Romancing the Billionaire (16 page)

She nodded, clutching at the chair she rested on. She was a gorgeous sight, all flushed cheeks and pale skin, her breasts heaving with every gasped breath, her hair a messy nimbus about her face. Her legs were sprawled wide with his face between them, and he wanted to memorize the sight of her like this, so full of need and so utterly beautiful that it made his heart ache.

“Please,” she said again, urgency in her tone.

He set upon her once more, back to the slow, steady licking of her surely aching little clit. He pressed his fingers into the well of her sex, having to stifle his own groan at the way her cunt clenched and pulled at him, as if she were trying to suck him in deeper.

Violet's moans of pleasure grew louder, and so he began to pump his fingers slowly in and out of her, curling them ever so slightly and dragging them against the front wall of her core as he pulled them out, looking for the spot that would guarantee a deliciously brutal orgasm. The rhythm of his tongue against her clit continued, his pace picking up just a bit and matching her quick, panting breaths as if they were the metronome he had to follow. Gasp, lick, gasp, lick. Her juices covered his mouth, her scent was in his nostrils and coating his fingers, and he was in heaven. He never wanted to leave this spot, ever. If he died at this moment, he'd die a happy man.

But his Violet needed to come.

He crooked his fingers inside her and rubbed hard, and was rewarded with her choked cry of surprise. Ah yes, that was a new trick he'd picked up in the intervening years. He'd never done that to her before, and he was guessing that her other lovers had never bothered to try and find it. For a moment, he was filled with a vicious jealousy that gave way to a possessive sort of pleasure at the way she arched and sobbed when he brushed his curled finger against it again.

She was his. This was her, and she was all his. No man had touched her like him, and he was going to fucking give her the best orgasm she'd ever had.

So, fingers rubbing against her inner wall, he bent over her clit with a new fervor, increasing the strokes of his tongue to a new rapidity.

She made a wordless sound, noisy and completely unmindful of the fact that her cries were echoing in the cabin even as he sprawled between her legs, eating her out at thirty thousand feet in the air. Her hips moved, jerking, as if trying to follow his fingers, and he knew he couldn't let up now. To do so would mean she'd have to chase her orgasm all over again, and the way she was clenching around him, the lips of her pussy swollen with need, she was close. So close. So he continued, mentally chanting his own poem.

Come for me, Violet. Come on my face, on my lips, and let me taste your sweetness.

A few more rubs and arches of her back, and he felt her entire body shiver, and then she gave a little cry of release. Her legs jerked on his shoulders, and he felt her pussy clench hard at his fingers, felt her clit quiver under his tongue.

Perfection. He groaned his own pleasure at her response and kept licking and stroking, dragging out the orgasm to enhance her pleasure for as long as possible. She writhed against him, his name dragged out of her lips like a benediction. “Jonathan. Jonathan. Jonathan.”

“This pleasure's all for you, Violet,” he rasped against her soft, dewy skin. “I'd give this to you every day if you'd let me. There's nothing better than making you wet with need, and watching you squeeze around my hand.”

She moaned, her hips riding his fingers as she lost herself in the orgasm, and he felt stark pride at how disheveled, pleased, and thoroughly fucked she looked.

He'd done that to her.

He pulled away from that sweet cradle of her hips, bitterly reluctant but knowing he couldn't stay there all night. At least, not yet. Maybe in a week or two she'd let him feast between her legs for hours on end. For now, he'd be content with whatever scraps of attention she gave him.

But most of all, he had to act as if this were no big deal. As if they were just friends. Friends with benefits.

His lip curled at the thought.

He'd give his “friend” so many benefits her head would spin. He'd give her so many goddamn benefits that her legs wouldn't be able to hold her upright.

And then he'd see if she just wanted to be friends with him.

So Jonathan got to his feet and licked the taste of the woman he loved off of his lips. “I'll get a towel for you.”

Under the pretense of retrieving a towel, he left to go jerk his cock in the airplane's tiny bathroom so she wouldn't see his need and feel obligated to reciprocate.

He hated that fucking word,
obligated
.

—

Violet stared at Jonathan's bronzed shoulders as he stalked toward the airplane bathroom at the back of the jet. She was dazed, and breathless, and just all over . . . wow.

