As she pushed open the door, the delicious smell of food drifted out, reminding her that she hadn’t eaten all afternoon. That was definitely one of the perks of working for Nero. She didn’t have to cook, not when his personal chef provided all her meals, and delicious meals they were, too. Looked like someone had brought up her dinner and left it there for her.
Nero wasn’t in her bedroom though. Phoebe frowned, depositing her handbag and laptop beside the bed, and looked around. No, he definitely wasn’t here. Kicking off her pumps, she headed toward her sitting room, pulling the hairpins out of her bun as she went. Perhaps he was in there? It was, logically, the only other place he could be.
She got to the doorway and stopped dead.
The room was full of the warm, flickering light of a dozen tea-light candles, all in small glass holders placed strategically around the room. The coffee table had been covered in a snowy white tablecloth, and on top of it were two plates of what looked to be Nero’s chef’s specialty steak—her favorite. There were also a couple of bowls full of roasted vegetables and a wooden breadboard with a loaf of crusty bread on it. A bottle of red wine stood already opened, while two crystal wine glasses waited.
She blinked at the dinner on the table and at the candles. What on earth was that all about? When James brought up her dinner, he never lit candles or laid a tablecloth or had wine waiting for her. And he definitely never laid out a place for another person.
A thread of unease wound through her and abruptly pulled tight.
She wasn’t alone.
Over by the windows, outlined by the light coming from the garden beneath, stood a tall, massive figure.
Her heart kicked hard inside her chest as she met Nero’s gaze, a black fire of fury glittering in his eyes.
“Where the fuck have you been?” he demanded.
Chapter 9
He’d been waiting hours for her. Literally fucking hours. Now here she was, standing in the doorway with her shoes off and her pretty red-gold hair hanging halfway down her back, her golden-brown eyes staring at him in surprise. As if she’d had no idea he’d be waiting for her.
As if she had no idea he’d been pacing back and forth in front of these windows for two hours, wondering where she was and why she wasn’t answering his texts or his calls. Wondering whether something terrible had happened to her or whether she’d simply decided she didn’t want to be his lover after all, that she didn’t even want to work for him anymore and hadn’t bothered to come back.
Fury had begun to build inside him as the minutes ticked by. Fury that she’d promised to be his lover, that she’d promised to come back after the meeting and yet wasn’t here. That she’d disappeared into that huge city, and he didn’t know where and couldn’t get hold of her.
He’d wanted to do something nice for her, organize a dinner in her suite with food she liked, seduce her the way she should be seduced, carefully, gently. Hell, he’d even forced himself from his control room—the third time in two days—and had come here to her, because he knew she liked this room.
Being here, surrounded by her stuff, had been oddly reassuring, and he hadn’t felt panicky at all, at least until she hadn’t come back when she’d said she would. He’d become frustrated just pacing here, so he’d made himself go down the stairs to the entrance way, half thinking he’d just fling open the front door, step outside. Go find her himself.
But he hadn’t even managed to touch the door handle.
He’d broken out into a sweat at the mere thought of reaching for it, his chest like someone had taken it in a vice and was squeezing the life out of him. Gasping for breath, shaking, furious with himself, he’d had to retreat to her sitting room and call James, get him to check the hospitals and the police department for good measure.
And now here she was, strolling into the room as if nothing was wrong and she hadn’t known he’d be fucking furious that she’d apparently been out of contact.
“Well?” His voice was rough with a rage he made no attempt to mask. “Where the fuck did you go? And why didn’t you answer any of my calls?”
Her expression smoothed, the personal assistant ready to do his bidding. “My phone died,” she answered coolly. “And I didn’t have a charger with me.”
He was learning about her slowly and so he caught it, the momentary hesitation before she answered, the little flicker in her gaze. She was hiding something, oh yes, she was.
He moved from the window, stalking toward her, pissed and not bothering to hide it. “Where were you?” He kept his gaze on hers, pinning her there with it so she could get a sense of how fucking furious he was. How deep in the shit she was.
Any normal person would have backed away and backed away fast, but not Phoebe. She stood her ground, staring warily at him as he came toward her, and instead of answering his question like a good employee should after pissing him off so completely, she asked, “Why is the table set for two? And why are there candles in here?”
He didn’t answer, because he was too fucking mad. He reached her, putting his hands on her hips, turning her to face him, pushing her up hard against the door frame and holding her there.
“Answer my fucking question.” He lowered his head, putting his face close to hers so she had no choice but to meet his gaze, his fingers digging hard into the soft flesh beneath her skirt. “Where the fuck were you? You said you were going to come straight back after the meeting. You fucking promised.”
Her lashes were tipped with gold from the light of all the stupid, goddamn candles he’d had James put in her room because he thought she’d like it, and there was a crease between her red-gold brows. Her brown eyes were oddly luminous as she looked up at him, a deep, golden glow like gently warmed brandy, and the expression on her face . . . She wasn’t angry with him, wasn’t afraid or defensive. It was something else. Almost like he was a puzzle she was trying to work out, which was strange because no one had ever looked at him like he was the difficult one to read.
Then the crease between her brows cleared, and her eyes widened. “You’re worried about me,” she said, something husky edging her voice.
It wasn’t a question and he didn’t know what to do with that. Because no, of course he wasn’t worried about her. He never worried about people. He was angry. That’s what he was, just really fucking angry because he couldn’t get hold of her and he didn’t know where she was.
Like you weren’t worried about her the night before, when she screamed in her sleep.
“No,” he almost spat to her and the voice in his head. “I wasn’t fucking worried. You went somewhere after that meeting with Lorenzo. Where did you go?” He pressed her harder against the doorframe, easing his body up against hers, not realizing how badly he needed to touch her until her soft warmth was against him. “Answer me. Now.”
Her expression changed and this time he couldn’t read it at all, the look on her face totally unfamiliar. “The candles, the dinner. It was for me, wasn’t it?”
“Of course, it was for you.” The words came out as a growl. “You needed dinner. Now, I swear to God if you don’t tell me—”
“I visited Charles.” Her gaze roved over his face as if he’d suddenly become a stranger to her. “I haven’t seen him since I started work for you, and I wanted to check in on him. My phone died and then the doctors wanted a meeting. It took longer than I thought.”
So, she’d gone to visit her fucking fiancé without telling him.
Something coiled tight inside his chest, something he’d never felt before in his life. It was sharp and hot, and it fed into his fury like petrol poured into an empty petrol tank, making the engine roar.
He spread his fingers on her hips, angling her so his hardening cock pressed against the softness between her thighs. “No.” The word was little more than a growl. “You’re not going to visit that prick, not on my dime.” He lifted his hands, took her face between them. “You promised to be my lover, which makes you mine, Phoebe Taylor. All mine. Underst
and me?”
She made no move to pull away, only lifting her hands and circling his wrists with her cool, delicate fingers. That look was on her face, the one he couldn’t work out, the one that for some reason cooled the terrible heat of his anger, yet at the same time made his chest tighten.
“It’s okay,” she said quietly. “You don’t have to be jealous.”
What the actual fuck was she talking about?
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.
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.
The Billionaire Beast Page 13