Nero let go of Phoebe’s wrists and was on the bed, kneeling astride her, before she had a chance to move. Forced back against the pillows, her eyes went wide, her palms coming up to push against his chest, but he ignored that. Putting his hands on the pillow on either side of her head, he leaned down, watching her eyes get even wider and her pupils dilate. He flared his nostrils, taking in the scent of musk and flowers. Fucking hell. He was going to have to revise his opinion of her not being pretty, because right now, lying back with her red-gold curls spread all over the white pillows, a rosy flush staining her skin and the gold flecks in her eyes glittering, she was a goddess.
He still didn’t know why his cock was straining against the fly of his pants for her, when apparently the two redheads he’d gotten rid of not twenty minutes earlier hadn’t managed to get it up, but there was no denying the truth.
He’d kissed one of those women and she’d tasted of the breath mints she’d just eaten, not of heat and honey like Phoebe. Pleasant but unengaging. And when the other woman had touched him, he hadn’t gotten hard. He’d only gotten annoyed. He didn’t want to push them to see if they’d get mad, irritate them to see if they lost their cool. They were beautiful, and yet he didn’t want to watch their faces to see what they were thinking. In fact, he didn’t give a shit what they were thinking at all. He was completely uninterested in them, and apparently, so was his cock.
It had infuriated him that he couldn’t get them out of the door fast enough, and yet the moment they’d gone, his thoughts had returned to Phoebe. To the kiss he’d taken. To the taste of her mouth and the way it had opened under his at the very last moment, as if she’d lost her grip on the resistance she was holding so hard onto.
He didn’t know why she’d run out on him, and he didn’t know why there had been a tear on her cheek. And after those women had gone, he’d prowled into his control room, flicking open the screen with the camera feed of her room, unable to help herself.
The camera had an infra-red mode so he could see her lying in her bed in the dark, tossing and turning, restless as he was himself. Then she’d let out a low moan and it had sounded like fear, and for some reason every muscle in his body had tensed. But that hadn’t been the worst part, because then she’d screamed, high and terrified, and he was up and out of his control room, out into the hallway and walking fast in the direction of her bedroom before he was even conscious of moving.
It was only when the hallway began to telescope in front of him and the walls began to loom, making him feel like he was at the bottom of a massive canyon, that he realized what he was doing. That he was out in the rest of the house, beyond the small collection of rooms he lived his life in.
His mind began to whisper a truth he didn’t want to hear, making him think about how long it had been since he’d gone farther than the three steps it took to get from his office to his library door. But he knew if he thought about that, he’d never make it to Phoebe’s room.
So he didn’t think about it. He kept on walking, trying to ignore the way everything felt too big and too large, and how small he was in comparison. How it felt like he couldn’t breathe. As if he’d be crushed by the empty immensity of the space around him.
No, he just kept on going until he’d gotten to her room, forcing himself to push open that door and step inside. And there she’d been, half-asleep and warm, her hair everywhere, fear from her nightmare still large in her eyes.
She’d given him something to focus on and focus on her he had, so he didn’t have to think about the larger truth that tapped on the door he kept locked in his mind. So he didn’t have to hear it.
But the sound of her voice and her sweet scent weren’t enough.
He needed more. He always needed more.
“No?” There was a throaty note in the word that brushed over his skin like cool, delicate fingers. “What do you mean no?”
Was that alarm in her eyes? Yes, maybe it was. And there was that fear, too, the same fear he’d seen in her face as she’d fled from him back in the library.
He routinely scared those who came to his door, and he knew what it looked like when people were afraid of him. But the fear in Phoebe’s gaze wasn’t that fear. It was something else, and he had a feeling it was something to do with that desire she was so desperately trying to hide.
Why? What was she so afraid of? She was a sensual woman. He’d observed it through his cameras, and yet she seemed to be afraid of the passion inside her.
“Why are you afraid?” It came out as a demand, but he didn’t bother to soften it. Instead he slid a hand beneath the back of her neck and lifted her slightly so her head fell back, exposing the long, pale arch of milky skin and the fragile, blue tracery of veins just beneath the surface of it. At the base of her throat was her pulse, beating hard and fast. Too fast.
“I’m not afraid of you.” She was trembling.
