The Billionaire Beast Page 17

  You can’t do that. You’re going to have to tell her.

  Nero shut his eyes. He was making this into too big of a deal. “This is my control room,” he forced out. “I come here when I want news, stocks, weather, or any other information I might need. And yes, including security-camera feeds.”

  There was a silence behind him.

  “You have cameras in the whole house?”

  There was no accusation in the question and yet he felt an unfamiliar emotion crawl through him all the same. Shame. “Yes.” He grabbed hold of the saving grace of anger and held onto it. “I like to know what’s happening in my own fucking home. And what’s going on with my employees. Last year James had a goddamned heart attack, and if I hadn’t had the cameras on him, he would have died.” Why was he trying to justify himself? He didn’t need to justify himself to anyone.

  Another silence.

  “You were watching me?”

  The question was soft and yet for some reason it hurt like she’d thrown a sharp stone at him. What could he say? She’d seen the screens with their view into her sitting room and her bedroom. She knew exactly what he’d been doing.

  “‘Yes.” He made the word flat. Hard. “I’ve been watching you since you got here.”

  “Why?”

  He opened his eyes again, his jaw so tight it ached. “I don’t know. I just . . . had to see you.” The words wouldn’t come, he didn’t know how to say them, how to explain. “I . . . couldn’t read you. I didn’t understand you. And I wanted to. I thought that by watching you I could somehow . . .” He stopped, the hot burn of frustration making the tension inside him wind even tighter. Jesus, how could he explain his fascination to her? The need he had inside him? He couldn’t. He didn’t have the words.

  Behind him was again silence.

  “You wanted to understand me,” she repeated softly. “Why?”

  “I don’t fucking know!” He raised his hands and brought them down hard on the desk in a sudden burst of anger, the sound echoing around the room. Then he turned around sharply. “Stop asking me these fucking questions!”

  She was watching him, that terrible, soft look in her eyes. The look that made his soul feel like it was slowly being peeled open. “And all of these . . .” She gestured to the screens behind him. “They’re for you to get news?”

  He could hear the disbelief in her tone. It was obvious.

  She knows the truth. Even if you refuse to acknowledge it.

  Anger and frustration sat like acid in his gut, threads of some other, colder emotion lacing through them. They made him want to smash something.

  “Everything I need is here,” he said through clenched teeth. “I don’t fucking need to go out.” Which, of course, wasn’t what she’d asked, but he knew what she was trying to get at all the same.

  You can get to the dining room and her bedroom. But when was the last time you stepped outside your front door?

  Nero refused the thought. Utterly refused.

  The expression on Phoebe’s face had softened further as she looked at him, and he could see it now, the pity there. And something else, yes, but definitely pity.

  “Don’t,” he warned furiously, reaching behind himself to grip the edges of the desk, feeling the bite of the hard wood against his skin. “I don’t want your fucking pity.”

  Another person would have recognized his tone and known it was time to get the fuck out of his way. But not Phoebe. Instead, she came toward him—because apparently she had no sense of self-preservation at all—that terrible look in her eyes. Making him feel stripped to the bone, flayed alive.

  “Nero,” she said softly, her hands reaching for his face, the way she said his name like acid in a gaping wound.

  Christ, he didn’t want gentleness. He didn’t want softness. He didn’t want her to look at him like that. Her anger was easier and far more bearable.

  As her cool palms came to cup his face, he grabbed her hips, jerking her hard against him, the way the breath went out of her satisfying him on some raw, primitive level.

  She opened her mouth to say something, but he covered it with his, taking it in a savage kiss. Because the time for talking was over. He didn’t want this slow, painful pulling apart of his very self. It felt like an attack, and his first instinct was to defend himself and to the fucking death if need be.

  He wouldn’t hurt her—there was no way he could do that—but there were other things he could do that would deflect her, distract her. And this was one of them.

