Stranded With a Billionaire (25 page)

Brontë moaned again, her fingers curling into the blankets on the bed, anticipation making her entire body tense.

Well, now. He had to reward that. Logan brushed his fingertips over the slick lips of her sex, then parted them, stroking up and down.

She jerked in surprise, and then a whimper escaped her when he circled the slick opening to her core. She rolled her hips, forcing his fingers to dip in, just a little. “Logan,” she breathed. “I need you so badly.”

He moved down to her clitoris, rubbing it between two of his slick fingers and stimulating it. Brontë jerked again, her hips flexing, and her gasps became rapid and wild, as if she were unable to control herself. She worked her hips against his hand, and he continued to rub her clit, then pushed his thumb into her core.

She went wild, writhing against his hand and moaning his name as he continued to work her. He could feel her pussy shuddering with each shallow thrust, and he pushed the pad of his thumb forward, increasing the friction even as he continued the measured, steady rubbing of her clitoris. “Logan,” she cried. “Oh, please! I—”

Her entire body clenched under him, muscles quivering, and she made a soft, keening sound. Her pussy clenched around his thumb, milking it with the force of her orgasm. He continued to rub, wanting to prolong the pleasure for her, and she continued to make that low keening noise that made his cock throb with wanting her.

The orgasm seemed to go on forever, but then Brontë gave one final shudder and sagged against the blankets, resting her cheek against them. Her legs were sprawled, her sex gleaming wet from her pleasure. “Oh,” she breathed. “Oh, Logan.”

He licked his fingers, tasting her pleasure on his skin. “Beautiful.”

A soft, sated smile curved under the blindfold, and it made his cock jump with need. “Condoms?”

She stilled, reaching for the blindfold. “Oh . . . I don’t think I have any . . . I don’t—” He spanked her ass lightly, and her hand flew away from the blindfold. “Pill. I’m on the pill.”

“Right. Good.” He was pleased to see that her hand had slipped between her thighs and she was playing with her flesh, lightly rubbing along her clit. She bit her lip as he waited, watching her. She let her hand slide away.

“No,” he told her. “Keep touching yourself. I like seeing that.”

He could see the hot blush stealing over her cheeks under the blindfold, but her hand returned between her legs and began to move slowly again. He watched her, fascinated by the sight of her pleasing herself. His cock jerked with need again.

Logan moved behind her on the bed, moving between her spread legs. Her ass was so beautiful, perched in the air, that he couldn’t resist running his hands over it again. “Are you still touching yourself?”

She sucked in an excited breath and nodded, as if unable to trust her voice.

He thrust into her in one swift move, hands gripping her hips. She jerked in surprise, a choked moan escaping her. He stilled immediately, worried that she’d been too surprised and he’d somehow hurt her. “Brontë?”

“Move,” she moaned, her hips bucking up against him. “Oh, God, move.”

He groaned in response to that, thrusting hard again. He’d wanted to be so controlled in his movements, slowly driving her back up the peak of desire, but it seemed that, sheathed deep in her warmth, he’d lost all control. His thrusts were rough and wild, his hands gripping her hips to anchor her back against him. And she was out of control, too, pushing back against him to add force to his thrusts, a low scream building in her throat.

“Keep touching yourself,” he demanded, his voice ragged as he continued to pump into her.

Her only response was another muffled scream, and he felt her pussy clench all around him. Logan uttered a curse, trying to retain control, trying to keep his rhythm, to make this as good for her as possible. Make it last until she was mindless with pleasure. Show her how much he fucking loved her and her body.

She made a soft sound that was almost like a sob, and then she spasmed around his cock, sucking him tight as she began to come again, her body trembling all over with the force of her passion.

He lost control. Thrusting hard into her again, he groaned her name and went over the edge, his own orgasm exploding from his body with a fierce intensity that shocked him. It seemed to go on forever, coming hard and fierce, until it left him as breathless and wrung out as the woman beneath him.

Logan pulled out of Brontë, ignoring her small noise of protest, and rolled the condom off, tossing it into a nearby trash can. When he turned around, she was sitting up in bed, her hands pulling at the blindfold. He moved toward her, gently undoing the knot at the back of her head and then leaning in to kiss her when she smiled up at him.

“I love you,” he told her, his voice gruff. “I mean that.”

Her smile faltered a little. “Thank you.”

She didn’t say it back. For a moment he was surprised, and then angry. And then he chuckled at himself. So this was how she’d felt when she’d confessed and he’d ignored her. Fair enough. It was a good lesson for him to learn. “You don’t trust me yet.” It wasn’t a question.

