Stranded With a Billionaire Page 9

  Once done, he exhaled heavily and lay down on the blanket next to her, where she was staring up at the sky, dazed and dreamy.

  That was incredible. Mind-blowing. She’d totally forgot about being on the beach, though she suspected the sand that had gotten on the blanket would remind her soon enough. “Thank you,” she said softly.

  “Thank you?” He was still panting. “For pulling out?”

  “No,” she said dreamily, though that was nice of him, too. “For showing me where the G-spot was. I had no idea. I think I’m ruined for non-G-spot sex now.”

  He laughed, the sound short and forceful. “I wouldn’t be so sure about that.”

  “Well, okay, it’d have to be really great sex to make up for the lack of the G-spot attention.” She sat up and grimaced at her sticky belly, still covered with his seed. “I think I’m going to go take a quick dunk.”

  “It’s probably cold.”

  “‘You will never do anything in this world without courage,’” she quoted at him.

  “Is that a challenge?” He asked, grinning. He got to his feet and curled his hands into mock claws, looking as if he were a predator about to pounce on his prey. “Are you saying I’m not brave enough for cold water?”

  “Not at all,” she said, turning toward the ocean.

  When he took a step forward, she ran for it, a high-pitched squeal of alarm escaping her. Moments later, he had an arm around her stomach and was dunking her in the chilly surf. Brontë screamed and clung to him, dragging him under with her until they were both sputtering and laughing.

  “There’s your courage,” Logan told her between chuckles.

  She laughed too, delighted by his mood.

  They rinsed off quickly, dumped sand on the fire, and then headed back to the hotel in the darkness. Their stairwell was just as they’d left it, complete with mattress, pillows, and blankets. Before when they’d crawled into the bed, they’d been clothed. When Brontë crawled into bed this time, she was naked and slightly damp, and so was the man who crawled in after her. As soon as she pulled the blanket over her body, he tugged her close and spooned her, his hand sliding possessively over her waist and resting on her breast.

  As if he cherished her.

  And she thought that maybe, just maybe, Logan was going to ruin after-sex cuddling for her, too. Because being pressed up against his big, strong body as she drifted off to sleep, his hand possessively cupping her breast, felt a little too good to be true.

  Chapter Five

  Logan awoke before Brontë did. His body’s internal clock was set to 6 a.m. New York time, no matter where he was. He’d also awoken with a stiff cock and pleasant memories of the previous night’s sex on the beach with Brontë. Tousled, sweet Brontë, who’d been so responsive in his arms, and absolutely startled when he’d found her G-spot. That look of pleased surprise on her face? That had made him feel like a king in bed.

  She hadn’t been the most skilled of his lovers—he suspected the Ukrainian ballet dancer would forever hold that spot—but she’d been the most open and honest one. Her expression, totally unable to hide anything, had pointed him to exactly where to please her, and her wide-eyed responses and gasping moans had been an incredible turn-on. She’d been enthusiastic and genuine and pleased to be with him.

  Him. Logan the “manager.” She didn’t know if he had two nickels to rub together, and hadn’t cared. She’d just wanted to have sex with him. And he couldn’t say that with certainty about any of his former lovers. Had they wanted him? The man? Or just been attracted to the power of his bank account and what he could do for them? It was never easy to tell, and it ruined pretty much every relationship.

  And the one woman he’d thought he loved in the past—Danica—had proven herself to be shallow and interested in nothing but money.

  A line of sunlight streamed in under the stairwell door below them, giving him just enough light to make out Brontë’s sleeping form next to him. She shifted in bed, rolling over and tucking her cheek close to his shoulder. Her hand automatically went to his cock, and his morning wood had turned painful fast. Did she realize how often she reached for him in her sleep? Or was this a calculated move? He remained utterly still, listening to Brontë’s evenly spaced breaths.

  A light snore escaped her.