Okay, so he'd learned a few things since they'd last had sex together. The sex had always been great with Jonathan. But that right there? That right there had just blown her ever-loving mind. She'd never come so hard. Hell, she was wondering if she could ever walk again. She felt deliciously, thoroughly used.

And she felt really, really good.

And yet . . . as she watched him disappear into the bathroom, the old doubts resurfaced. Oral sex on an old flame and demanding nothing in return? That wasn't how friends acted. This? This was a one-way trip back to heartbreak. Some of the things Jonathan had said to her in the heat of passion weren't the words of a man just having a casual diddle with his “good buddy.” And now that her mind was clearing, she remembered each groan he struggled to hide, the way his lips clung to hers as if he wanted to memorize every caress.

Even though Jonathan was giving lip service to being her friend, he was still the same intense, possessive Jonathan Lyons who had broken her heart the last time.

Violet sat up and straightened her hair, tried to get her racing heart back under control.

No matter how good he was at sex now, fooling around with him could only lead to more hurt. She needed to tell him that they couldn't do this again. Not if they wanted to maintain their fragile, newly rebuilt friendship.

But as she pulled her shirt over her breasts, she felt suddenly so very tired of the walls she kept erected to keep herself safe. Couldn't she just relax for one day and not worry about emotions? Couldn't she just enjoy?

Violet pulled her pants on and lay back in the seat, thinking.

She'd tell him in the morning, when both of them had clear minds and a few hours of distance. Tonight, she'd allow herself to wallow in pleasure for a bit.

W
hen the plane landed at Santorini's airport, Violet was roused from her nap by Jonathan's gentle caress. “Come on, sleepy,” he murmured as he woke her. “Let's get you to the hotel.”

She might have protested or said something about working on the envelope hunt, but her brain was mush after the intense orgasm she'd had earlier. She'd fallen asleep before he'd even emerged from the bathroom. Now, it was late at night and Santorini was lit up and beautiful, but her eyelids were so heavy they wouldn't stay up.

She vaguely remembered a taxi ride to the hotel and checking in to the hotel while leaning against Jonathan's arm, and then sleep. Blissful, delicious sleep.

When Violet awoke the next morning, she was in a room by herself. That was . . . a little disappointing.
No, it isn't
, she chided herself.
He's giving you space like you're always demanding
. Still, she glanced around the room, frowning. Where was Jonathan if not with her?

Her gaze fell to a note on the bedside table, scrawled in his familiar bold handwriting.

I'm in room 211 if you need me. Call me when you get up and we'll have breakfast & plan our next move.—J

She studied the note, looking for hidden meanings, some signal about what they'd done on the plane. Any regret? Any declarations of love? Did “plan our next move” refer to something relationship-wise or was she reading too much into it? Violet didn't know. It seemed . . . awfully casual.

She showered and dressed, opting for jeans and a blousy, off-the-shoulder top with a tank underneath. The time for her schoolteacher armor was past, she supposed. Tucking her hair behind her ears in a nervous habit, Violet dialed Jonathan's room.

“This is Jonathan,” he answered.

“Hey, it's me.”

A pause. “Good. You up for breakfast?”

For some reason, his nonchalant tone bothered her. This was Jonathan, Mr. Born-and-Bred-Intensity. Wasn't he supposed to be reciting poetry to her beauty and vowing that he loved her above all others? That was his normal MO. To have him so casual after the mind-blowing incident on the plane rattled her. She cleared her throat, settling her thoughts. “Breakfast is fine.”

“Downstairs, then? I can be there in ten.”

“See you then,” she said, and hung up, vaguely disgruntled and not sure why. She got up, slicked on a bit more lip gloss, and added a touch of mascara so her eyes would seem bolder, and headed down to the hotel lobby.

The Kallista Hotel hadn't changed much in the last ten years, and as she walked through the lobby, the Greek columns and tiled floor reminded her of times past. She crossed her arms, feeling vulnerable, and waited for Jonathan in the lobby.

He arrived a few minutes later in his usual casual blazer, T-shirt, and jeans. He was unshaven and his hair was a bit tousled, as if he hadn't bothered to fix it since it was just Violet he was meeting. She wasn't sure if that irritated her or if she wanted to run her fingers through his hair and smooth it into place.

