The Naughty Step (Billionaire Book Club 2) Page 3

  The equally simple fact was that there was something about Zoe that made me ache to spank her. I wanted to see her creamy ass flush, wanted to see the blood rush to the surface of her skin with a prickling heat. I wanted to hear her cry out then turn her head to glare at me with that impudence I was beginning to crave from her.

  Like right now, as I sat on the couch waiting for her to come home, I really, really wanted to tan her tight little rear. Like Christian Grey, my palms itched with the desire. The clock said 1:07.

  I’d gone out myself, to a client’s party on a rooftop deck I’d procured for them in Brooklyn, near the river. The view was great, even if I couldn’t tell which boat Zoe’s company party was on. After a few drinks and some fireworks, I’d made my way home on a train crammed with simmering, tired people—basically your poor, your hungry, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free on an uptown train.

  When I got in the door, the apartment was preternaturally silent. Usually Zoe was there when I got home, whenever that happened to be. I hadn’t realized how used to her presence I’d become until she wasn’t there. Even tonight, though past midnight, I was surprised not to see her, hear her, smell her perfume.

  There was no message from her when I checked my phone when I’d gotten out of the subway. Now time ticked on, and I was getting ticked off.

  I leaned back on the couch, my eyes glazing over as the next episode of some lawyer show auto-played. My bare feet were up on the glass coffee table, my arms crossed over my bare chest. Only my lower body and my increasing anxiety were covered up—for the moment.

  I’d drifted into a Netflix fugue when I heard voices and fumbling at the door.

  Fuck!”

  I nearly put my heel through my coffee table when I jerked awake. Something soft thumped against the door, followed by a low, masculine laugh. I stomped to the door and swung it open. Zoe almost fell in.

  “Whoa!” Her male companion caught her around the waist, and she squeaked as the back of her head hit his shoulder. She wriggled around in his arms and put her finger to her lips.

  “Shhhh!”

  The bushy-haired guy in skinny jeans met my gaze across the threshold. His reddened eyes—what had the little shit been smoking?—widened. “Whoa,” he repeated.

  Zoe dissolved into a fit of giggles. I didn’t think she’d seen me, or she might not have been so mirthful. Her linen dress was wrinkled, her shoes missing and her eyes and cheeks bright. I backed up and moved to the darkened kitchen, not sure I could control myself seeing her like this—loose and tipsy and flirty. When she squealed again, I turned back to see her “friend” had hauled her up bridal style in his arms and carried her through the door.

  “Where’s your bed?” he asked her.

  Her hand flailed out. “The Den of Iniquity,” she directed, “is that way.”

  He began to maneuver around the furniture, stumbling a little under her weight, when I reappeared out of the shadows.

  “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” I demanded.

  He stopped in his tracks, then Zoe’s legs nearly took out my floor lamp as he whirled around with her in his arms.

  “Putting her to bed.” He managed to look me in the eye and didn’t stutter, but that’s all the credit I was about to give him.

  “The fuck you are.” I stalked toward them, my arms outstretched in demand.

  Zoe’s head wobbled as she noticed me. “Oh shit.”

  “Oh shit is right,” I snapped, eyeing her friend. “Give her to me.”

  His hands slipped over her hip as he tried to adjust her, and his grip left a red mark on her bare upper arm. Fury and jealousy bubbled up in me, like a bottle of soda shaken too hard.

  I’d been told before that the more I felt, the less I showed on the outside. At that moment, I must have appeared like a fucking robot.

  “I’ll just put her—”

  “Give. Her. To me.” I couldn’t make it any clearer.

  Zoe sighed. “Sorry, Tom. I’m his.”

  I startled, blinking in surprise at her simple words. Whatever had been coiling inside my chest suddenly unwound, and I felt like my head had popped off and was bobbing around like a jack in the box.

  Tom looked down at her nervously, his arms shaking a little as he righted her to her feet. “Shit, Zoe, you didn’t say anything about a boyfriend.”

  “Roommate,” I clarified, still trying to recover my equilibrium.