  He exhaled in relief. That was real. She was real. He was a fucking paranoid son of a bitch, wasn’t he? A sleeping girl reaches for his cock, and he automatically thought she had an ulterior motive. It was a good thing she couldn’t read minds. Someone as guileless as Brontë would have probably been disgusted. His father and the way he’d treated Logan’s mother had polluted his brain.

  Logan pulled the blanket off of her inch by inch. She slept on, though she moved a little closer to him as if seeking heat. Carefully, he traced his fingers over her shoulder and down her side, resting his hand on her hip. Her skin was soft and smooth, her hips plump, and her full backside made his mouth water.

  She made a soft, breathy moan in the back of her throat and shifted onto her back. Perfect. He could part her legs, slide deep inside of her before she even woke up, and rid his cock of this ache—

  Fuck. And then what? Pull out again? That had been sheer torture the night before. They needed condoms. Logan edged out of the bed and down the stairs, slipping on his water shoes and then quietly opening the door. He headed into the lobby, ignoring his nudity. He doubted any rescuer would be here this early. The water on the floor of the hotel had receded, leaving muddy trails on the tile and leftover debris. Rescue would be here soon, he guessed. He and Brontë likely had been lost in the shuffle for a day or two, but it wouldn’t be much longer. Someone would notice a missing billionaire, if not a missing waitress.

  Logan got a package of condoms from the store, drank a bottle of water and downed a candy bar, and returned to the stairwell. Brontë was still asleep, so he abandoned his shoes at the base of the stairs, kept a condom in hand, and slid back into bed with her.

  She was soft and warm against his side, giving a little absent sound of pleasure when he returned as if she’d missed him. He liked that. Logan leaned in and kissed her neck and then her shoulder. They were light, trailing nibbles that teased the skin. A soft giggle escaped her throat, the sound still too sleepy for his taste. Kissing along her arm, he reached over her and cupped her breast, thumbing over the tip and with a touch causing the peak to harden.

  The sound she made in response was a low moan.

  His cock felt as hard as granite, and it rubbed against her limbs when she shifted in the bed. He wanted to pull her full against him, feel the press of her flesh against his cock, but he was enjoying her unconscious reactions a bit too much at the moment. His thumb skimmed over the hard nub of her breast again, rolling it back and forth as he continued to kiss Brontë’s neck.

  The woman was definitely a heavy sleeper, Logan thought with amusement. He nipped lightly at her shoulder, and when she rolled onto her back, he leaned down to take the stiff tip of her breast into his mouth.

  Brontë moaned again, and her hands went to his hair, digging into his scalp. “Mmm, Logan.”

  He flicked her nipple with his tongue. “I was wondering what it’d take to wake you up.”

  “That’s a good way,” she said dreamily. Her fingers played with his hair.

  “It’s a shame you woke up before I had to resort to more insistent tactics.”

  “Oh?” She slid a hand down his stomach and played her fingers over his cock. It twitched in response to the light touch. “What did you have in mind?”

  “Burying my face between your legs and licking your pussy until you came.”

  The breath shuddered from her lungs.

  He nipped at her breast again. Too quiet. “What are you thinking?”

  “I’m thinking I should have slept a bit longer,” she said, and then laughed at herself. “I miss all the goo
d stuff.”

  Logan kissed down her belly, licking at her belly button. “I can be persuaded.”

  “Oh?”

  He dropped his mouth lower, to the curve of her hips, and placed a hand on her inner thigh. He felt her quiver of response, as if his touch simply drove her wild with anticipation. “You could . . . ask.”

  “Is that all it takes?” She gave another breathy laugh, and then her fingers dug in his hair again. “Please, Logan. I’ll be so good to you.”

  Her breathy, sexy voice made his balls tighten and his cock throb with need. Damn. She was good at that. He lowered his head and, as promised, buried his face in her soft flesh. He felt her entire body stiffen in surprise, and she gave a startled cry when his tongue swiped between her plump labia.

  “You don’t waste any time, do you?” she said, and her voice sounded nervous.