“Shall we eat?” Jonathan asked, gesturing at the doorway to the hotel restaurant.

She nodded and let him open the door for her, lost in thought.

They got a table and sat down, ordering a pair of coffees. Jonathan glanced at the menu and set it down, then pulled a small tablet out of an interior pocket of his jacket. “I had scans made of our newest letters while we were flying,” he told her, tapping the screen. “Now that we're here at the hotel, maybe we can figure out our next move.”

“Sure,” she said lamely, and fought a swell of irritation. Was he just going to ignore what happened between them last night? She couldn't. Every time she looked at him, her gaze went to his mouth, and she remembered how he'd teased her clit with his tongue for what felt like hours. When he reached for his silverware, she gaped at his hands, remembering how those fingers had found just the right spot inside her to drive her mad with need.

“Do you have any ideas?” Jonathan asked, spreading his napkin on his lap.

Oh, she had ideas, all right
. Violet watched his strong, blunt hands move to the table surface again. Those were distracting her. He said something else that she didn't catch. “Hmm?”

“Violet? Any ideas on where we go next? I'll follow your lead.”

She blinked. “Follow my lead?”

He tilted his head, eyes narrowing at her. “You seem distracted this morning.”

Why wouldn't she be distracted? Irritation flared and she grabbed her own napkin-rolled silverware and tore the bundle apart. “Of course I'm distracted.”

“Thinking about the clue?”

Fuck the clue
. “No,” she bit out. “About what happened on the plane last night.”

His gaze was steady, his face unreadable. “What about it?”

Her jaw dropped a little. “Well, it shouldn't have happened, for starters.”

He shrugged.

A shrug? That was all she got? Violet fought back her temper as she patted her napkin in her lap. The waitress came by and brought coffee, and they were momentarily distracted with ordering breakfast. “Just toast,” Violet said, hating the snappish tone in her voice. God, she sounded like a bitch. When the waitress left, Violet wrapped her hands around her coffee cup—so she'd resist lobbing it at Jonathan's oh-so-casual head—and frowned at him. “I feel like we need to talk about what happened.”

Again, he shrugged. “I'm listening.”

She ground her teeth at his casualness. “I just . . . I feel like friends with benefits is not the direction we want to head.”

“All right.” He picked up his cup and took a sip, then set it down and picked up his tablet again, studying the screen.

That was it? Violet clenched her fists. What about protests? Utterances of undying love for her? Didn't he say he'd always loved her and wouldn't stop? Hadn't he vowed it just yesterday when he was between her damn legs? And now he just didn't give a shit?

What the ever-loving fuck?

A horrible thought occurred to Violet. What if . . . what if he was disappointed in her? What if that was why he was so cool now? She tugged at the low neckline of her loose top, suddenly feeling self-conscious and dowdy. She wasn't as thin and athletic as she'd been ten years ago. A few extra pounds—okay, twenty—had settled on her already hourglass figure and made her a little curvier than most. He'd picked up some damn impressive tricks in the last ten years and made her come like wild. But what if he had built her up in his imagination and now he found her performance lacking?

For some reason, that was like a stab in the heart.

It was like . . . when she knew Jonathan was still in love with her, she could hold him at arm's length, until she was ready to let go of the past and accept him again. If she held on to her bitterness and anger for another year or two, she knew he wouldn't give up on her. She'd been comfortable to hold him away. It was safe, and Violet liked safe.

But this new, casual Jonathan, who didn't give a shit if they had sex or not?

This man was a stranger, and she didn't know what to do. And she wasn't sure she liked it. “All right?” she echoed. “That's all you have to say?”

He looked up at her again. “What do you want me to say? I told you that you could call the shots. I said it was about you. If you don't want to do it again, that's fine.”

That was fine? He'd given her the best orgasm of her life and taken nothing for himself and that was
fine
?

“Okay then,” she said, feeling a bit lost. “Let's go back to just friends.”

“Just friends,” he agreed.

Why did she feel like she was the one losing this battle?

“So . . .” Violet said after taking a steadying sip of her coffee. “We're here at the hotel. We have a poem that talks about nothing in particular. What do we do?”

