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.
“Suck me off?” He reached down, putting his palm against her cheek. “I can wait. And you didn’t answer my question.”
God. He was relentless. “You didn’t ask a question.”
His thumb brushed over her cheek. “Why do you think asking me to give you pleasure is selfish?”
“It’s not. I don’t know what I’m talking about.” The gentle touch on her skin made her want to turn her cheek against his palm and rub against it, like a cat seeking to be petted.
“Did he not ask you? Or did he tell you that it wasn’t right to ask?”
Phoebe sighed and looked up at him. He was leaning over her, a wall of hard muscle and heat, one hand on the doorframe and the other cupping her face, an intent look in his eyes. As if he really wanted to know the answers, as if he was trying to understand her.
Don’t you want him to understand you?
Yes, she did. Because no one had ever wanted to, and no one else ever had.
“No.” That tightness inside her got even tighter. “Charles never told me that, and I didn’t ask because it was too hard. He tried to . . . give me pleasure but I could never . . . c-climax.”
Nero’s brows pulled down in a scowl. “Like I told you. He must have been doing something wrong because I have no problems with making you come.”
She flushed at the very male note of satisfaction in his voice, oddly pleased by it. “He got impatient,” she admitted, trying not to feel disloyal. “And it was easier to give him what he wanted. At least it made him happy and not just frustrated and angry.”
Nero said nothing for a long moment, studying her, his thumb brushing back and forth over her cheek. “It’s not only sex though. You don’t ask for anything for yourself. Why not?”
Well, that was a lie. “Of course, I ask for things for myself.”
“Really? Name one thing you’ve asked for since you came to work for me.”
She shifted against the doorframe. “Money is a good start.”
“Your salary comes in return for the work that you do. It’s not given to you.”
God, why did he want to know this stuff? Why was it important? Maybe she didn’t want him to know her after all. “I’m not sure I want to talk about this,” she muttered, glancing away. “I don’t see how it’s relevant.”
“Because I want to understand.” His fingers firmed on her cheek, gently drawing her gaze back to his. “I want to understand you.”
“Why?” The question was blunt and almost thrown at him, but she didn’t have it in her to say it any other way. “I’m only your personal assistant that you happen to be sleeping with. Why should you want to understand me?”
That look on his face was full of fierce concentration, as if she was an ancient text he was struggling to decode. “I don’t know,” he said, and she heard it then, the note of almost desperation in his voice. “I only know that I do.”
Chapter 10
Her skin was so soft against his palm and he could still taste her in his mouth, and he was so hard he hurt. And he didn’t know why he was talking to her when all he wanted to do was fuck her. But it felt like understanding her was more important. More important than anything.
He’d never felt this way about another human being before and he wasn’t sure he liked it. No, scratch that, he fucking hated it. But hating it didn’t stop the feeling inside him or the need. As if she was a strange and unknown country he was desperate to explore every inch of.
There was a look in her eyes that he couldn’t decipher, though it had a soft element to it that he felt like a caress. “There’s nothing much to know,” she said after a moment. “I’m just an English girl who fell in love with an American and came to live in New York. Full stop.”
“No, there’s more than that.” He knew that much. He could sense it. “Why did you come here?”
She opened her mouth and her stomach rumbled, making her blush suddenly.
Of course. Dinner. She needed to eat.
He pushed himself away from her, reaching into his pocket for his phone. “Tell me while I organize James to heat up the dinner.” He didn’t wait for her to respond, typing in a quick message to James to come and collect the plates. Then he turned back to her and slid an arm around her waist, drawing her away from the door and over to the couch.
She went with him without protest, leaning into him, which he liked. And when he sat down on the couch and pulled her down beside him, she didn’t resist.
Keeping an arm around her waist, he reached out to the bottle of wine he had brought up with the dinner and poured a glass. Then he sat back, tucking her in close to his body, because he wanted the warmth of her right next to him, and handed her the glass of wine. “Talk,” he ordered. “Why did you come to New York? Why didn’t you want to stay in London?”
