Stranded With a Billionaire

  Well, she wouldn’t worry about that right now. They were heading back to her apartment she shared temporarily with Gretchen, and they were going to make love. Her body thrummed and ached with need for him.

  He hadn’t told her he loved her, though.

  She wouldn’t tell him she loved him, either. This, she told herself, was just mutual using. Both parties seeking satisfaction. No emotions had to be involved, really. It was just the natural progression of a normal relationship, after all.

  It sounded totally convincing in her head.

  Truth was, their relationship had never been all that normal. From the moment she’d met Logan until now, it seemed they’d done everything half backward and sideways.

  He wasn’t the right guy for her in the long run, she told herself. No billionaire could see himself with a waitress long-term. Those sorts of things were generally pretty incompatible.

  But she could enjoy him while she had him. And she would. She would think about the future some other time.

  ***

  Logan rubbed Brontë’s shoulder as she leaned against him in the car. The drive to Gretchen’s apartment was fucking endless, and his entire body sang with a need to pull Brontë into his lap, tear down her panties, and drive into her.

  But he had to be patient. She was calling the shots for now, because she needed to feel comfortable again. That was why they were going all the way across town to Gretchen’s apartment instead of heading to his place on the Upper East Side. Brontë was in control.

  At least until he got her naked and squirming under him. Then he was taking control, and he’d make sure she was screaming her pleasure before he even thought about his own.

  He nearly swore with relief when the apartment building came into sight. He opened the door, got out, and then held the door for Brontë. He gave the driver a nod, signaling that he wouldn’t need his services for the rest of the evening, and then wrapped his arm around Brontë’s waist again.

  She stared up at him with a soft, passion-dazed expression that made his cock hard. “What about your driver?”

  “I dismissed him for the night.” He met her gaze, almost daring her to contradict him and send him home with a peck on the cheek—like he’d been doing to her—and a raging hard-on.

  He forced himself to be patient as Brontë fumbled with the keys, and then they climbed the stairs of the walk-up. By the time they got to Gretchen’s floor, he was pretty sure he would kill Audrey’s sister if they opened the door and found her standing there. His cock was so hard he ached, and he’d just spent four flights of stairs gazing up at Brontë’s perfect ass as it flexed with every step.

  To his relief, the apartment was dark. Brontë flipped on a light when they entered, and a wrinkly gray animal darted across the room, startling Logan. “What was that?”

  Brontë seemed amused by his reaction, her laughter chasing away the soft desire in her face. “That’s Igor. He’s a hairless cat.”

  He glanced at the animal, which seemed to be all ears and wrinkles. It stared back at him with wide golden eyes. “Hideous.”

  “It does take some getting used to,” she agreed with a smile.

  “Can you shut him away in Gretchen’s room?”

  “I can,” she said, and her voice had gone all breathy again. She bent low and snapped her fingers, and the cat darted over to her. Brontë scooped it up in her arms and disappeared into a side room, returning a moment later and shutting the door behind her. Her cheeks were flushed as if she’d been running . . . or was aroused. The anticipation was getting to her.

  Good. Because it was driving him mad. Had been for the past week.

  Brontë was gazing up at him, her eyes shining with a look that seemed half expectant, half anxious. Her expression was so full of emotion that it was driving him wild . . . and tormenting him. There was hurt in her eyes—hurt that he’d put there. And a little bit of fear that she might get hurt again.

  They needed to move past that moment. And he had an idea of how to do that.

  He pulled the blindfold back out of his pocket again and offered it to her. “Do you trust me, Brontë?”

  Her eyes widened as she looked down at it, then up at him, realizing what was about to happen. “I . . . Logan . . .”

  “You can say no,” he told her. “I don’t want you to feel pressured.”

  She nodded, swallowing, and then her entire face seemed to flush red as she took the blindfold from his hand with trembling fingers and lifted it to her eyes. “Would you tie me?”