She bit her lip, then shook her head. “I’m sorry. I’m just really . . . I just—”

“Don’t apologize. You can’t help the way you feel. Just know that I do love you, and I’ll prove it to you somehow.” Logan sat down on the edge of the small bed and grabbed the blankets. “You’d better move over if you want to get any sleep tonight.”

Brontë gave a small squeal and shifted on the bed, elbowing him by accident as they tried to make all of their limbs fit in the twin bed. “We both won’t fit,” she protested.

“We will,” he said with determination, and pulled her hips against him until their bodies were flush. The fit was tight but pleasant, and it allowed him free rein to nibble on her ear.

She was already drifting to sleep, though, her eyes drooping with exhaustion, and so he watched her doze off, his mind whirling with thoughts. One particular quotation that he’d read in another of her books came to mind, though. To test whether she was awake, he leaned in and whispered something sure to get a response.

“
Veni, vidi, vici
.” I came, I saw, I conquered.

“I heard that,” she muttered sleepily, but she smiled and patted him on the arm.

He decided to keep the other to himself.
“Every heart sings a song, incomplete, until another heart whispers back.”

It seemed that loving Brontë brought out the philosopher in him as well.

Chapter Thirteen

The next morning, Brontë woke up to find Logan’s body curled around hers, and her arm was asleep from being in a cramped position over her head. She lay in bed for a long moment, debating getting up, since there was no way she’d be able to get out of bed without waking Logan.

Sweet, gorgeous Logan. God, she loved him. Terrified of getting hurt again, she’d chickened out on saying it the night before. But he’d seemed to understand her fear, and it hadn’t bothered him. He’d just kissed her, and they’d climbed in to bed together, sleeping in a tangle of limbs because they didn’t want to be parted. She’d been resting on a spring all night, and her leg was trapped under his, and her arm hung off the bed.

It was the best night of sleep she’d had in a long time.

Her bladder was protesting the hour, though, and she sighed and sat up, beginning to extract herself. Logan woke up and kissed her arm before rolling out of bed, yawning and stretching to work out the kinks in his back. “Morning, love.”

He’d been calling her “love” all night, she’d noticed. She liked it, too. Brontë smiled at him. “I need to run to the bathroom before Gretchen gets in there. She’s a shower hog.”

“Go ahead,” he told her, lying back. He grabbed the pillow and tucked it under his head, as if to go back to sleep.

She grinned and shook her head at him, then raced for the bathroom.

When she returned from her shower, she was surprised to see him up and moving about her room. He’d dressed in his boxer shorts and had made the bed. Her suitcase lay atop the blankets, and he’d pulled several of her hung-up clothes out of the closet.

Brontë gave him a curious look, holding back her frown. “What’s all this?”

Logan smiled over at her. “Thought I’d help you get started while I waited for the shower.”

“Get started with what?” She crossed her arms over her towel and tried to look open-minded about what he was going to say.

His mouth thinned a little. “We’re back together now. You’re moving back in with me.”

She shook her head. “Logan, no.”

Frustration flashed in his gaze. “Why is that a problem, Brontë?” His voice sounded as if he were trying to be patient . . . and it were causing him pain.

“Because our relationship is all messed up, Logan. You and I were ‘moved in together’ before we barely even knew each other, and look at how well that worked out.”

“It worked out just fine in my eyes.”

She snorted. Of course he’d say that. “Nothing’s changed, Logan. Last night was great, but I’m allowed to sleep with a guy and not move in with him.”

His face hardened as a stark look of disbelief crossed his gaze. “Is there someone else?” His voice was deathly serious.

“What? No. Of course not.”

Relief flickered in his eyes. “Good.” He moved forward and pulled her into his arms. “I’m not seeing anyone else, and you’re not either. This thing we have, it’s just you and me.”

“All right.”

“And you’re moving back in with me.” He sounded so possessive and so utterly sure of himself.

“No, I’m not. Not until I’m ready.”

Logan seemed to think about that for a moment and then accepted it. “What will it take to make you ready? I want you back in my bed.”

“You have me back in
a
bed.”

“In
my
bed, for good. And in my life, Brontë. I want you in my life most of all. At my side.”

She tugged her towel a little tighter around her naked body. Being in his bed was no problem. It was being in his life that she was struggling with. “I’m not ready yet, Logan. Please don’t pressure me.”

Brontë thought he would protest again, but to her surprise, he moved in and caressed her neck, lifting strands of wet hair off of her skin. “I’m disappointed, but I understand.” He leaned in and kissed her lightly on the mouth. “The offer remains, of course. Accept it when you’re ready.”