  Too intimate for her, perhaps? He wanted to please her, though. Logan nuzzled her softly. “You taste amazing.” She did, too. Like sex and Brontë and a hint of sea salt. He wanted more of her on his tongue, so he parted her pussy lips with one finger and lowered his mouth to lap at her clit.

  “Oh.” Her fingers twisted in his hair, pulling a little. “Logan, I don’t know. I . . .” Her protests trailed off as he continued to lick her clit, hardening the tip of his tongue into a point and circling it around the little bud.

  “Do you want me to stop?” He let the words play over her skin. “Are you uncomfortable?” At the end of the last word, he let his hot breath fan over her flesh.

  She moaned in response, and he felt her thighs quiver. “Never mind,” she told him breathlessly. “Keep going.”

  Good. She was letting herself relax and enjoy this. It was a shame it wasn’t brighter in the stairwell—he wanted to see her expression. He’d just have to go by the sounds she made, and the feel of her body against his.

  He continued tonguing at her clit and brushed a finger over the opening of her sex. It was slick and wet, a sign that she was enjoying his attentions. Logan slid a finger in deep and thrust it in time with his tongue strokes.

  He could feel her squeeze around his finger, heard the half-sobbed whimper that escaped her throat. His cock throbbed in response, painfully hard and acutely in need. But he wanted her to be ready.

  Logan thrust a second finger in with his first, circling them inside her. She was tight, and he remembered that she’d needed a moment the night before. Today, he wasn’t going to pull out of her. He’d sink in deep and let her clench around him as she came, because nothing felt better than that.

  He tongued her again, faster, and she stiffened. “Logan,” she cried out. “I’m so close.”

  He pulled away, then, ignoring her cry of protest, and tore open the condom. Her hands reached for him, caressing his cock and his chest, stroking him with greedy, desperate motions.

  And then it was on, and he adjusted himself between her widespread legs and thrust home.

  Brontë gave a keening cry in response, her nails digging into his shoulders in that mix of pleasure and pain he was starting to associate with her. She felt so much that she had to take it out on him, and he’d gladly receive the punishment she doled out.

  He began to drive into her, not caring that he was being rough or that his motions weren’t fluid. They were brutal and primal, and she clung to him with each forceful push, crying out his name. He concentrated on her responses, waiting for the right moment for his release, because he was so damn close that he ached.

  And there it was. Brontë’s pussy clenched, and her voice broke on a wild gasp, and then her muscles tightened around him even more. It felt amazing, and he surged again, feeling his own body respond. He came inside her, thrusting hard until he felt drained from his response, and then collapsed onto the bed next to her.

  She immediately rolled over and clung to him, her own breathing shallow and ragged. To his surprise, she leaned over and kissed his mouth. “Good morning.”

  “Morning,” he said back.

  “Do you wake up all your lovers like that?”

  He didn’t, but he also didn’t feel like sharing that. “Do you always sleep through foreplay?”

  “Only if it’s not any good,” she said, and then broke off into a fit of laughter when he reached out and tickled her sides. “Okay, okay, you win. It was pretty decent.”

  “Do I need to prove my skills to you?” He found himself teasing back and smiling.

  “I might need a little convincing,” she said, and trailed a finger down his chest.

  “I should get to work, then,” he said, moving in to kiss her again.

  ***

  Stark naked, Brontë flipped through the sundresses in the gift shop, looking for one that hadn’t been totally ruined in the hurricane. There were a few that had gotten wet and dried into wrinkled messes but that looked clean otherwise, and she picked through searching for something in her size.

  Her gaze strayed to the glittering diamond necklace, and she shook her head. Logan was crazy to think about giving it to her. Thoughtful, sweet, but crazy. It was way too much money to spend on someone who was more or less a one-night stand. That’s what this was, after all, wasn’t it?

  On the flight to the Bahamas, Sharon had talked nonstop about sexy island flings and how she couldn’t wait to have one. And it had made Brontë think, however briefly, that maybe she wouldn’t mind having one, too. Just a little fun to spice up her life before heading back to Kansas City. She hadn’t expected anything to happen, though.