“That wasn’t what I asked.” He lowered his head, pressing his mouth to that frantically beating pulse, then touched his tongue to her skin, tasting the faint salty flavor of her. Holy fuck, she tasted good. He growled, opening his mouth to bite the side of her neck gently, feeling the delicious give of her flesh, more of that salty flavor exploding on his tongue.
She made a desperate noise, her body shuddering then stiffening, pushing against his shoulders. Yet he could feel her hard nipples against his chest, and the wetness from her pussy was still coating his fingers. “I know you’re not afraid of me,” he went on. “You’re afraid of this.” And he licked her throat before trailing a line of tiny bites up it, his hand gripping the back of her neck firmly.
She shuddered again, twisting beneath him, pushing harder. Her breathing was loud and ragged, her voice breathless as she gasped, “I’m not. I’m just . . . Please, let me touch you, Nero.”
“Stop,” he growled, losing patience. “And answer the fucking question.”
“But you’d like it if I touched you.” She wriggled beneath him, shoving him. “Let go, Nero.”
He didn’t move. Her hands on his skin felt good, though not so much the shoving. Not that she could shift him, since she was very small and he was big, and grown men had had trouble making him move when he didn’t want to.
But he didn’t want her to touch him or at least not yet. He wanted her to give him a damn answer.
What does it matter to you why she’s afraid?
He didn’t know, and he didn’t want to think about why that mattered. He just . . . needed to know.
He let her back down and grabbed her hands once again, crossing her wrists then lifting her arms above her head and easing them down. Pressing them hard into the softness of the pillow and keeping them there.
She panted, her face flushed, the anger in her eyes bright gold. “I thought you wanted me.”
“Don’t change the subject,” he ordered. “Give me an answer.”
Her throat moved as she swallowed, her chest rising and falling in a quick, hard rhythm. “I have a fiancé. I shouldn’t . . . w-want you.”
“Except you do.”
She turned her head away, but he wasn’t having that. So, keeping her wrists locked above her head with his free hand, he gripped her chin and turned her back to face him with the other. He could feel her resistance, could see the fury in her gaze. “You do,” he repeated insistently, looking down into her fascinating eyes. “You told me. Too late to deny it now.”
Her attention shifted, dropping to his mouth as if she couldn’t help herself. “I . . . can’t . . .”
“Can’t what?”
She took another breath. “I can’t want you. I can’t like this. It’s wrong.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m still engaged. I was supposed to be faithful.”
Ah, her fiancé. The man who’d been unconscious for two years.
“Faithful to a man in a coma,” Nero said. “Two years is a long time for a passionate woman like you to be celibate.”
She blinked at him. “But I’m not a passionate woman.”
What? Where the fuck had she gotten that idea from? From her fool of a fiancé? Jesus Christ, if the man hadn’t been in a coma, Nero would have punched him in the face for that crime alone.
“Aren’t you?” He stared at her, holding her gaze. “Is that what you really think?”
“I . . .” She stopped, emotion flickering over her face. Emotion he didn’t know how to read.
Christ, why was he talking? Why wasn’t he simply taking what he wanted the way he always did? Yet he couldn’t. A soft, protective feeling was pressing against his ribs, making him want to go slowly, carefully. Not frighten her the way he had in his library.
Because it occurred to him suddenly that he knew fear. Back when he’d been a kid, when the police had come, dragging him out of that room and into the bright light, he’d been so afraid. He hadn’t wanted to go, had fought to stay in there, back where it was safe. He’d screamed when they’d carried him out and even though it had been a rescue, all he’d felt was violation.
Had she felt that back in the library? Did she feel that right now? As if she was being dragged out of her place of safety? Was that why she was fighting him so hard? Why she was resisting?
It was strange to get a glimpse of understanding another person, or at least imagine he understood. It was strange, too, to have the answer.
He didn’t want that for her. He didn’t want her to be afraid. Yet he didn’t want her and all that red and gold fire she blazed with, that he knew burned beneath that tightly coiled bun and those prim little pencil skirts, to be trapped and suffocated, either.
He wanted to set it free. He wanted to see it burn. And he wanted to burn with it.
“I can show you, Phoebe,” he said softly, intently. “I can show you how much bullshit that is.”
Her chin firmed, something sparking in her eyes. “No, you can’t. Charles couldn’t and I love him. I mean, I was with him for years, and I never even—” She stopped all of a sudden, flushing.
