Romancing the Billionaire (14 page)

So she distracted him. Deliberately brushing her breast against his arm, she leaned over and gave him a curious look. “My poem?”

His eyes took on a glazed look, and then he seemed to give himself a mental shake. “Of course.” His fingers danced over the tablet, and she watched him type a few of the phrases in. “Ah. Here we go. Lord Tennyson. The poem is called ‘Idylls of the King; Song from the Marriage of Geraint.'” He read on for a moment more and made a disgusted sound in his throat. “Apparently it's a poem about one of King Arthur's knights and his marriage was torn apart by lies. Well, damn. Your father
is
a bastard.”

Violet couldn't help it; she giggled. He looked so very disgruntled.

At her laugh, Jonathan gave her a sour look, his entire body tense with anger. “Do you think that's the message your father is intending for us to take away from this?”

“I certainly hope not,” Violet said, her mouth still twitching with amusement. “Do you see yourself as one of Arthur's knights?”

His shoulders relaxed a bit and she gave his arm a placating rub. “I suppose that's a stretch, yeah. What is the message here, then?”

“I don't know,” Violet admitted. “Is it something to do with Lord Tennyson himself?”

He tapped on the tablet for a bit longer, reading, and eventually shook his head. “The man had a colorful life, but I don't see a connection to Santorini.” He looked over at her. “I feel like my clue pertains to us. I'm just not sure how we tie in with the poem unless it's in an insulting way.”

“Well, I wouldn't put it past my father to throw in a few barbs from beyond the grave,” Violet said. “Don't worry about it too much, really. I'm sure something will be glaringly obvious to us once we get to Santorini. And you figured out the bridge, so I'm sure you'll puzzle out this next part.”

He nodded absently and rubbed his chin, still staring down at the information on his tablet. A line of worry creased his brow.

For some reason, she didn't like seeing that worry there. “Since we're on the subject of poetry, do you know more?”

“More poetry?” he asked her, distracted. “What do you mean?”

“I don't recall you being a poetry buff when I knew you before,” she teased. “If I remember correctly,
I
was the one with the English minor.”

His mouth crooked in a half-smile as he put the tablet away and leaned back in his chair, focusing his attention on Violet. “I had a change of heart about the English language after we parted. I ended up minoring in English Poetry, actually. Major in business. It's a weird combination.”

“I'll say.” She was fascinated, though. Business and . . . poetry? Had she influenced that? Did he take up his love of poetry because he'd wanted to be closer to her? Violet's heart squeezed. “Can you recite me something?”

“Poetry?”

“No, the starting lineup of the New York Yankees.” She rolled her eyes. “Of course, poetry.”

A smile flashed across his face. He rubbed his chin, thinking, and then turned to her, eyes gleaming. “How about some more Shelley?”

She shrugged. “That's fine. Hit me with it.”

“You don't ‘hit' people with poetry. You astound them with your eruditeness and your learning.” He wagged his eyebrows at her.

Violet laughed and shook her head. “Just hit me with it already!”

He made a great show of clearing his throat, and Violet couldn't stop laughing. Then, grinning at her, he began to softly recite.

“The fountains mingle with the river,

And the rivers with the ocean;

The winds of heaven mix for ever

With a sweet emotion;

Nothing in the world is single;

All things by a law divine

In one spirit meet and mingle—

Why not I with thine?

See, the mountains kiss high heaven,

And the waves clasp one another;

No sister flower could be forgiven

If it disdained its brother;

And the sunlight clasps the earth,

And the moonbeams kiss the sea;—

What is all this sweet work worth,

If thou kiss not me?”

The breath caught in Violet's throat. He'd recited every line in an achingly tender voice, gazing directly at her. There was no mistaking the look in his eyes, the soft caress of his words. Her heart fluttered and she was filled with longing for him, for what they'd had once upon a time, back before everything changed and went to hell.

Her hand lifted to his cheek and she gently stroked the curve of his jaw with the backs of her fingers, admiring his beauty, his intensity, his love for her burning in his eyes.

