic and delicious, and she knew that if she stopped running, she might very well turn around and go back into the library for more. She didn’t stop running until she’d gotten to her room, where she’d locked the door then turned on the shower, switching it to cold. And she’d stood under the icy spray until her teeth had begun to chatter and the heat inside her had cooled. Then she’d gotten out, wrapped herself in her favorite dressing gown, and ordered the women Nero had wanted.
She didn’t think about that kiss again. Didn’t think about the fact that the women he’d wanted were redheads. Didn’t think about that needy, aching part of her that was helplessly drawn to his intense, uninhibited masculine sexuality.
She only picked up a book and lost herself in that instead. Then she’d gone to bed and dreamed . . .
Nero moved suddenly from the doorway, stalking toward her, loose limbed and predatory as a panther.
The fear inside her tightened, and she grabbed quickly for the light switch on her nightstand, flicking it on.
Why on earth was he here? He should have been cozied up with the escorts she’d gotten for him, not coming to see her. Unless they weren’t suitable? Or maybe they hadn’t turned up? Or did he want something else?
Light flooded the room, illuminating Nero’s rough, brutally handsome features. And her heart paused mid-beat at the expression on his face.
His eyes were glittering, his jaw tight and hard, his lips curled back in an almost snarl. He had his hands in fists at his sides, and if she didn’t know any better, she’d have thought he looked slightly pale.
“Nero?” She clutched the sheet to her chest in an unconsciously protective movement. “What’s wrong? It’s the middle of the night. Is there—”
“Are you okay?” he demanded, low and rough, continuing to come toward her.
“What? What do you mean?”
“I heard you scream.” He came to a stop beside the bed, his whole posture stiff, radiating tension. “Answer me. Are you all right?”
Phoebe blinked, staring at him in shock, her fear beginning to ebb. Had he really burst into her room in the middle of the night simply because he’d heard her scream? That seemed odd when he wasn’t supposed to care about anyone but himself. How had he heard her anyway?
“Yes, I’m fine.” She hoped her voice sounded steady. “It was only a nightmare.”
Nero’s gaze flickered. He turned his head sharply to look over his shoulder as if he’d spotted someone creeping up behind him, but there was no one there. “Are you sure?” His attention returned to her only to flicker away once
again, scanning the room like a soldier searching for threats.
Phoebe frowned. Something was “off” here. He was holding himself strangely, his massive shoulders hunched as if a great weight was pressing down on him.
“Yes, I’m positive.” She studied him, noticing the gleam of sweat on his forehead. And . . . God. Were those big fists of his shaking?
“What about you?” She kept her voice low. “Are you okay?”
Instantly his gaze came to hers and stayed there. “Of course, I’m fucking okay,” he snapped. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
“I don’t know. You look . . .” She stopped. Afraid. He looks afraid. Which was strange. She wouldn’t have thought a man like Nero de Santis would be afraid of anything and yet . . . he was. She would have laid money on it.
“I’m fine.” He looked around the room again, his broad chest expanding as he took in a breath that sounded shaky. “I just . . . haven’t been in this room for a while.”
“Why not?” she asked before she could stop herself.
He scowled. “Because I haven’t needed to, of course. Would there be any other reason?”
There’s a reason. And it’s not because he hasn’t needed to.
Gradually something began to dawn on her. That he was here, in this room, instead of his office or his gym or his library, the rooms she never saw him leave. And more than that, he was here and he was afraid.
Why? Was being here difficult for him? There was no threat here, and he must know that. Or was it difficult because he wasn’t in one of his familiar places?
As soon as the thought occurred to her, she knew it was true. Nothing else made sense. And it made something shift in her chest, the last remnants of her own fear fading away. He’d heard her scream, and he’d come to check to see if she was okay. He’d left his office, his gym, his library. His familiar places.
He’d come to her because she’d had a nightmare.
She had no idea what that meant—if, indeed, it meant anything at all—but it made the part of her that always wanted to help people help him in some way. Soothe him, ease his fear.
He was not an easy man by any stretch of the imagination. But it seemed he wasn’t a beast all the way through. He was vulnerable. He needed help.