  An innocent question, but it fired his blood. He moved behind her, taking the ends of the blindfold from her and tying them against the back of her head. She was standing there, stiff and wooden, so he leaned in and whispered huskily in her ear. “Too tight?”

  She jumped, her elbow nearly slamming into his jaw. “N-no! It’s fine.” Her hands reached for him. “Just a little unnerving is all.” She turned and grasped his jacket in her hands and then gave it a small tug. “Should we go to my room?”

  “I’ll lead the way,” he told her, and swept her into his arms, enjoying the muffled sound of surprise she made and the way she clung to him. Desire surged through him, mixing with triumph. He’d won her back. She was in his arms, and he was going to make love to her and show her that he’d never wavered.

  His arms tightened around her possessively. Brontë was his again.

  Good.

  He pushed open the door to the other bedroom. Brontë’s room. There was a single twin bed in the corner of the room with a plain wrought iron headboard, and a small dresser that held a few mementos from their dates that week. A vase of flowers—flowers that he’d given her—sat in the windowsill. There were no pictures on the walls, and the entire room seemed barely lived in. The realization pleased him—she’d be back with him after tonight. His place felt empty and lonely without her.

  Logan gently laid her on the bed and admired her, the curves of her body, the beauty of her face, the way the ends of her hair curled wildly. The way she bit her lip as she anticipated his touch. Carefully, almost reverently, he brushed his fingers down the length of one denim-clad leg and enjoyed seeing her shiver in response. He turned and shut the door to Brontë’s small room, just in case her roommate did show up again, and she jumped at the sound.

  “Everything all right?” he asked her.

  A nervous giggle was his answer. “I’m fine. Just . . . a little on edge.”

  “That’s part of the appeal of having you like this,” Logan murmured. His hands went to one of her shoes and eased it off her foot, and he smiled at the way she wiggled her toes in response. “Watching your response as I touch you. Watching you anticipate my moves. All of it pleases me.”

  “And are you hard?” she asked breathlessly.

  He took her hand and placed it on his cock. That quick caress had him nearly groaning aloud at her touch. His cock felt like steel and ached with the need to bury itself into her, but he would pace himself.

  Her fingers lightly glided along his shaft, exploring and feeling him. She licked her lips, the unconscious move making his cock jerk in her hand. “You’re so hard, Logan. So big in my hand.”

  And she was so delicate under his. “Beautiful Brontë,” he murmured, leaning in to kiss her lips.

  She made a small noise of protest when he kept the kiss brief, automatically reaching for him again and stroking her hands down his cheeks. “I want you.”

  “Let me play with you, Brontë. It would give me such pleasure.”

  She shuddered at his words and nodded.

  “First, I’d like to undress you,” he said in a low, seductive voice, intending to seduce her with words as well as touch. Her hands automatically moved to the waist of her jeans as if to help out, and he caught her hands in his. “Allow me.”

  Her hands fluttered at her waist, as if uncertain, and the
n she dropped them to her sides. “Okay.”

  Logan leaned in and pushed her sweater up, exposing an inch of skin above the waist of her jeans. He kissed the skin, enjoying her shiver of pleasure beneath him. “I plan on taking my time exploring you, love. You’re going to be begging for me to take you by the time I’m done with you.”

  She sucked in a breath. At her sides, her hands clenched and then flexed, as if she didn’t know where to put them.

  “Just relax,” he told her with a small grin, knowing that she’d never be able to.

  “Oh, sure,” she said with a small laugh. “Easy for you to say.”

  “It is,” he agreed, undoing the button of her jeans and then lowering the zipper with excruciating slowness. His cock throbbed at the sight of the sliver of pale blue satin exposed. His mouth lowered, and he nipped at her skin through the satin, enjoying her small jerk of response. “These are lovely.”

  “My panties or my hips?” she teased.

  “Both,” he teased back. He tugged the thick fabric of the jeans down her legs, tossing them aside and on the floor when he was done. Her socks went next, each one carefully removed with a light skimming of fingers over her flesh.