And she wanted to experience that again. So badly. She was terrified of it, though. What if she fell for him again and he hurt her worse than before? She wouldn't be able to handle it.

And yet . . . she couldn't stop touching him. Her fingers brushed under his chin and she tilted his face toward hers, compelled.

The look in Jonathan's eyes was smoky with need. “What is all this sweet work worth?” he whispered, leaning in. “If thou kiss not me?”

Hell if she knew the answer to that. She kissed him.

I
f this was a dream, Jonathan didn't want to wake up.

Violet, his Violet, was cuddled up next to him on the plane, looking at him with soft eyes as he recited love poetry to her. Then, she'd touched his jaw and drawn him toward her. And incredibly, she'd kissed him.

It was no more than a quick brush of her lips over his, but it was enough. When she didn't pull away, he took the initiative. If she was waiting for him to kiss her back, he wouldn't let the opportunity escape. His lips parted against hers, his tongue stroking against the soft seam of her mouth. To his surprise, Violet's mouth opened against his, accepting his unspoken request.

With a groan, Jonathan turned and slid a hand to her nape, holding her against him as he deepened the kiss. His tongue slid against hers, and she was just as delicious, and soft, and wonderful as he remembered. And she kissed as fiercely now as she did then. Violet didn't sit back and appreciate a kiss; her tongue moved against his, her lips caressing his own, and she made fierce little noises of pleasure in the back of her throat with every stroke of his tongue, as if she were tasting a delicious dish. It made his cock excruciatingly hard, and his craving for her intensified.

He pulled away from her mouth and she made a protesting sound, her eyes closed. Unable to resist that tiny plea, Jonathan continued to kiss and nibble at her soft upper lip.
I love you
, he wanted to tell her.
I've never stopped loving you.

But he knew that saying it again would scare her away. When she came to her senses, she'd likely regret this moment, see it as weakness. He needed to say something to keep her with him, to let her know that everything he did, every breath he took, was wholly hers.

Jonathan's teeth tugged on her lower lip, and he noticed how her head tilted along with his, following his movements, her eyes closed in sheer bliss. He loved that. He wanted to continue to watch her lose herself in ecstasy. Her hands clung to him as if she were starved for love, and it gave him hope. “Let me pleasure you, Violet,” he whispered against her mouth.

Her eyes flew open. “W-what—”

He silenced her protest with another fervent kiss. “Let me do this, Violet. I won't ask for anything more. Let me make you feel good.”

Another tiny whimper rose in her throat. Her eyelashes fluttered, but she didn't push him away. Instead, he felt her fingers dig into his hair at the nape of his neck.

She was holding
tighter
to him.

Triumphant, Jonathan pressed his mouth to her jaw and began to issue quick, desperate kisses to her soft skin. God, she was lovely. He craved her like oxygen. He'd longed for that blissful look that was currently on her face. It haunted his dreams, made it impossible for him to see another woman. Not when Violet was still consuming his mind.

He nibbled at her throat, licking and nipping the soft skin there, waiting for her to push him away, to protest that this wasn't what friends did. But she only moaned and clung to him, and he had to fight back his own groan of delight. She was enjoying his touch.

He vowed then and there that he'd make it so damn good for her that she'd come back for more. This time, it'd be all about her. Pleasuring her. Watching her face light up with ecstasy. Feeling her tremble in his arms. That would be satisfaction enough for him.

And he'd take nothing for himself. Because there was nothing on earth that could compare with the softest flutter of Violet's eyelashes in response to his touch. Nothing he could do that would bring him half as much pleasure as making her quiver.

He wanted to do more than just kiss her on her face and neck. An image of him burying his face between her legs surged into his mind and he had to bite back his response. If this was about Violet, she had to want it, too. He'd have to kiss her and caress her until she was begging for it.

And he remembered that his Violet loved to be touched more than anything.