Nero frowned. “You never even what?”
Her red-gold lashes fell, veiling her gaze. “It’s nothing. Forget I said anything.”
Oh, no, he wasn’t having that.
Firming his grip on her chin, he lowered his head so they were almost nose to nose. “You know I don’t like to repeat myself, Phoebe Taylor. So tell me what the fuck you were talking about.”
Her gaze flicked to his, then away again, her cheeks going an even deeper red. “I’ve never had an orgasm, okay? And please don’t take that as a challenge, because it wasn’t meant as one.”
Nero was conscious of a deep sense of surprise, because that made no sense to him at all. Beneath her calm and that cool reserve, beneath those pencil skirts and corporate blouses, she was fire and passion and sensuality. He’d sensed it the moment he’d walked into his office the day he’d interviewed her.
How had that damn fiancé of hers not managed to release it?
You could though.
Oh yes, he could. And he would. He didn’t want her to be afraid of the passion she kept locked away inside her or the pleasure it could give her. She must be so hungry for it, so desperate.
“You should know better than that,” he said roughly. “Everything is a challenge to a man like me.”
She looked up at him, and he could see it now, fear clear in her eyes. “Don’t.”
“Why not?” Nero let go of her chin and looked farther down, where the fabric of her nightgown stretched across her breasts and he could see the tight, hard points of her nipples. “What are you so afraid of?” He lifted a hand and brushed his fingers lightly over the outline of one nipple then circled slowly, gently.
She shivered. “I can’t. I’ve tried.”
“Then perhaps you’re trying too hard.” He kept circling with his finger, feeling her nipple harden even more. “It’s not a competition.”
“I know, but I—” She sucked in a breath as he lightly pinched the hard tip of her breast through the fabric of her nightgown. “Oh . . . Nero, stop.”
The front of the nightgown was fastened with seemingly a million tiny buttons that would take him all day to undo, and it would be easier by far to rip it apart, make all those buttons go flying. Yet he reined himself in, forcing himself to go slow, taking that first tiny button between his fingers. “You don’t have to do anything,” he murmured, undoing it. “All you have to do is lie there and let me make you feel good. And I will, Phoebe.” He undid the next one, fumbling slightly because they were so very tiny and his fingers were large. “I’m not your fiancé. I know what I’m doing.”
Her breathing was getting faster. Harder. “And if I don’t come? Will you fire me?”
He lifted his attention from the buttons, staring into her sharp little face, anger and fear glowing gold in her eyes. “No,” he murmured and smiled at her, hungry and feral. “I’ll just try again.”
She swallowed, a convulsive moment. “Nero, I can’t—”
But he was done talking. Instead he covered her lips with his, silencing her.
Fire, sweetness, and honey swamped him, and he let his weight pin her to the mattress, sliding his tongue into her mouth, tasting her again. Her head went back and she shuddered, her wrists straining against the grip he still had on her wrists. He didn’t let her go, kissing her deeper, the way he had back in the library. Only this time, he took it slow, a leisurely, sensual exploration, the hot, distinctive flavor of her going straight to his head.
Fuck, she tasted so good. It made him want to rip away her nightgown and get her bare, get inside her as quickly as he could.
But no, tonight he wasn’t going to demand or take. Tonight he was going to try giving. And he didn’t quite understand why, only that it was important that she not be afraid, not of this.
Physical pleasure was real, it was concrete. It was the only good thing he had left in his life, and he wanted to show her she could have it, too, if only she let herself.
Phoebe made a soft, desperate sound against his mouth, her body arching beneath his, pressing against him as if she couldn’t help herself.
Holy fuck, she was responsive.
He kept on kissing her as he pulled at the fabric of her nightgown, ripping away the rest of the little buttons and easing aside the white cotton. Then he lifted his head to see as he bared one milky white breast. There was a soft dusting of freckles over it, her nipple the color of fresh raspberries.
He stared, feeling her tremble as he slid his hand over her warm, silky skin, cupping her breast in his hand. Then he brushed his thumb over that tight nipple, and she trembled even harder, making that odd protectiveness shift inside him once more.
“Easy,” he murmured. “I just want to make you feel good.”
“I . . . can’t, Nero,” she whispered in a husky little voice, and he could feel the race of her heartbeat beneath his palm. “It won’t work. It never does.”