  Now her sweater. There were no buttons that he could lovingly pull apart. Shame. He slid a hand under the soft fabric, caressing her belly.

  She squirmed, ticklish. “Stop that.”

  “Stop touching you?” His fingertip dipped into her belly button.

  Brontë sucked in a breath, and when his tongue followed the finger, she moaned in response. “Never mind. Keep touching me. I’m obviously delusional.”

  “Clearly,” he murmured, swirling his tongue around the edge of her belly button as he pushed her sweater upward. Ah, damn. She’d worn a matching bra. The cups were the same ice blue satin decorated with little black bits of lace around the edges and between her breasts. He’d wanted to see her naked right away, but the sight of her curves cupped in that gorgeous lingerie made him rethink his idea. He’d leave her in it a bit longer, and then strip it off of her later.

  But for now, her sweater had to go.

  “Hands?” he asked her, sitting upright again.

  Her forehead furrowed over the blindfold, and she lifted her hands in the air after a moment’s hesitation. “Like this?”

  “Exactly.” He tugged her sweater over her head and arms in a deft move and tossed it aside, pleased at the sight of her beautiful body. “You’re gorgeous. I could look at you all day and never get tired of it.”

  A soft smile touched her mouth, and she reached for him, brushing her fingers through his hair. “I could look at you all day, too.”

  “Ah, but this is about me pleasing you,” he said, clasping her hands in his. “And you’re not playing fair. No touching.”

  She did a mock pout that made him want to lean down and kiss her mouth. Instead, he took her hands and directed them over her head, to the wrought iron headboard’s bars.

  “Keep them here,” he instructed her. “I want to play with you a little longer.”

  He was pleased to see the little shiver move over her body at the thought. She obeyed him, her breathing quickening with excitement.

  Logan skimmed a hand down her leg, caressing the skin. The front of her thigh was smooth and soft, her calves dainty and her ankles elegant. He could indeed spend all day admiring her body. He ran a finger along her skin, tracing a light pattern over her from foot to thigh, noticing how she reacted when he touched her. She jumped when he moved over her thighs, and he repeated the motion, this time skimming the inside of her thigh, and was pleased to see her twitch even more.

  “‘Afflicted by love’s madness, all are blind,’” she quoted suddenly.

  “Oh?”

  “I just . . . it felt appropriate at the moment.”

  Logan chuckled. “Very appropriate, except I am enjoying looking at you far too much to claim to be blind.” His fingers played along the lace of her panties. “Plato?” he asked innocently.

  Her lips quirked with amusement. “Sextus Propertius, I believe.”

  “Intriguing name,” he commented. His fingers grasped her thighs, and he pulled them apart, eliciting a startled gasp from her. “Keep these open for me, Brontë. I want to get my fill of looking at you.”

  A whimper escaped her throat, but she did as he’d commanded, her knees falling open, her legs spread wide on the bed. He pushed them apart until they were flat on the mattress , the ice blue panties totally exposed. She was so wet that he could see it seeping through the fabric of her panties, and he palmed his cock in response, groaning. “I see how wet you are, love. Should I taste you?”

  A shudder rippled through her, and she moaned, clutching at the iron headboard. He watched with fascination as her thighs quivered, as if desperate to lock together again. He ran a curious finger down the inside of her thigh, starting at her knee and moving toward her sex.

  She seemed to shudder with every inch caressed, until her hips were rolling on the bed. “Logan,” she breathed, her head turning back and forth despite the blindfold. “Touch me.”

  “Where shall I do it?” He brushed a knuckle over her belly button again. “Here?”

  “Lower.”

  He went to her knee and caressed it. “Here?”

  She moaned in frustration. “You’re a horrible tease.”

  “Now, love,” he chided. “If I was a horrible tease, I’d move in and touch you like so.” And he stroked one finger up the damp satin between her legs.

  Brontë’s sucked-in breath was audible.