Jonathan shrugged again—a gesture she was beginning to hate. “I'm sure something will come to us. Maybe we need to explore the city. The poem mentioned wheels. Maybe we need to look for wheels of some kind.”

It was as good a lead as any. “Just looking for wheels seems rather vague to me. And if we don't find the wheel my father referred to?”

“Then we wait here for a while and see what hits us. Something will pop up.”

He seemed so very casual about the entire thing. “So we just lounge around on a Greek island and enjoy the sun and sand? Is that what you're saying?”

He grinned, a flicker of the old Jonathan rising to the surface. “Is that such a bad thing?”

It wasn't, not really. Santorini was lovely from what she remembered, and the weather seemed to be nice today. “Do you think we should check out the ruins?”

“We're not part of any sort of archaeological dig, so I don't know if they'd just let us out there unless we pulled strings. We can, but if it wasn't one of your father's digs, it would seem strange for him to send us out there.”

That was true. She knew that he'd been heavily involved in the Akrotiri ruins for about five years, and then had abruptly changed his mind, heading for Spain instead. Why Spain, she hadn't known and hadn't cared. “So . . . we're basically stranded at the moment.”

“I guess we are. Want to go sightseeing?”

She blinked at his suggestion. “Shouldn't we work on this?”

“We should. And we will. But for now, why don't we just enjoy the day? Take some time off? You seem tired.”

If she was tired, it was because she was still a puddle of jelly after last night's interlude. It was an interlude which had rattled her to her core and hadn't seemed to affect him at all. Sheesh. “I'm not tired.”

“Good. Then shall we go exploring?”

“Can't I eat breakfast first?”

“I never said we'd skip out on the eating,” Jonathan said in a low murmur.

And that made her blush, thinking again of the plane ride over. Damn it, she was pretty sure he'd said that just to bug her. And that made her all confused again.

Which Jonathan was he? Jonathan of all shrugs and not caring if they ever touched each other again? Or suggestive, madly in love with her after ten years Jonathan?

She was so confused.

—

They spent the day in the warm sun. Santorini was just as idyllic as she remembered it. The island itself was formed from the remnants of a volcano, the city hugging the edges of the caldera. It had been one of the oldest civilizations in existence thirty-six hundred years ago when the volcano had erupted and destroyed Akrotiri. In the present day, Fira town was its own little white cluster of buildings crawling over the rocky soil, surrounded by the impossibly beautiful ocean and jagged cliffs. It was utterly lovely, and the sky overhead was a sea of endless blue.

She'd loved this place when she'd snuck away here with Jonathan so many years ago. They'd left the Akrotiri dig behind for a weekend of passionate lovemaking in the Kallista Hotel back when they were teenagers, and walking the streets ten years later, she couldn't stop thinking about that weekend.

Back then, Jonathan had held her hand as they'd explored the narrow streets.

Today, he walked at her side. As a
friend
. The thought left a sour note in her mind.

Fira's shops lined the streets, colorful fabrics and beach souvenirs catching the eye. Delicious smells lingered in the marketplace, and she couldn't resist stopping for a bite of baklava, or a delicious gyro. She bought a colorful linen wrap intended for the beach, and took her time browsing as they shopped. It was pleasant . . . and infuriating at the same time.

They went sightseeing and talked about nothing in particular. They read the poem repeatedly, scanned the streets for wheels or things that might have matched up with their clues, and came away empty-handed. By the end of the evening, Violet's feet ached from walking, her nose was sunburned, and she was a good, achy tired again. They'd eaten all day as they'd walked, so there was no need for dinner. Still, when it came time to part, Violet hesitated. Did Jonathan want to spend time with her? Maybe come up to her room? Have a little more “friends with benefits” time?

Not that she wanted to, she assured herself. But if he wanted to, then at least she'd know he was still interested.

But Jonathan seemingly didn't care. He gave her a quick smile, told her he'd call her in the morning when he woke up, and headed down the hall to his own room.

And for some reason, that bugged Violet. It seemed like the more mixed-up she became emotionally, the more he retreated.

She hated that. She wanted him to be just as torn and confused as she was. She wanted him to think about their interlude on the plane when he laid down to sleep that night, because lord knew she was.

She dreamed about him, too. Dark, delicious dreams of his mouth and his hands, and him murmuring filthy poetry in her ear as he made love to her.