He ignored her, because her flesh was warm and generous in his palm, just what he liked. Fucking exactly what he liked. And when he bent his head and licked her nipple, she jerked in reaction, her sharply indrawn breath hissing in his ear. He liked that, too, so he did it again and again, then he drew her nipple into his mouth and sucked hard.
This time the sound that escaped her was a gasp, then a groan, choked off and hoarse, so he kept sucking on her nipple then flicking it with his tongue, teasing her. She shifted beneath him again, another groan escaping and turning into a sob.
Desperate to get the nightgown off her and not wanting to face those fiddly little buttons again, he ripped the rest off her in a series of hard, one-handed jerks, taking her panties with it.
Phoebe inhaled sharply and her hands lifted as if to cover herself. But he caught them against his chest and held on. “Let me see you,” he ordered, his voice starting to get even rougher than it normally was. “I want to see how beautiful you are.”
She went red, turning her head away, but when he let go her hands and shifted back so he could see her body, she didn’t attempt to cover herself again, letting him look.
And fuck, yes. She was exactly as he’d imagined, an intriguing combination of generous curves and delicate bones. Freckles and fragile skin. Soft, silky curls between her thighs, the same red-gold color as her hair . . .
His breath caught, his cock hard and aching against his zipper.
Go slow. You don’t want to break her.
No, Christ, that was the last thing he wanted to do.
Controlling himself wasn’t his natural inclination, but he kept an iron grip on the lust that was growling for release, glancing back up to her face again.
She’d turned back to him, her eyes wide and dark, smoky with desire, and yet fear still lingered there.
He didn’t understand why she was afraid of this, but one thing was for sure. He was going to take that fear away from her for good.
“Give me your hand.” He made it another order.
“Nero . . . I don’t know what you’re—”
“Did I ask you to speak? No, I don’t think so. I asked you to give me your hand, so do it.”
A fine tremor shook her, and there was a sheen of tears in her eyes. “You don’t understand. I can’t do it.” Her voice was a frayed whisper. “I think . . . something’s wrong with me.”
He didn’t understand why the hell she’d think that, or why the fact she was crying made his own chest hurt. But right then and there he decided that he was going to show her there was nothing wrong with her.
So he ignored her, reaching for her hand himself and drawing it gently down between her thighs. She resisted, but he was insistent, guiding her fingers over the soft, wet flesh between her thighs.
She shuddered. “Nero . . .” Her voice was fraying, his name sounding full of too many emotions he didn’t understand. “I won’t . . . I can’t . . . Don’t make me . . .”
He ignored that, too, covering her hand with his own. “Touch yourself, Phoebe,” he ordered, pressing down with his fingers, pushing hers against her clit.
She jerked, inhaling sharply, her lashes falling closed.
Yes, now she was his. Now she was feeling it.
He watched her, mesmerized, keeping his hand on top of hers and moving it slowly, so her fingers rubbed against that little hard nub of flesh. Pleasure was beginning to take hold of her, he could see it unfurl over her face.
She gave a soft groan, her mouth opening, her hips beginning to lift with the movements of her hand and his, pressing herself against her own fingers as if searching for more of that friction.
A deep satisfaction took hold of him, and he leaned over her, putting one hand on the pillow beside her head, unable to tear his gaze from her face. She didn’t need his hand now, and indeed, when he took it away, she kept her fingers right where he’d put them, circling and rubbing at her clit, moving restlessly beneath him.
Fuck, she was beautiful like this. His little assistant, flushed and hot and ready to come, no matter how much she insisted otherwise.
Not taking his eyes from her, he let his own fingers trail down her soft wet flesh then eased one slowly into her pussy, slick heat engulfing it. Jesus, she was impossibly tight, impossibly hot.
Phoebe gasped, her back arching, shuddering beneath his touch. “Oh, my God . . .”
The sound of her voice was all husky and frayed, and the musky scent of her arousal was making him so hard he could barely think. But she was close now and he wasn’t going to ruin it by taking his own pleasure first. For the first time in his life, someone else’s needs seemed more important than his, and he was going to make sure she got exactly what she wanted.
Keeping his gaze on her face, he eased a second finger deep inside her, and a great shudder shook her body like a tree in a hurricane, her head going back on the pillow, her neck arching, white teeth sinking deeper into that soft, pouting bottom lip.