  She rolled her eyes while making a flicking motion toward me with her fingers. “’S’my brother,” she mumbled.

  And just like that, my bouncing head was shoved back in the box and the lid clamped shut over it. But her words still echoed in my head. “Sorry, I’m his, I’m his, I’m his.”

  The relief on Tom’s face vanished, along with his buzz. “Look, man, I’m sorry—” When I met his gaze, it was with the guilty understanding that I knew how he’d been hoping to end the evening, and he knew that I knew.

  The blazed hipster looked like he was about to shit his pants at the idea that his date’s big brother was about to kill him.

  I reached for Zoe, knowing that if I was holding her then I wouldn’t be able to throw him through my coffee table. I also just needed to touch her, needed her safe in my arms. My hand around her wrist, I tugged her to me. She spun over as though we were on a dance floor, her elbows up and caged by mine as her back pressed against my bare chest.

  “Nathan, he’s just a f—”

  “Quiet.” I felt the urge to hold up my hand, but both of them were full of her luscious, quivering body. She froze briefly, stiffening in my arms. I stifled a groan, my body reacting in completely predictable but nonetheless inappropriate ways to her nearness.

  She wriggled, trying to get out of my hold. My arms tightened, and I pressed my hips forward against the curve of her ass. Her gasp was loud, startling both myself and Tom.

  “Nathan,” she stage-whispered, “do you have fireworks in your pocket, or are you just happy to see me?” She fell into titters at her own joke, while Tom’s wide eyes met mine.

  “Uh, I’d better get going…” Tom averted his gaze and made a beeline for the door.

  Fuck, who knew what kind of gossip he might spread at her office?

  I squeezed my eyes shut, loosening my hold on Zoe. When I was fairly sure she wouldn’t flee or fall, I opened them. Tom opened the door to the hallway.

  “Thanks for getting her home safely, man,” I said gruffly. He turned back to nod at me before shutting the door behind him.

  Zoe and I were suspended in silence after he left, frozen together in an intimate pose like a Rodin sculpture. Her chest moved up and down with her breath, the line of her collarbone shifting and her neck flexing as she swallowed.

  The sweetness of her perfume had faded, mixing with her sweat and possibly tequila. I wanted to lick the salt off her skin, then sip and suck every part of her until I was drunk.

  She cleared her throat nervously. “Uh…”

  “Bedtime for bad little girls,” I announced. Then I bent down and hauled her over my shoulder in a fireman carry. Hopefully she wouldn’t puke on me.

  She poked the back of my thighs in protest. “Nathan! Put me down!”

  I silenced her with one swift, sharp smack to her ass. And it felt fucking amazing. My palm tingled, my whole body vibrating with need. She gasped, but stilled and sagged in submission.

  Adjusting my hold on her, I ran my hands up the backs of her thighs until she gasped again. Then she moaned. Navigating carefully, I carried her to my bedroom and tossed her on the bed.

  “You are in big trouble, young lady.”

  6

  Zoe

  If I’d actually been drunk, Nathan’s ominous words would have been enough to sober me up even without his piercing gaze on me.

  “How much have you had to drink?”

  “Barely anything.” It was true. I’d only had a couple of drinks, but my residual good mood was due mostly to actually having fun at the party. />
  I’d been so nervous—about how to wear, how to act, how to talk to people, if I’d make a good impression companywide in a social setting. Hell, I’d even been nervous about being on the dinner cruise itself, my lack of nautical experience making me worry that I’d be pitched back and forth like a sloop in a storm.

  It wasn’t until I got home to Nathan that I felt seasick.

  He assessed me, rubbing his chin. The hair I’d so carefully straightened hadn’t survived the muggy evening and harbor breeze, and was now in a floppy ponytail. Sitting on his bed, I tried to tug the hem of my dress down from where it had ridden up around my thighs.

  After the cruise I’d ended up barhopping in the West Village with a few other interns, including Tom, Halle and Jordan. I was relaxed, feeling confident, and basically high on life. My laugh came easily, my jokes raunchier and my conversation pithier. Socially, I was on fire in a way I had little experience with, and it went right to my head.