  His tongue pushed into her mouth, hot, demanding, carnal. Expecting resistance and half hoping for it, because then it would give him something to fight against. But there was no resistance from her. Her mouth opened, letting him in, returning the kiss with the same hunger, her body melting against his as if she’d been waiting for this moment all this time.

  Yet, far from making him feel better, it only made him feel worse. Because her soft, cool fingers were tangling in his hair and stroking down his back, as if she was trying to soothe him. But it was as if she was touching him with a naked flame, burning him. It hurt. And at the same time, it wasn’t enough. He wanted more.

  Tearing his mouth from hers, he thrust one hand in her hair and jerked her head back, exposing her neck. Then he bent and kissed her throat, licking the sweet saltiness of her skin, then sucking hard enough to leave a mark. She shuddered but didn’t pull away. In fact, there was no resistance in her at all as he angled his head and bit her, making her gasp and shiver in his arms. Another thing that should have soothed him and didn’t. It only made him more desperate.

  He slid his hands from her hips and down over the soft curves of her ass, filling his palms with her soft flesh and squeezing, fitting her more firmly against him so the heat between her thighs was pressed to his aching groin. Then he bit her again, inhaling her scent, jasmine and musk.

  Fuck, it wasn’t enough. It would never be enough. She was fire and she burned him alive and yet it was like he craved the pain. It was like he needed it.

  “You’re mine,” he growled against her throat. “You’re fucking mine. I’m not letting you go, not ever.”

  “It’s okay,” she murmured, breathless and soft, yet with that same calm thread running through the words. “I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere.” Her hands were stroking down his back again, trying to calm him.

  But the last thing he felt was calm. Everything she did only made the desperation inside him even worse.

  He growled again and turned with her in his arms, lifting her up onto the great black desk. Then he shoved everything on top of it off with one sweeping motion of his hand, sending keyboards and mouse pads and everything else tumbling down onto the floor with a crash.

  “Nero.” Her hands were on his shoulders and stroking down his arms, her voice gentle. “It’s okay. Everything’s okay.”

  But it wasn’t okay. He didn’t understand this desperation, this need. Or the anger that was a bonfire inside him. Why everything hurt and why he felt as if her discovery of his control room meant the world was coming to an end.

  There was only one thing that made sense to him and that was the hardness of his cock and the heat of Phoebe’s body against his. The desire to bury himself inside her, take her right here and now, make her his in every way there was. It was primitive and brutal and savage, but shit, that’s what he was. That’s what he’d always be. It was what he knew.

  Jerking her skirt up, he then shoved his hips between her thighs, spreading them wide apart. Her head had tipped back, and she was looking up at him, the expression in her eyes soft, despite the rough way he was handling her.

  “Don’t look at me like that,” he ordered, keeping one arm locked around her waist while he pushed his free hand between her legs.

  Her breath caught audibly as he trailed his fingers over the front of her panties, letting his index finger press against her clit. “Like w-what?”

  “The way you’re doing now.” He circled with his finger,
exerting more pressure, watching her pupils dilate, feeling wetness against his skin. “All pity. The way you probably look at your fiancé.” It was a deliberate dig and he knew he shouldn’t say it, but he couldn’t help himself. “I’m not the one in a fucking coma.”

  Her lashes had fallen, her mouth opening slightly. A deep flush had crept up her neck and into her cheeks. She looked so fucking beautiful he almost couldn’t breathe.

  “I know you’re not.” Her voice was husky, her hips pressing subtly against his hand. She was as greedy for his touch as he was to give it. “And I don’t pity you.”

  “Bullshit.” Abruptly, he slid his fingers beneath the cotton, tangling in the soft, wet curls of her pussy, brushing through her hot, slick flesh. “What is it if it’s not that?”

  She shivered, breathing fast, her lashes lifting all of a sudden. Her eyes were dark, but in the depths, gold glinted. “It’s sympathy, Nero. It’s pain. I hurt for you.”