He slid his fingers out, then in again, letting her touch her clit, rubbing and circling, slicking back and forward until her whole body stiffened like she’d been electrocuted. And her mouth opened and she gave a high, desperate cry, before she came, sobbing, all over his hand.
* * *
Phoebe didn’t know what had happened to her. It was like Nero had dragged her to the edge of a cliff and very firmly tried to push her off it. She’d flung out a hand to stop herself, to try and grasp anything that would stop her from falling, a tree, a bush, a branch. Until he’d brought her own hand between her legs and made her touch herself, and she realized he wasn’t pushing her off that ledge any more. She’d jumped, falling into the abyss, screaming as her control splintered and the most intense burst of pleasure erupted inside her, annihilating every thought she’d ever had.
She couldn’t move for long minutes afterward, her eyes tightly closed, her body still shaking, feeling as if something terrible and shameful had happened.
Which, of course, it had.
She wasn’t naive. She knew what she’d experienced. She knew what Nero had given her that Charles never had. What no one ever had. And somehow that made it all worse.
Not only had another man touched her naked body, he’d given her the first orgasm she’d ever had.
It wasn’t supposed to be like that. It was supposed to be with Charles, not him.
Nero’s punishing grip on her wrists vanished and she abruptly flung her forearm over her eyes, trying to hide the sudden rush of hot tears that seemed to come out of nowhere. She felt vulnerable and exposed, like she’d lost her grip on something fundamental she’d always believed about herself.
Something that had turned out to be a lie.
Nero’s warm fingers slid around her forearm, pulling it away from her face. Charles had always allowed her space when she needed it, but apparently Nero had no such qualms.
She tried to jerk her arm from his grip, but it was like trying to shake off an iron manacle. She turned her head away from him instead, closing her eyes, determined to shut him out, trying to preserve what privacy she had left.
Yet he wouldn’t let her do that either.
Those relentless fingers transferred to her chin, turning her head back, and there was heat against her bare skin, the heavy weight of him pressing her down. His pants were rough against the inside of her thighs, the firm ridge of his cock pressing against her acutely sensitized clit, sending more electric shocks through her.
“Look at me,” he ordered in that rough, dark voice.
But she didn’t want to. He’d already made her touch herself, made her surrender to the grip of the phenomenal pleasure that had overwhelmed her. She didn’t want to give him any more power than he already had.
“Look. At. Me.” It was a command, issued with all the authority of a man who expected to be obeyed without question.
“No,” she whispered, keeping her eyes tightly shut. “Leave me alone.”
“If you don’t look at me right now, you’re fired.”
Bastard. She hated him. Hated him. Charles would have known to leave her alone, to give her space. Because Charles knew her. He did. No, he hadn’t ever managed to give her an orgasm, but it wasn’t his fault she didn’t much like sex.
Except maybe you do. He put your fingers between your legs, but you didn’t take them away.
There was a thickness in her throat, tears threatening, but she’d already revealed far too much as it was. She didn’t want to give Nero the added satisfaction of seeing her cry yet again. She wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of firing her either, so she got herself together and made herself open her eyes.
And instantly she wanted to close them again, because his face was inches from hers, that sharp, obsidian gaze focused intently on her.
“Tell me again that you can’t come, Phoebe Taylor.” There was something dark and feral in his eyes. “Tell me again that you’re not a passionate woman, that your fingers aren’t all wet from rubbing that little clit of yours till you screamed. Tell me again there’s something wrong with you.”
The words made her feel even more exposed than she already was. “I don’t know why that happened. It wasn’t supposed to. It’s never happened before.” She was beginning to be achingly conscious of the weight of him pressing down on her. By his heat and that scent of masculine spice. By the way her hips wanted to lift, to press against the hard ridge of his cock that rested between her thighs. By the hungry thing that had gotten loose inside her and wanted more, more than she could ever give it.
“You know why it happened.” His hips rocked against hers, his cock nudging at her clit in an insistent, subtle rhythm. “You want this. You want me. I don’t know what was wrong with your fiancé that he never managed to get you off, but he’s not here now and I am. So why don’t you let yourself have me? Why are you resisting so fucking hard?”