  She sure hadn’t expected to meet anyone like Logan. Much less have the whole resort left to the two of them, alone. Logan was different from the guys she was normally attracted to. For one, he seemed to have a stable job. Brontë always seemed to find herself with men who were “between careers” or “making a transition,” which was code for “unemployed.” Logan was also a bit more . . . dominant, if she had to put a word on it. She was used to laid-back guys who let things run their course. And she was pretty sure “laid-back” wasn’t a word that appeared in Logan’s dictionary.

  But she had to admit, that was part of his appeal. He knew what he wanted, and he went after it. He didn’t sit around and wait for someone else to take action—he made things happen. It had been he who got them out of the elevator, he who had gotten them supplies, and he who’d made the SOS.

  Brontë picked a dress and tossed the others aside, glancing into the lobby. Logan had gone to see if he could find breakfast, and he’d left her in the gift shop. For some reason, she was anxious to see his broad shoulders again. She felt safe with him around. If she had to be stranded with anyone, she’d take a protective alpha male like Logan any day.

  Of course, she hadn’t really expected to sleep with her protector. But now that they had? She didn’t regret it in the slightest. The sex was incredible.

  No, she amended as she put on one of the floral sundresses and ripped the tags off. Better than incredible. Ruined her for other men was more like it. She’d orgasmed more with him than any man she’d dated. Normally they’d be pushing on her head, demanding a blow job before they’d reciprocate, but he’d already gone down on her . . . and had enjoyed it. He’d enjoyed pleasuring her.

  Not that she wouldn’t enjoy going down on him. She paused at the mental image of taking Logan by surprise and knocking him backward into a chair, unzipping his pants . . . then grinned as she slipped on a pair of mismatched flip-flops. Going down on Logan seemed rather appealing at the moment. And turnabout was fair play. Stretching sensuously, she headed out of the broken window and back to the main lobby of the hotel, glancing around.

  “Logan?”

  No sign of him. That was odd. Maybe he’d gone exploring without her. She wandered through the destroyed lobby.

  “Logan?”

  Anxiety began to twinge in her stomach . . . and then it rumbled. She was starving. She glanc
ed back at the gift shop, but the thought of eating more candy bars made her sick. It was a bit sad that she was getting tired of chocolate—even M&M’s. She headed toward the far end of the first floor, near one of the restaurants, and called Logan’s name again.

  “In here.” Logan’s voice sounded distant.

  She headed into the restaurant, and paused in surprise. One of the tables in the center of the room had been righted and a water-stained tablecloth spread over it. Place settings had been set down and two chairs slid under the table. As she watched, Logan leaned over a pair of candles and lit them with his lighter.

  A slow smile spread over her face as she approached, and a silly, nervous giggle escaped her throat. “What’s this?”

  Besides the sweetest thing anyone had ever done for her, of course.

  Logan looked back at her and smiled, his expression confident. “I thought I’d like to take my date out to dinner. Or breakfast, as the case may be.” He reached for her hand and led her to one of the chairs, pulling it out for her with a flourish.

  She sat, unable to stop grinning like a fool, especially when he leaned in and kissed the back of her hand. “I hope it’s not chocolate.”

  “It’s not. First, we have a fine vintage that I think you’ll appreciate.” He laid a bottle over his arm and held it out to her as if it were wine.

  It was a bottle of water.

  She laughed, clapping her hands. “It looks delicious.”

  “Indeed.” He set down a wineglass and began to pour with effortless grace. “The flavor is peerless. I think you’ll enjoy the bouquet.”

  Brontë lifted her glass when he finished pouring and pretended to sniff it. “Very nice.” She gave him an appraising look. “You’re good at this, you know.”

  “Waiting tables? Should I be insulted?”

  She snorted, ignoring that jab at her job. “I meant with the wine thing.” She wiggled her fingers at it. “They teach you how to be classy at manager school?”