  She hurt for him? She hurt for him?

  He stared down into her sharp, mesmerizing little face, into her beautiful eyes. “Why? Why the fuck would you do that?” Because it didn’t make it better. It only added to the tangled, confused mess of emotion that sat in his chest.

  She didn’t look away, just held his gaze as if what she was about to tell him was important. “Because I care about you.”

  Something kicked hard inside him, an echo of a voice he still sometimes heard in his dreams. Telling him to be quiet, to not say a word, to not draw attention.

  “It’s because I care about you, Nero,” his mother whispered through the crack in the door. “That’s why you have to stay here. I have to protect you.”

  His heartbeat was speeding up, another emotion he didn’t understand welling up inside him.

  Phoebe touched his face, running light, cool fingers along his jaw. “What’s going on?” Her forehead creased. She looked . . . worried. “Nero?”

  He couldn’t breathe. Jesus, fuck, what was wrong with him.

  Abruptly he pulled his hand away from her and, bringing her down off the desk, he gripped her hips and turned her around, so her spine was to his front. Then he put his hand on the back of her neck and forced her head down onto the desk.

  She made no sound, went without resistance. And when he pulled her skirt up and roughly tugged her panties down her thighs, she didn’t move.

  He said nothing, trying to breathe, trying not to think about what she’d told him. About what it meant.

  He didn’t want her to care about him. Because he knew what that meant, he goddamn knew. It meant being kept in a room for ten years in order to “stay safe.” In order to not draw attention.

  In order to stay forgotten . . .

  Nero ran his hand over the soft pale flesh of her ass, the warm, silky feel of her skin chasing away the insidious thought. Grounding him in the here and now, reminding him of what was important.

  Words meant nothing. Emotions were bewildering. People lied. But physical pleasure? That was real, that was simple. That, he understood.

  Nothing else mattered.

  His breathing was wild, his heartbeat out of control, his hands shaking as he jerked down his zipper. Phoebe was motionless under his palm where it rested heavy on the back of her neck, and even when he slid his free hand down and parted the soft folds of her pussy, she didn’t move. But he could hear her, the sound of her breathing as wild as his.

  Does she want this? It isn’t the first time you’ve done this to her.

  He growled at the thought, at the insistence of it, at the way it made the pain in the very marrow of his bones even worse.

  “If you don’t want this,” he said in a voice that didn’t sound like his, “fight me.” Part of him, that bestial part, was still craving a fight.

  But she gave a short, sharp shake of her head. “No.”

  He bared his teeth at the sight of her bent over in front of him, at the vulnerability of her, with her ass bare and his hand pressing down on the nape of her neck. So pale, so soft. Fragile. It made him feel like he wanted to gather her up in his arms and hold her the way he had down in the dining room that day. Her sitting in his lap and sipping on his wine, telling him about her life, making him feel more contented than he had ever felt in his life. Making him want to hold her tight and protect her, keep her safe.

  Like you were kept safe?

  “Fight me,” he ordered savagely, shoving the thought out of his head. “Do as you’re told.”

  “No.” She reached behind her, those delicate fingers finding his cock, stopping the breath in his chest as they circled the base of his dick, guiding him to the slick heat of her pussy. “Fuck me instead, Nero,” she said thickly. “Do it.”

  Maybe it was the raw demand in her voice, saying the words she almost never said, but it hit him all of a sudden that this time it was going to be different. That mere physical pleasure wasn’t going to sate the hunger, wasn’t going to kill the thirst. It was only going to make it worse. It was a fire that wasn’t ever going to go out and taking her here, now, would only make it burn higher, hotter.

  And only keeping her here forever would ease it.

  He should have stopped in that moment. He should have let her go and walked away.

  But it was too late. She had him by the cock and he’d never learned how to resist.

  Nero knocked her hand away, and, a savage growl ripping from his throat, he thrust hard and deep inside her.