It was happening again, the slow ache of desire rising inside her like a tide, and she was helpless to hold it back. Just like she was conscious of the heat and power of his body on hers, of the firm, hard-packed muscle of his shoulders where her hands were resting. As if she liked the feel of him. As if she wanted to slide her hands down his back and hold on tight . . .
No. She couldn’t do that. Because there hadn’t been anything wrong with Charles. She’d been the one who wasn’t good at sex. No matter how many times Charles had tried to give her pleasure, she hadn’t been able to let go enough to enjoy it, and he hadn’t been a patient man. It had frustrated him. In the end, she’d decided it was easier to give him pleasure than to receive it herself, and hey, it meant at least one of them got off. Charles had never complained after that, perfectly happy to lie back and let her do the work. And she hadn’t felt bad about it. She’d only felt relieved since it meant the pressure was off her.
But this is not the same. And Nero is not Charles.
Yet she didn’t want to think about that either. Didn’t want to admit the flaws in her relationship with Charles or the possibility that perhaps her fiancé had been selfish. Because if a man like Nero had managed to get her off, then why not the man she’d been going to marry?
Doubt wound a cold thread through her.
“I’ve told you why.” She tried to make her voice firm and certain, like she was trying to convince herself. “Do I really have to repeat myself?”
He said nothing, looking down at her. Then he moved, and she thought for a moment that he was actually going to get off her and leave.
But soon it became clear he wasn’t going anywhere.
He shifted, then rose up above her, his knees pressing down into the bed on either side of her hips. And with a rough movement, he pulled open his shirt, shrugging out of it and discarding it over the side of the bed.
Phoebe blinked, an unexpected heat stealing through her. She couldn’t stop looking at him, her mouth going dry, because he was . . . magnificent. The way his clothes fit had hinted at the musculature of his body beneath them, but now it was revealed and she could only stare.
Wide shoulders, dense with muscle, and a chest that looked like it had been sculpted in loving detail by a master intent on capturing the ideal male form. Hard cut abs and narrow hips. Powerful arms that would have put a mountain climber to shame. Smooth bronze skin with a dusting of black hair . . .
He looked like a female fantasy come to life.
Her fingers itched to touch him. To feel all that power under her hands. To feel if he was as hard as he looked, if he was as strong, if his skin was as smooth and hot as she knew it would be.
So why don’t you?
Because of Charles. Because she was faithful. Because she was afraid that if she gave in to the need to touch Nero, something inside her wouldn’t be satisfied with what she had with Charles and never would be.
But Nero wasn’t Charles. He didn’t give her space. He reached for her, grabbing her hands in his and tugging them to him. Instinctively, she tried to pull away, but he wouldn’t let her, holding on tight. “Touch me,” he demanded, and pressed her palms to his chest.
It was as if he’d pressed her palms to a hot stove, except without the pain of a burn. Only firm, hard muscle. Only wild heat. Only the sharp jolt of physical reaction, as if she’d had an electric shock applied direct to her chest. It made her heartbeat go wild, made her breath get stuck in her throat.
He stared at her, black-eyed, intense. Then he pushed her hands down over his chest, over his hot skin and the hard ridges of his stomach, to where there was an arrow of black hair pointing downward. His free hand was already undoing the button on his pants, tugging down the zipper as he brought her hands even lower.
And Phoebe found she wasn’t resisting him anymore. It was as if she just . . . couldn’t. As if he’d hypnotized her, all her strength bleeding away as he guided her fingers relentlessly beneath the black cotton of his underwear.
“Nero,” she said in a voice that didn’t sound like her own. And what she’d been going to say she had no idea, because it all went out of her head as he curled her unresisting fingers around his hard, hot flesh. And held them there.
A shudder went through her and when he took his hand away, she kept hers right where it was, shivers chasing themselves over her skin, unable to stop staring as he pulled away the black fabric so she could see just what her hand was holding. And . . . God. All the remaining moisture in her mouth dried, and all her breath escaped. His cock was long and thick, big, like he was, and it felt smooth and hot and iron hard. Her fingers curled around it looked ridiculously small and delicate, and the hungry thing in her wanted to stroke it. Wanted to guide it to her mouth and taste him.
Phoebe swallowed. Someone was breathing very fast and she had a horrible feeling it was her.
“You want to touch me,” Nero murmured, dark and rough. “You want to suck me.”