Phoebe settled against him, nursing her wine glass. “Charles’s work was important, and he didn’t want to leave New York. And I thought I needed to get out of London for a bit.”
There was a slight catch in her voice. He stared down at her face, trying to work out whether it was pain he saw there or something else. “Why?”
She sighed. “My parents. My father is very . . . exacting, shall we say, and my mother is a bit of a basket case. She needs a lot of emotional support—which Dad doesn’t do—and so I had to provide it for her. It’s fine, I don’t mind doing that, but it got a little draining. So when Charles asked me to come to New York with him, I said yes.”
“That seems like a good plan.”
Phoebe took a sip of the wine, her gaze directed at the glass. “Yes, but Mum was very upset and Dad was angry. He wanted me to stay and look after her. According to him, he could never get anything done while she was around because she was so demanding.”
“But you didn’t stay.”
“No. I needed . . . a break. But I still get constant calls from both of them. Dad keeps wanting me to come home and so does Mum, for different reasons.” She took another sip of wine. “They don’t actually want to see me, though. They just want me to be around to make their lives easier.” Her expression twisted all of a sudden. “That doesn’t sound very grateful, does it?”
He didn’t like the bitter note in her voice, the echo of pain. It felt painful to him, too. Tightening his arm around her, he tucked her even closer, finding somehow that holding her helped. “Why should you be grateful?” he said roughly. “They sound like assholes.”
She gave a soft laugh and shook her head. “They’re not that bad.”
He disagreed, though he only said, “Don’t you have any brothers or sisters to help?”
“No. I’m . . . I want to say I’m an only child, but I’m sort of not.”
“What does that mean?”
“I had a sister, Lily, but she died before I was born. She had leukemia. My mother had me pretty soon after Lily died, and she didn’t have any more kids, so it’s only me.” She paused, swirling the wine around in her glass, and he had the feeling she was going to say something important so he stayed quiet, watching her pale face. “Mum told me that she had me to fill the gap left by Lily’s death, because she needed something to love.
But Dad didn’t want another child. He’d never got over Lily’s death and was angry with Mum for getting pregnant with me.”
Nero felt all his muscles tightening. “Did he . . . do anything to you?”
Phoebe glanced at him in surprise. “Do anything to me? Who? Dad?”
“Yes.” He knew asking the question had given something away, but he couldn’t help himself. He had to know. Fathers could be assholes, and he suddenly found the thought of Phoebe’s father hurting her absolutely impossible.
“What do you mean do anything?” There was a faint crease between her brows.
Ah, fuck, he shouldn’t have asked the question. Especially when it was clear now that Phoebe’s father hadn’t hit her or abused her or any of the other terrible things fathers did to their children. Because if he had, she wouldn’t have needed to ask what he meant.
“Did he get angry with you?” Nero asked instead, hoping like hell Phoebe wouldn’t have picked up on his tension.
Phoebe glanced down at her wine again. “Oh, Dad was always angry. He liked things done a certain way, and he didn’t like fuss, didn’t like emotional displays. Which meant my mother was constantly disappointing him.” There was another pause. “I think I constantly disappointed him, too. Actually, no. He would have had to care about me in order to find me disappointing, and I don’t think he cared enough. I wasn’t Lily, and the most important thing about me was that I deal with Mum so he didn’t have to.”
Again, that bitter note in her voice. It hurt her that her father didn’t care.
“That upsets you,” he said carefully, watching her expression.
She tilted her head, looking up at him. “Of course, it upsets me. I mean, I’ve come to expect it now, but still . . .” She lifted one shoulder. “They’re my parents. And you can’t help hoping for more from them.”
She said it like it was obvious, something that everyone knew. Except he didn’t. It had become clear early on to him that he could never expect anything from his parents. His mother hadn’t been able to leave his stepfather because of her debts. And his real father . . . Fuck, his father hadn’t even acknowledged his existence until Nero had been discovered and the media went apeshit, forcing Cesare into a response.
The Billionaire Beast Page 14