She trembled at the sweetness of his touch and the understanding in his voice. “Thank you, Logan.”

He kissed her again. “What are you doing today?”

“I work in an hour.”

“Want me to clear your schedule?”

“No,” she said with a smile. “I need to work, and Cooper could use the help today.” Working, mindless as it was, helped keep her mind off of things like her personal life. “Maybe tonight.”

He shook his head. “Tonight I’m busy.”

“Oh?” That was . . . interesting. “Busy with what?”

“Meeting,” he said abruptly. “I’ll be free tomorrow night.”

“All right,” she told him. “I’ll miss you tonight.”

Logan gave her a curious look, and then leaned in and kissed her fiercely, as if he’d just come to some sort of bizarre realization. “I love you.”

A bit surprised, she laughed at his expression. She almost blurted “I love you, too,” but stopped herself. “What brought that on?”

The look he gave her was intense, making her laughter die in her throat. “I want you to come to my meeting tonight.”

“You do? To a business meeting?

“It’s more of a meeting of . . . friends.”

“Are you sure that’s allowed?”

“It will be,” he said, his smile surprisingly grim.

***

Brontë was lost in thought as she walked the streets of SoHo, heading to Cooper’s Cuppa. Gretchen hadn’t been at the apartment that morning, and Brontë suspected that she had returned home late the night before and quietly left for work that morning without disturbing Brontë or her guest. It suited Brontë just fine. While they normally walked to work together, strolling by herself allowed her to clear her head and think a little.

Her night with Logan had been . . . intense. Magical. Wonderful. If she hadn’t already been in love with him, she would be by now. But it was also a little troubling. He’d wanted her to move back in with him as if nothing had happened, and she was still mentally working through some of their issues.

When all was said and done, he was still a billionaire used to getting his way in everything, and she was still a waitress. Their massive power incompatibility worried her. Men like him didn’t date waitresses. Men like him bought the establishment and
slept
with the waitresses, she thought wryly. That was her situation . . . and yet it wasn’t. Logan had proved he wasn’t what she’d expected, just as she wasn’t what he’d expected, she supposed.

But she couldn’t quite bring herself to fling it all away and return to being his live-in girlfriend. To have no other role in his life than being arm candy that was fun in bed.

She didn’t know what to do. Logan had said the offer stood, but what if he didn’t wait forever? What if he got tired of waiting for her to be comfortable with who he was and he moved on and forgot about her? Tears pricked at her eyes, and she swiped them away, pulling open the door to the coffee shop.

Gretchen was behind the counter already, her red hair pulled up in a messy knot, her glasses sliding down her nose. She looked up at Brontë’s entrance and gave her a startled look. “You’re here today?”

“Of course,” Brontë said stiffly, heading to the back. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

Gretchen stepped out from behind the counter, following Brontë to the office. “Oh, I don’t know. Could it have something to do with the tall, dark, and rich guy who was over last night?”

“Why does everyone assume that just because Logan and I sleep together that I automatically decide to shirk all my duties?”

“’Cause that’s what happened last time?” Gretchen asked playfully.

The words were meant as a tease, but it was too much for Brontë. She sniffed loudly and stared at her locker, willing herself not to cry.

It didn’t work.

“Oh, jeez,” Gretchen said, pulling one of the spare brown aprons off of a coat hook and handing it to her. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”

“It’s okay,” Brontë said, dabbing at her eyes with the apron and collapsing into a heap on a nearby stool. “I’m just all confused on the inside.”

“You want to talk? I can get us a couple of coffees, and we can steal one of the booths in the back. It’s kind of slow this morning.”

Brontë nodded.

Five minutes later, they were settled into the smallest back booth of the coffee shop, hot mocha cappuccinos in hand. Cooper looked at them curiously from time to time, but he didn’t pry, and Brontë was grateful.

“So,” Gretchen said. “You had Mr. Moneypants over last night. It went badly, and that’s why you’re crying.”

Brontë shook her head, grabbing a handful of napkins as she felt the confused tears welling up again. “It went great. It was beautiful. He told me he loved me.”

Gretchen nodded thoughtfully. “And this is bad? Admission of love pre–blow job as incentive, then?”

She giggled, the sound a little choked with tears. “Post–blow job. And no, it’s not bad. I just don’t know what to do. I still have an apartment back in Kansas City. A life. Well, such as it is. But this morning, I got out of the shower, and Logan was packing my bags as if sleeping with him meant that I was automatically moving back in.”

“That bastard,” Gretchen said ironically. “How dare he want to spend all his time with you? Do you need me to talk to him and set him straight?”