Jonathan brushed a hand up and down her arm, enjoying the feel of her small frame under his. She was wearing a long-sleeved knit top that he wanted to rip off so he could feel the soft skin underneath, but he'd follow her lead. His hand smoothed over her shoulder and brushed over her nape, caressing.

She moaned in response, her head tilting back even as she pressed her body closer in his arms. “Jonathan,” she breathed.

God, he loved the sound of his name on her lips. “I'm here,” he murmured softly, gliding his hands over her clothed form, stroking down her back and then smoothing over her hip.

“Your hands feel unbelievable,” she told him. “Why do you feel so incredible?”

“Because I know just how you like to be touched,” he told her, nipping at her ear. “Your body remembers how good I can be to you.”

She shuddered against him. For a moment, he worried he'd pushed her too hard, but then her mouth pressed against his neck and she practically crawled into his lap. “Touch me.”

“Take off your top,” he told her. “Then I can touch you everywhere.”

She hesitated for a moment, and his heart thudded a warning. Had he lost her? But she only opened her eyes and gave him a dazed look. “What . . . what about . . .” She licked her lips. “Will someone see?”

“Violet, love, we're at thirty thousand feet. There's no one on this jet but you and me and the pilot, and he's not coming out of the cockpit. We're completely alone.” For the first time that evening, he was thankful they'd elected to fly without an attendant hovering. It truly was just him and Violet in the back of the small jet, and he intended to take full advantage of the situation.

She licked her lips again, sitting back in her chair, indecision on her lovely face. “If you're sure . . .”

“I won't do anything you don't want,” he told her, brushing the back of his knuckles along the sweetly stubborn curve of her jaw. “Never.”

“I want you to keep touching me,” she admitted, reaching for him.

He dragged her into his lap this time, pushing the armrest between them up into the chair. She went into his arms eagerly, her hands on his shoulders and her thighs straddling his. His cock nestled between the part of her legs and he was unable to stop the groan from escaping his throat. He had to remain in control; this was about her, not him.

But she gave a little wiggle in his lap at his response, as if she enjoyed hearing it. Her hand slid down the front of his shirt, pressing against his muscles. “Will you take this off for me? I want to look at you.”

She wanted to look at him? “If it'd give you pleasure,” Jonathan said.

She nodded, the expression in her eyes eager, hungry.

He sat upright in the chair and Violet clung to him as he carefully maneuvered and pulled the T-shirt over his head without dumping her off of his lap. Then he sat back again, drawing her against him.

Her hands went to his chest, pressing against his muscles, and she gave a sigh of pleasure. “You sure did turn out pretty,” she breathed, her fingers tracing along his pectorals. “Oh, man.”

He let her explore him, remaining silent lest he interrupt her and distract her from her focus.

“And so warm, too,” she murmured, her fingers trailing along his skin. She looked pale against his tan, a sharp contrast reminding him of the different paths their lives had taken. Violet should be as tanned as he was, Jonathan thought fiercely. She should be at his side on his adventures, not trapped in a classroom.

Grasping her hand in his, he brought the palm to his mouth and kissed the center. “I'd be even warmer if your bare skin was pressed to mine.”

She shivered, her dark lashes fluttering again. He watched her bite her lip, deciding, and then to his intense joy, she reached for the hem of her body-masking tunic top that hid her lush curves. “I haven't been exercising as much as you in the last ten years.”

“I don't care,” he told her. He didn't give a fuck. If she was fat and lumpy—and she wasn't—she'd still be gorgeous to him because she was his Violet. “I want to see you.
All
of you. I want to press you against my skin.”

Her eyes went wide at his words, and he mentally cursed himself for losing his cool. Maybe he'd been a bit too vehement in that statement.

But she leaned in and kissed him again, and then she slowly tugged her top over her head, her messy hair fluttering against her jaw and curving there.

And then she was straddling him in nothing but a bra and her yoga pants.