  By midnight, my “fuck me” heels had proven no match for the cobblestones paving the windy little streets we navigated. My poor feet were swollen, red and sore. Halle hooked her arm through mine in female solidarity, but her support came with a lecture attached.

  “That was dumb, Zoe. For one thing, we were on a boat. For another thing, don’t wear shoes like that unless you’re going straight from a cab into a restaurant or something. Not here.” She shook her head. “Those shoes aren’t for walking.”

  A year younger than me, she was from Boston and had her own cobblestone cautionary tales to tell. Her funky flats matched her equally funky sundress. If we’d been in Chinatown or something, she mused, we might have been able to find a little souvenir store still open with some flip-flops. But no such luck. I whimpered and limped until giving up and taking my shoes off.

  “That’s nasty.” Jordan whistled. “You know what’s on that sidewalk?”

  I didn’t want to think about it, planning to disinfect my feet when I got home. But at least in bare feet, I’d get home without breaking my ankle. I’d put my shoes back on before going into a cute little speakeasy, but just trying to walk in them again brought tears to my eyes. We called it a night soon after, since most places had a “no shoes, no service” policy.

  Tom lived pretty close to me, so he offered to make sure I got home with all my toes intact. We traded dirty jokes across town in the cab, even the driver chuckling, and by the time I fiddled with my fob for Nathan’s building, I was breathless from laughing.

  My fatigue and silly mood spurred some reckless words, though, and it wasn’t until I felt Nathan’s erection pressing into my lower back that I realized just how much danger I was in.

  Yeah, I’d been on fire all evening. And now I was on fire in a different way. I squirmed on Nathan’s big, white bed…

  “My feet!”

  Not wanting to get his bedding dirty, I lifted my legs and spun on my butt. His eyes widened as I wriggled to the side of the bed, my dress once again riding up to expose my—

  “Holy Christ, Zoe! Are you—did you go commando tonight?” Nathan’s voice rose.

  “It’s a thong. Tight dress equals VPL issues, big bro,” I explained. He looked pained. “You didn’t notice when you spanked me?” The memory of his palm on my backside did strange things to my insides.

  “Zoe, that wasn’t a spanking.” He shook his head, looking amused.

  I fell off the side of the bed onto my butt. “Ow.” I leaned back against the mattress, my knees up and my soles flat on the hardwood.

  He moved around to squat beside me, probably looking up my dress. “You okay?”

  I nodded, chewing on my lower lip. “My feet hurt.”

  His gaze roamed down my legs to land at my tender tootsies. “I bet.” He looped his arms under my knees and armpits, hoisting me up.

  “What—” What was with all the carrying tonight?

  “I’m just taking you to the bathroom,” Nathan said. He sidled through the doorway to his en suite and lowered me to the edge of the soaker tub. With one arm still looped around my shoulder, he reached over to flip the plug and turn on the taps. Water started pooling toward my feet in the tub.

  “I don’t suppose you have any Epsom salts, do you?” I asked. My hippy dippy Mom always swore by their healing powers.

  He hummed thoughtfully. “Let me look.”

  I balanced on the edge of the tub, the water rising around my ankles and turning murky from the filth on my feet. But fuck, it felt good, even if it stung a little. The ledge cooled the backs of my thighs, and my shoulders hunched over a little as the sound of running water soothed my ears.

  Nathan reappeared, brandishing a jar. “Will this work?”

  I peered at it. Himalayan pink salt. “Maybe?”

  He wrenched it open and dumped it in. I cringed in anticipation. “You know you’re literally pouring salt on my wounds,” I pointed out as I turned off the water.

  “Well, you deserve it for wearing those ridiculous shoes.” He dropped to his knees beside the tub and looked at my feet in the dirty water. Still, I had a feeling he’d liked those ridiculous shoes.

  I jumped when Nathan leaned over beside me, reaching into the tub to swirl the water around my toes. When he trailed his knuckles down my calves to my heels, I held my breath.

  “Doesn’t look like you broke the skin,” he murmured.