Heat broke out all over her body. How he’d read her mind, she had no idea. But he was right, that’s exactly what she wanted to do. He’d given her what no one else ever had, and now she wanted to return the favor so badly she ached.
“I . . . d-don’t,” she said, the world’s most unconvincing denial.
Clearly he agreed, because he gave a rough laugh that shocked her, that made everything inside her shiver and stretch out in delight at the sensual sound. Because she’d never heard it before, and it was amazing.
Reaching into his back pocket, Nero got something out of it, a small silver packet. Then he held it out to her. “Put this on me.”
A condom. Of course. This was familiar territory, wasn’t it? She’d done this before many times. She reached out to take the packet, only to have Nero grip her chin and force her head back, his dark eyes meeting hers. “Don’t think of him,” he ordered. “He’s not here. Only I am.”
How did he know she’d been thinking of Charles? Again, he’d read her so easily. It made a weird sensation go through her, one she didn’t recognize. Everyone always looked at her, seeing what they wanted to see. No one looked at her and saw what she saw. What she was thinking. Why did it have to be Nero who could do this? Selfish, arrogant, domineering Nero.
Nero, who’d made her come. Who’d unlocked something inside her that wasn’t ever going to go back into the box she’d locked it in.
“Put the condom on me and then lie back,” he instructed.
And she found herself doing just that, sliding her fingers around the base of his cock and gripping him tight as she rolled the latex down, the hiss of his breath loud in her ear as she touched him. Then lying back on the pillows as he knelt between her knees, getting herself in place for him.
He gripped her thighs, tugging her down the bed before lifting her legs up and hooking them around his lean hips. The expression on his face had become more intense, feral, his gaze dropping between her thighs to her sex. And she didn’t know what to do, wanting to roll over, turn away, bring her legs up to hide herself. But he was gripping her thighs, making it impossible for her to do so.
“I d-don’t know if I can do it again.” The words escaped before she could stop them, sounding pathetic and shaky in the silence of the room. “I mean, I—”
Her voice cut off as his fingers touched her, stroking her damp curls, spreading her delicately open, like he would do a flower.
The touch sent ripples of electricity through her, and her face went hot, making her have to fling an arm over her face to protect herself, even though she had no idea what she was protecting herself from. Then the electricity became a sharp, hot jolt as his fingers found her clit, circling it slowly, lightly, teasing.
“Of course, you can do it again,” he said in that low, dark voice. “I’ll show you how.”
Phoebe shut her eyes tightly, pressing her forearm hard against her closed lids, a long-ingrained instinct making her fight the sensation. The fear that she couldn’t do it, that Nero would lose patience with her, that she just wasn’t good enough for any of this battering at her.
But it was getting harder and harder to hold out against the insistent pleasure Nero was weaving through her. His touch was slow, knowing, skillful, and when his other hand stroked one breast, pinching her nipple as he slicked a finger over her clit, she heard a choked sob escape her.
She’d tried so hard with Charles to let go, but she hadn’t managed to do it. And now she was trying so hard to hold on, yet she couldn’t do that either. Was there anything she could do right? Anything at all?
“Nero . . .” His name came out as a whisper, a prayer and a curse in one, choking off as he traced the slick folds of her sex, little circles, long straight lines, rubbing his thumb back and forth over her nipple. Making her body begin to shake and a moan caught in her throat.
“Spread your pussy for me,” he ordered, full of rough heat, caressing over each and every one of her sensitized nerve endings. “Do it, Phoebe.”
It’s too late to stop. Too late to hold out.
The realization made tears prick at her closed lids. Because of course it was too late. She was naked in bed with Nero, the first man to have ever made her come. And now he was going to do it again. And no matter how many times she told him that she didn’t want this, she did.
God, she did. Because she ached. Her body felt starved, as if Nero was its first taste of food after a famine.
A shuddering breath escaped her and without ever being conscious of making a decision, her hands were sliding down her body, her fingers shaking as she spread herself open for him.
He made a low, animal growling noise, and his hips shifted, something hot and hard pressing against the entrance to her body. Her breathing came faster, harder, but she kept her eyes shut tight, feeling too raw and too vulnerable to look at him.
