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. Understand 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.
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.”