  “Small mercies.” I sighed. “Men are so lucky. Do your shoes ever hurt?”

  “Which ones?”

  “Any. All. The ones the Keebler Elves made.”

  His laugh bounced off all the glass and tile and reverberated in my heart like a tuning fork. He leaned into my side, his head near my breast. His hair tickled my arm and it was then that I remembered he was shirtless.

  Nervously I swished my feet around in the shallow water. They were still red and puffy, but clean and feeling better.

  “So… I’m your roommate?” I asked shyly.

  His forehead creased. “I’m your brother?”

  “Sort of.”

  “Sort of, huh?”

  Still kneeling on the floor as I sat with my feet in the tub, he nuzzled the crook of my elbow. I sucked in a sharp breath as his nose and mouth wandered up my arm to the curve of my shoulder. “You said something else,” he reminded me hotly.

  “Not really.” Could he hear my heart pounding?

  “You did.”

  “What?”

  “Say something else. Keep up, Zoe.” His rebuke was followed by a bite on my shoulder, beside the strap of my dress.

  I squeezed my eyes shut, overwhelmed by the sensations rippling through me. “I meant you’re not really my brother.” A fact that I’d been acutely aware of since Day One.

  He let out a sigh, sliding a finger under my dress and bra straps then pulling them off my shoulder. “Thank god for that.”

  7

  Zoe

  Is this really happening?

  I was on the verge of hyperventilating, my whole body agitated and languorous at the same time. His breath was hot on the curve of my neck. Every cell in me was poised in a fight or flight response—the only question was what was I fighting? Myself? This crazy attraction? My better judgment?

  My feet splashed as I pulled my legs up and swung away from Nathan. I put them down on the towel he laid on the floor. From beside me, he pulled up the edges and patted my ankles and the tops of my feet dry.

  “I’m yours,” he muttered.

  “What?” My breath caught in my throat. I must have misheard him. Echoes were funny things.

  He pulled me up to standing, his palms cupping my elbows. His eyes were deep and green, like a quiet forest in winter, as he searched me. I dug my toes into the towel with only a little wince. Our gazes locked, he tugged the strap of my dress over my other shoulder.

  “You said, ‘I’m his.’”

  I nodded, my pulse in my neck fast as he bent down to touch his tongue to it.

  “I have a lot of things, Zoe. I’ve owned property, m
anaged people, held assets. Which one are you?”

  His voice was silky and smooth, like fine dark chocolate just a shade short of bitter. Every hair on my body stood on end, and secret, intimate places tightened and clenched. This was the billionaire coming out to play, and I was the new kid in his sandbox.

  “All three?” I croaked, recalling the mysterious toys hidden in my room. Something told me it would be all too easy to give myself over to Nathan Brownlow. To let myself become his property, have him manage me and hold my, er, assets.

  “You’re learning to multi-task. New York is rubbing off on you.”

  I bit back a retort about something else rubbing off on me. Too many filthy jokes had been flying around my head all evening. Now that I was drowning in a haze of arousal, though, nothing seemed at all funny.

  He reached around my back and tugged my hair out my ponytail, combing it through with his fingers. Some snarls caught in his hands, tangled by wind and sweat, jerking my head back enough for him to nip the bottom side of my chin.

  “You taste salty,” he noted.

  Feeling off-balance, I grabbed the waistband of his pajama pants. He groaned as my knuckles nudged his hot skin underneath, his lean hips thrusting reflexively toward me.

  With one hand he cradled the back of my head and directed my gaze to him.

  “I’m going to kiss you.”

  He was going to do more than that, hopefully. His other hand paused at the top of the zipper on my sheath dress; only the slight tremor of his fingers indicated any hesitation. If he’d paused to give me the chance to say no, he would be waiting a long time.

  “Do it. I want to be yours, Nathan. Please.” I silently said the last word over and over again until his mouth covered mine.

  Finally!

  He took possession of me, forcing any thought other than that of him out of my head. Even unconscious rhythms such as breathing and blinking were subsumed by his power.