Then he was pushing inside her and pushing hard, stretching her wide open. And she cried out, because he was big and she hadn’t had sex for years, and it felt like too much. Yet he didn’t stop. He took her hands, laced his fingers through hers, his body moving, his hips pressing forward, his cock sliding deeper into her. She groaned at the pressure, the feeling of fullness intensifying, and she found she had her eyes open, that his dark, brutally handsome face was inches from hers.
He brought her hands down onto the pillow on either side of her head and held them there, his black gaze pinning her as surely as his cock was impaling her. He shifted his hips again, easing all the way inside, and she was shaking.
Then he began to pull back out, almost all the way, before pushing back in. And he did it again and again. A long, slick, glide, that made her sex tighten around him and her hips move against his, and she couldn’t stop herself, because the pleasure was uncurling inside her, that sweet, irresistible pleasure, and she was powerless to stop it. She knew that now. She felt it deep in her bones.
“Let go, Phoebe.” The words were a rough order, his breath hot against her ear, his cock sliding long and slow and deep into her. “Stop fighting. Take what you need.”
Yes. She did need this. She did.
Phoebe shuddered, curled her fingers tight around his, and then she gave herself up to the insistent push of that incredible pleasure. To the slide of his cock inside her, pulling out then pressing back in, a leisurely rhythm that had her panting and shifting her hips restlessly beneath his.
And he seemed to know exactly the moment she released her hold on herself, because he made another low growling noise, and then his mouth was on hers, devouring her in one of those hot, savage kisses that demanded a response whether she wanted to give it or not.
But she did want to, the desperate, hungry thing inside her clawing its way out of a cage she hadn’t even realized she’d put it in. Her mouth opened beneath his, letting him explore and taste, letting him bite her lower lip. Letting him suck it gently. Letting him kiss her harder, hungrier, and then giving it back to him in turn.
It was intoxicating, this kiss, the taste of him raw and alcoholic, a kick to the gut. But she drank it down because she was so thirsty and his taste was exactly what she wanted, what she needed.
He began to push harder into her, deeper, pressing her into the mattress with each brutal thrust of his hips. Changing his angle so that the base of his cock rubbed against her clit, making her gasp and lift her hips, trying to take him deeper, to increase the exquisite friction.
Tearing his mouth from hers, he licked her neck, bit her. “Fuck, yes,” he growled, shoving even harder, even deeper. “Take me. Fucking take me.”
The words were shockingly erotic, making her shiver and shake, making her angle her hips back so she could do what he ordered and take him. Take him as hard as he was taking her.
It got hotter then, wilder.
Phoebe pulled her hands from his and buried her fingers in the thick, black silk of his shaggy hair, forcing his head back. Then she kissed him, biting his lower lip, suddenly hungry to force herself on him, the way he’d forced himself on her.
He gave another one of those rough laughs, the sound full of exhilaration and heat, and abruptly he was pulling out of her. She opened her mouth, to say what she had no idea, then she was flipped over onto her stomach, his heavy weight pressing her face first into the pillow. One powerful arm hooked around her waist, lifting her hips, and then his cock was sliding inside her, hard and deep and relentless. At the same time, rough fingers found her clit, giving it a firm pinch, sending a burst of intense pleasure through her, so strong she screamed into the pillow. Then he did it again, thrusting deep into her at the same time, and her hold on that edge of the cliff wavered. It didn’t take much to push her off this time, one more thrust and she was sobbing into the white cotton, pleasure exploding around her, so unexpected and so acute, she had no idea how to handle it.
And Nero didn’t stop.
His thrusts got harder. The heat of him against her back was incredible, and when his fingers found her clit a third time, she trembled and tried to shake him off. She wanted to tell him she couldn’t, that it was impossible for her to do it again, but somehow his fingers were coaxing more pleasure from her, the push of his cock insistent.
“Nero . . . God . . .” she whispered thickly. “I . . .”
His teeth were against the back of her neck, a nip of warning. “Yes, you fucking can.” And sure enough his fingers were somehow coaxing yet more pleasure from her, and she was gasping hoarsely and moving against him, with him yet again.
That rough laugh of his rolled over again as she went over the edge a third time, her screams cracked, leaving her limp and wrung out as his own thrusts grew out of control. His arm around her waist held her tight, driving himself inside her, over and over again, until he stiffened, his body shaking just as hard as hers had. And then a harsh roar in her ear as he flung himself over the edge after her.