  He pushed his finger, nudging at the clit under the layers of clothing. “But I’m not finished playing, Brontë. And if I continue to touch you here, you’ll come. And I don’t want that just yet. I’m enjoying teasing you far too much.”

  Her hips bucked against his hand, trying to create friction between his fingers and her flesh. Naughty woman. He spanked her sex lightly in reproach, enjoying her startled gasp. “Are you not having fun, love?”

  “I’m not sure if this is fun or torture,” she panted. Her body shifted on the bed, about as close to squirming as she could get away with. Her hips wriggled under his hand, still resting atop her sex. He let it remain there a moment, a silent tease, before he removed it.

  A small protest escaped her throat.

  It died when his knuckles brushed over the tip of one of her breasts. He could tell they were hard and tight through the fabric of the pretty bra. Tight and needing, and probably delectable. Logan’s mouth watered just thinking about how she’d taste in his mouth, and he tugged at the cups of her bra, freeing her breasts. The underwire of the bra pushed her breasts upward, plumping them as if offering them to his lips. And who was he to refuse such an offering? Logan bent forward and took one succulent tip in his mouth.

  Brontë moaned.

  “Delicious,” he murmured against her skin, rolling the tip of her nipple against his lips. Such a hard little nub. He flicked his tongue against it. He loved her nipples—a dusky rose, slightly tilted. Dark and pretty against all that creamy flesh. He began to tease the other with his fingertips as he tongued the first, flicking and teasing it with his mouth.

  Underneath him, Brontë whimpered, her hips undulating again. Her hands clenched the iron headboard tight, as if she needed to hold on to something desperately. “Oh, Logan.”

  He kissed her flesh—the tips of each breast, the sweet valley between them, the gentle curves underneath them. She moaned wildly with each caress, her blindfolded head moving back and forth, as if in denial.

  And so he paused.

  “More,” she demanded, arching her back so her breasts were thrust oh-so-beautifully into his face. “Please, Logan.”

  “Not yet, love,” he murmured, kissing one nipple and then sitting up. His cock strained against his pants, so fucking eager that he could feel pre-com
e beading on the thick crown. He stood and began to remove his pants, desperate to free his cock.

  She whimpered, confused. “Logan? Where are you going?”

  “Nowhere, love,” he told her. “Just getting undressed. My cock’s so hard it’s aching and my clothes are too tight.”

  A smile curved her lips, and she licked them, which nearly made him come in his pants. “I love your cock.”

  “Do you, now?” He stripped off the rest of his clothing, kicking it onto the floor before kneeling back alongside her again. His cock thrust into the air, hard, the head slick.

  “Mmm-hmmm,” she said with a small sigh of delight.

  He wrapped a hand around his cock, stroking it while looking at her lying in the bed, legs spread for him, panties wet, her breasts thrust up. Her head was tilted slightly, as if she were listening for his movements since she couldn’t see him.

  Logan moved back over her, leaning in to kiss her mouth. His hand went to her breast, palming it, and he settled between her legs. She responded to his kisses eagerly, her tongue meeting his and rubbing against it with soft mews of desire. He moved down a little, settling his cock against her wet core and thrusting.

  She gasped, her hips rocking against his flesh.

  “Feel good?” he asked her, thrusting his cock against her sex again. The wet fabric prevented him from pushing deep inside her, a teasing barrier.

  “Oh, God, yes,” she moaned. “Logan, I need you so bad. I want you inside me.”

  He wanted to be there, too. But he wasn’t done playing. He thrust again, enjoying her moans of response.

  When she parted her lips and licked them again, a mental image formed in his mind that made him groan aloud. He had to get up.

  She whimpered a protest, turning her head and looking for him.

  “I’m here,” he told her, standing by the head of the bed.

  He caressed her breasts, plucking at the nipples. Then, he ran a thumb over her lower lip, unable to resist that mental image in his mind. “Do you trust me, Brontë?”

  Her entire body seemed to tremble with anticipation, and then she took his thumb in her mouth and bit down lightly. “I trust you.”