And she was here.
That thing in her chest shifted again. He was looking around the room once more, as if he was seeing things that weren’t there, those big hands of his clenching even tighter, his chest was rising and falling even faster.
She didn’t like seeing him like this. He was normally so powerful, so arrogant. So confident. It was wrong that he should be afraid.
But what could she do? He would hate knowing she’d spotted his vulnerability, she understood that instinctively, so talking to him about it probably wouldn’t help.
You could distract him.
She could, but how? Yet even as the thought occurred to her, she knew.
Her fingers clutching the sheet to her breasts loosened, allowing it to slip, and instantly his gaze snapped back to her, following the movement. Her nightgown was white cotton, modest, with a high neckline, but the fabric was very fine. Almost see-through.
Phoebe’s heartbeat thudded loudly in her ears as his black eyes dropped to where her nightgown stretched over her breasts, his attention zeroing in on her the way it often did. And then the tension in his posture abruptly relaxed, and he was moving toward her, coming closer until he was standing right next to the bed, looking down at her.
She swallowed, her mouth gone dry. He was very, very close. Too close. She could feel the heat radiating from his big, hard body, that dark electricity crackling around him that had goose bumps rising all over her skin. That made her shiver. That made her want things she’d never wanted before and couldn’t for the life of her understand why she wanted them now.
This is a mistake.
Yes, it probably was. But his shoulders had lost that tight, hunched look, and he was staring at her with a kind of consuming intensity, as if she alone was holding his fear at bay. And sure enough, it wasn’t fear that glittered in his eyes now.
“Is there anything I can do for you?” she asked a little huskily. “I’m okay now. You don’t have to stay. I know you have . . . company already.”
He was silent for a long moment, staring at her. Then he said in a harsh, gritty voice. “You can explain something to me, Phoebe Taylor. I had two gorgeous, naked women in my bed, both of whom were desperate to please me. Yet I didn’t want either of them. How the fuck does that work?”
A shock went down her spine. So he hadn’t slept with those women? She shouldn’t care, and yet it was disturbing that her first reaction was good.
“I don’t know.” Phoebe tried to ignore the voice inside her. “I got you the women you told me to get. Those were the ones you said you wanted.”
His gaze was so full of heat and a strange kind of fury she almost couldn’t look at it. “But I don’t want them. I don’t want to touch them. I don’t want to fuck them. They were naked in my bed, and all I could fucking think about was you.”
Shock expanded slowly inside her, like an explosion in slow motion.
He hadn’t followed her after that kiss in the library, so she’d thought she’d been right in her initial assumption. That he didn’t want her in particular. He just wanted sex.
Apparently not.
“Me?” She hated the faint sound of her own voice. “I mean, I don’t know why—” She broke off as he moved again, restless and sudden, sitting down on the edge of the bed right next to her.
“Yes, you.” There was a rough note in the words that was somehow thrilling, even though she didn’t want it to be. “They don’t look like you. They don’t sound like you. And when I kissed them, they didn’t taste like you. And that was all I could fucking think about.” His expression became even more intense, the look in his eyes sharp as blades. “What have you done to me, Phoebe? What the fuck have you done?”
Her heartbeat was out of control, a strange prickling sensation crawling over her. As if she’d passed too close to an electric field and the static was crackling over her skin.
“I haven’t done anything,” she forced out, trying to sound like her usual calm self and failing. “I can’t help it if you don’t want those women.”
He ignored that, putting one hand on either side of her hips and leaning forward, his face inches from hers. “Why did you run from me in the library? I wouldn’t hurt you, Phoebe, I told you that already.”
He was so hot. So intense. A shudder went through her, and she wanted to press herself back into the pillows, put some distance between them. But that would be giving away far too much, so she didn’t. “Because you weren’t listening to me.”
“You wanted me. You kissed me back. Don’t tell me you didn’t.”
“That doesn’t mean I want to sleep with you.”
Nero said nothing, staring at her with such intensity she began to feel like he was trying to ignite her with the power of his mind alone.
And the really terrible part was that it was working.
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 car
e 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.”
The Billionaire Beast Page 8