She made a face at her friend. “I’m serious. My problem with Logan is that last time we did the exact same thing—we moved in together right away, and he just kind of took over my life.”

“I see.” Gretchen sipped her coffee thoughtfully. “Took over like how?”

“He bought me some clothes.”

“That
bastard
.”

“Shut up, Gretchen. I’m trying to tell you. He bought me clothes, and we went to a party and . . .” She frowned in thought. “I bought books for his library.”

“Well,” Gretchen said huffily. “What a douche bag. How dare he spend his billions on you?”

Brontë glared. “You’re not helping.”

“Of course I am,” Gretchen said, matter-of-factly. “I’m making you realize how silly you’re being.”

Brontë continued to glare at Gretchen.

The redhead shrugged. “Look. He’s got so much money he could roll in it. You, meanwhile, count the change in your wallet for a slice of pizza. Is it weird that he wants to shower you with presents and nice things? Maybe he likes buying them for you.”

“He doesn’t like gold diggers, Gretchen. Everyone always uses him for his money. I don’t want to be like everyone else.”

“Then don’t be. Don’t go running off buying a truckful of Birkin bags. Though if you do, remember your bestie, Gretchen, and her sister, Audrey.” When Brontë glared at her again, Gretchen sighed. “Look. It doesn’t sound like the problem is his money. It sounds like the problem is you.”

“What?”

“As in, Logan doesn’t need you. He likes you, he finds you fun, but he doesn’t need you to survive. So you don’t know what to do with yourself. That’s a little unhealthy, don’t you think?”

“That’s not the case at all!”

“No? What did you do when you moved in with him?”

Brontë opened her mouth to protest, then snapped it shut again. “I shopped with Audrey, and then I sat around in his apartment.”

“Gee, exciting. I’m amazed he let you get away the first time,” Gretchen said drily.

“Oh, my God,” Brontë said. “All this time I’ve been thinking I can’t be with him because I can’t be who he wants me to be. What if it’s because I
am
the problem?”

“Well, you are a waitress,” Gretchen said. “It’s not as if you can continue waitressing if you’re living with a billionaire.”

She was right, Brontë realized. Oh, God. Everything she was saying was right. Brontë was blaming Logan for being . . . Logan. Logan was who he was—a little alpha, take-charge, and always thinking ahead. And she’d been punishing him for being who he was instead of loving him for it.

She’d been the problem all along.

Her stomach gave a sick little lurch. “I don’t know what to do, Gretchen. If I move in with him again, I worry that I’m going to turn into one of those women he hates. Sitting around all day spending money and doing nothing.”

“That won’t happen. You’re smart. You’re constantly spouting ancient wisdom and writing little sayings on customers’ cups. They love that. Do something with that big philosophizing brain of yours instead of serving coffee.”

Brontë stared down at her cappuccino. “I really wanted to do something with my philosophy degree, you know. Show the world just how wise and intelligent they were in classical times. Make others love the ancients just as much as I do.”

“Then maybe you should go back to school. Teach. Or write books about ancient philosophers. I know a great editor or two. Or you could set up charity foundations with all of your boyfriend’s ridiculous money that he wants you to spend.” Gretchen leaned over and clasped Brontë’s hand. “My point is that the money’s not a problem. It’s not an obstacle if you don’t make it one. If he wants to shower you with money, use it and really make something of yourself, Brontë. Be who you want to be, not just a Midwestern waitress with big dreams. Understand? You can always pay him back.”

Strange how a friend telling her to make something of herself came across far more gently than when Logan had. Brontë smiled at Gretchen. “So if you were me, you’d move back in with him?”

“Hell, no,” Gretchen said. “If I were you, I’d have killed him in a week. But you’re wimpy. You’re great with him.”

Brontë stuck her tongue out at Gretchen.

The redhead grinned, and gave Brontë’s hand another squeeze. “If he makes you happy, don’t set up obstacles that don’t have to be there. Love is more important than anything else in the world. Well, almost, but you’ve got the money thing taken care of already. I’d kill to have a man look at me the way Logan looks at you.”

“Cooper looks at you that way, Gretchen,” Brontë said carefully.

The look of chagrin on Gretchen’s face was terrible to see. “I keep hoping he’ll grow out of it,” she said quietly. “I like Cooper, but he’s not the right guy for me. He’s so . . . normal. Bland. I need someone different.” She smiled at Brontë, and her smile was sad. “I’m a bit of a hopeless romantic, you know. Holding out for a hero and all that.”

Brontë nodded and squeezed Gretchen’s hand back. “You’ll find the right guy. I’m sure he’s out there somewhere.”