Her bra was plain white. Boring, she probably thought. But he liked that boring bra. He fucking loved it, because it told him that she wasn't a woman with a closet full of lingerie designed to torment lovers. He wanted to be her only lover. He wanted to be the only one to touch her soft skin, to feel the press of her curves against him. So he tugged at one serviceable strap and then ran a finger along the seam of the bra cup. “Take this off.”

She shivered again, and he watched her skin break out in goose bumps, her nipples erect. Her breath was coming in sharp, short little gasps. Slowly, her hands reached behind her back and he heard the pop of the clasp, watched the tight fabric over her full breasts loosen and then fall forward.

And then she shrugged it off her shoulders and cast it aside. Violet tossed her head back and sat on his lap, half naked and defiant, as if daring him to say something about the changes in her body.

Violet had never been lean. Even back when they were teenagers, her figure had tended to ripeness. That hadn't changed; her breasts were fuller than before, her stomach slightly more rounded, her hips a little plumper, her ass less of a tight apple and more of a juicy bouncing pair of curves that taunted him when she walked. But she was utterly and completely gorgeous. Her nipples were that dark pink he remembered, still upthrust and tight little circles that begged for his mouth and fingers. Her breasts were full and heavy, shifting with every rapid rise and fall of her chest, and her waist tapered in before spreading to her hips.

She was obscenely gorgeous.

“You are so lovely you steal my breath,” Jonathan told her reverently.

He watched her tremble against him, her fingers digging against his lower arms where she rested them. “That . . . that's not another poem, is it?”

“That's me,” he said bluntly. “Speaking to you. You're gorgeous.” His gaze devoured her, the heaving breasts, the taut nipples, the smooth skin. “May I touch you, Violet?”

Her fingers went to his neck, played with his hair. “Will you tell me more poetry?”

“Anything you want,” he agreed. Anything so he could get his hands on her.

“I'd like that.”

He racked his brain, trying to think of something that came to mind that would suit the moment. He normally had a sharp memory for these kinds of things, but with Violet straddling him, her breasts inches from his wanting hands, it was difficult to concentrate. He mentally went down his list of favorite poets anyhow. Not Frost, his personal favorite. He didn't tend to romantic moments. A few love poems came to mind, but he suspected that if he started vowing love to Violet—however poetically—she'd skitter away again. The first few lines of a filthy poem by John Wilmot he'd memorized in college sprung to mind, and he began to speak. “‘Naked she lay, clasped in my longing arms,'” he began, his voice husky. The next line was “I filled with love” but he modified it. “‘I filled with
lust
, and she all over charms.'”

Her eyes shone as he began to recite, fascination in her gaze.

Jonathan's hand traveled up her arm and to her shoulder in slow, deliberate motions as he recited the next stanza. “‘Both equally inspired with eager fire, melting through kindness, flaming in desire. With arms, legs, lips close clinging to embrace, she clips me to her breast, and sucks me to her face.'”

Surprise flickered on Violet's face and she laughed, the sound sweet and pure. Her breasts jiggled with her laugh, and he was momentarily speechless at the gorgeous sight. “‘Sucks me to her face'?” She echoed, giggling. “Is that supposed to be poetic?”

“It is,” he said, a bit of a smile on his own face. He tried to tear his gaze away from those magnificent breasts and failed. “This is also the only poem I know of that uses the word ‘cunt.'”

“Cunt? Really? How?”

“Patience, my lovely,” he said with a playful wag of his eyebrows.

She snorted and tilted her head, regarding him with amusement. “I'll try to be patient.”

“You're interrupting my seductive moment,” he chastised her.

“Seductive? That was supposed to be seductive when you talk about sucking people to your face?”

“It gets better, I promise.”

She nodded, biting her lip to contain more laughter. “I'll do my best not to laugh, then.”

“Laugh all you want,” he told her. “It makes your breasts bounce very enticingly.” She sucked in a breath at his words, and he was pleased to see the soft desire return to her eyes. His hand went to her waist and brushed against the soft skin there, and he felt her tremble. “Shall I go on?”