  Chapter 12

  Phoebe shut her eyes, a sharp gasp escaping her as Nero’s hips flexed and his cock pushed deep into her. Then she gasped again as he jerked back, almost pulling himself all the way out, before thrusting hard back inside her again. His hand was heavy on her nape, holding her down, her cheek pressed to the wood, the edge of the desk biting into the tops of her thighs. It was painful and he was rough, the harsh sound of his breathing in her ear as he drove himself into her, shoving her hard against the desk with each desperate thrust. Fucking her like she’d told him to. Yet despite all of that, pleasure was uncurling inside her, a wild exhilaration that made her want to arch her spine.

  She’d only wanted to comfort him, give him something to ease the pain he was so obviously in. Pain he didn’t seem able to talk about or have the words to explain. And when he’d grabbed her and kissed her, she hadn’t resisted, because if sex was all he would accept from her, then that’s what she’d give him. She had to. She could never stand it when someone she cared about was hurting.

  It meant something that she cared, but she couldn’t think about that, because the wildness inside her was igniting, burning through nerves and muscle and bone, making her dig her fingernails into the wood beneath her. Making her want to push herself back onto his hot, hard cock. Fuck him the way he was fucking her.

  A moan escaped her as he drove inside her again, her nails leaving scratch marks on the surface of the desk as his thrust propelled her forward. And this time she obeyed the craving, shoving herself back onto him, his harsh intake of breath her reward.

  Yes, God, if he wanted it rough, she’d give him rough.

  “Come on,” she heard herself say, her voice husky, “fuck me like you mean it.”

  Nero’s hand on her neck firmed, pressing her face down against the wood. “You want it like this?” Abruptly his arm snaked around her waist and he jerked up her hips, her feet just off the ground. Then, not waiting for a reply, he thrust harder, driving his cock deeper, holding her tight so she couldn’t move.

  Phoebe gasped, squirming in his grip because his cock was like iron inside her, stretching her wide, making her shudder and shake. She sucked in a ragged breath, wriggling to try and put her feet on the ground so she could use them to shove back on him, but he didn’t let her go.

  “Keep still,” he ordered, low and guttural, shoving inside her again, the impact of the thrust rubbing the wood of the desk against her cheek.

  Oh . . . God. So insanely good.

  She groaned, flexing her spine, the pleasu
re getting hotter, wilder.

  “Answer me.” A command, full of dark sensuality and rough heat. “Is this how you like it?”

  She arched again, another deep thrust dragging a moan from her throat. “H-harder,” she managed to force out. “I need more.”

  His arm beneath her tightened, lifting her hips even higher, and he drove into her again, the sound of his flesh hitting hers making everything feel that much hotter, dirtier. “You want it like this, don’t you?” He shifted, the angle of his thrusts pushing him so deep inside her, she almost couldn’t breathe. “Me, fucking you over my desk.”

  “Yes . . . God . . .” Her fingers dug into the wood beneath her, no longer trying to shove herself back, but in a futile attempt to hold on, because he was a hurricane and he was going to shatter her if she didn’t.

  Then again maybe that was good. Maybe she wanted to be shattered. Maybe she wanted to be broken into so many pieces she couldn’t be put back together again, because there was a certain freedom in that.

  Then Nero stopped unexpectedly, his cock buried deep inside her, and she shivered all over, so close to coming she could almost taste it. She shifted, trying to get him to move, but then the weight of him intensified and his breath was hot in her ear. “I meant what I said, Phoebe.” he whispered fiercely. “You’re mine. You’re mine forever now.”

  Something deep inside her shuddered, and it wasn’t with fear or apprehension at his claim. It was with acknowledgment.

  Phoebe kept her eyes shut tight, her breathing hoarse and ragged, awareness flooding through her. Of Nero’s weight pressing her down, of the possessive grasp of his hand on the back of her neck, of the stretch of him deep inside her, of the delicious musky, spicy scent of him all around her . . .