Stranded with a Billionaire

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 f*cking 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—

F*ck. 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 p-ssy 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 good 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 p-ssy lips with one finger and lowered his mouth to lap at her *.

“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 *, 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 * 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 p-ssy 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 glanced 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?”

He gave her an odd look. “Something like that. Should I bring out the next course?”

She gestured grandly. “Please do.”

To her surprise, he pulled out a covered silver dish and placed it in the center of the table, then lifted the lid with a flourish.

A basket of fruit—fruit that looked reasonably fresh, too. She gasped, pleased. “Where did you get this? I thought we picked through everything!”

“I found it in the concierge room while looking for batteries for the flashlights. I thought it’d make a nice breakfast.”

It did. Brontë hadn’t realized how pleasurable plain, simple fruit could be. They ate their fill of apples, oranges, and bananas, and split a pineapple and a mango. They licked juice from their fingers, sipped water from crystal wineglasses, and had a great time. Brontë couldn’t help but grin at Logan from across the table. This entire setup was just . . . perfect. He was perfect.

And she suddenly wanted to reward him.

With a devilish grin on her face, Brontë set down her wineglass full of water and tossed her napkin on the table. One of Logan’s dark brows went up, as if he were questioning her.

“Interested in dessert?” she asked in a low, purring voice. “I know just the thing.”

“How can I resist when it’s proposed to me like that?”

“You can’t,” she said lightly, and then slid out of her chair and under the table.

He stilled. She watched his legs shift in his chair as she crawled under the table toward him. “Brontë?”

When she got to him, she sat back on her heels and put her hands on his trousers. He was wearing them again today, which was a pity. He even had on his belt, though it was waterlogged and the leather ruined. She pulled at the buckle and began to tug it slowly free. “Just my way of saying thank you,” she said. “Thought I’d help myself to a little treat is all.”

He groaned, and she felt his knees shift, spreading a bit wider. His hand reached under the table, and he cupped her jaw then brushed his thumb across her cheek.

“You don’t have to do this,” he murmured from above her.

“I don’t have to do anything,” she pointed out. “However, I want to do this. Now sit back and relax.”

He did, his hands moving to the arms of his chair and clenching them. Good.

“Aristotle once said, ‘Pleasure in the job puts perfection in the work.’” She leaned in and finished unbuttoning his pants, then lowered his zipper slowly. No boxers underneath, just flesh. That was nice. Brontë grasped his already-hard cock and tugged him free of the clothing, enjoying the feel of his hot flesh against her skin. She hadn’t had a chance to really play with him when they were in bed the night before, and this was her time to explore him at her leisure. “Mmm. I see perfection right now.”

He was thick and hard, and the crown of his cock was large, the tip already wet with fluid. He felt good in her hands, too. Firm and heavy, his skin hot against her own. She measured her fingers around his girth and found that they just barely met on the other side. Nice.

“I like this,” she said in a low voice, running a finger along the length of his cock. He jerked under her touch, and she couldn’t contain the chuckle in her throat. It was fun to affect him so much. She leaned in and lightly swept her tongue over the head of his cock, tasting the salty beads of wetness on his skin. So delicious. So hot.

Above her, he groaned, and she felt him grip the edges of the table. “Brontë.”

It sounded like he was gritting her name out between his teeth. She smiled and grasped his cock in her hand, circling the base with her fingers before leaning forward and taking him deeper into her mouth. Again, he groaned, and she began to work his thick length with her mouth, rubbing her tongue along the underside as she sucked him deep, pumping with her fist at the base to increase the sensation.

Sucking on his cock was getting her excited, too. She could feel the slickness between her legs, felt the heat of her pulse throbbing through her body, centered low in her hips. She wanted to rock them with every motion she made. More than anything, she wanted to please him, to make him lose control and come.

“Your mouth is amazing,” he ground out. She felt one hand slide under the table, felt it tangle into her hair, and then he began to work her head. He was f*cking her face, she realized, a little scandalized by that—and a lot turned on. Moaning around his cock, she moved with the force of his thrusts, whimpering when he’d butt up against the back of her throat. He was in so deep, filling her mouth up. His motions were abandoned, as if he weren’t quite able to control himself, and she curled her fingers into his pants with excitement, feeling her own sex tingling with need.

“I’m going to come,” he warned her. “If you don’t—”

She leaned in, sucking harder, letting him know it was okay.

That was all it took. He breathed her name, and his fist tightened in her hair, his hand thumping on the table as he came in her mouth, his hot come wetting the back of her throat. She jerked involuntarily, swallowing and pulling back when he was done. She’d hit her head on the underside of the table, she was pretty sure. She was also pretty sure that neither of them had noticed.

“Brontë,” he groaned. “God, your mouth.” And he was still hitting the table with that light, rhythmic slap that sounded like a beat. Music?

She smiled to herself, pleased at his reaction.

His hands pulled her up from under the tablecloth, and she realized that the rhythmic sound was continuing. Puzzled, she looked up at him—he had a slightly dazed expression, his hair was mussed and tousled over his tanned forehead, and he was still a bit hazy from his passion. “What’s that noise?”

Logan focused, and then his eyes narrowed. A grin spread across his face. “Helicopter.”

“Rescue?” She stood, wobbly and leaning against him, her body still humming with need. Lousy timing, that rescue.

He leaned down and kissed her on the mouth. “Come on. Let’s get our stuff and see who’s here.”

***

Their stairwell went all the way to the roof, and even though there was debris scattered up the stairs and she was pretty sure some of the steps were creaking more than they should, they made it to the top. Once up there, Brontë could see several things at once.

There was a helipad on the roof of the resort. That was handy. There was a helicopter coming in for a landing, too, close enough that her sundress was whipping around her legs and her tangled mess of hair was turning into a tumbleweed around her face.

She could see for miles around up here, too, and she gasped at the sight of the island. There were cars washed off the road in the distance, in ditches. Trees were uprooted everywhere. Boats were overturned at a distant marina. On the far side of the hotel’s roof, it looked like the hotel had crumbled away. The east wing hadn’t fared nearly so well as where they’d been staying. She was thankful their elevator hadn’t been there.

“Come on,” Logan shouted over the deafening chop chop chop of the helicopter. He put an arm around her shoulders possessively, and she put her hands to her sides to keep her dress from flying up. He leaned over and yelled something at her that sounded like, “I think I recognize that chopper.”

They ran forward, and to her surprise, a man jumped out of the helicopter and ran across the helipad to meet them. He was wearing mirrored sunglasses and a khaki shirt and shorts, and laughing as if this were the funniest thing he’d ever seen. He raised a friendly hand in greeting, and Brontë was surprised when Logan gave it a high five, clasped it, and then brought the man in for a hug.

That was rather . . . friendly.

The man in the sunglasses gave her a rather knowing up-and-down look and then turned back to Logan. “I should have guessed,” he shouted over the helicopter’s blades. “You looked entirely too happy for a man who’s been stranded for a few days, but I guess the company was good, right?”

“This is Brontë,” Logan told him. “She was stuck in the same elevator I was.”

“You picked a good elevator to get stuck in,” the man agreed amiably and then thrust his hand toward Brontë. “Nice to meet you.”

She shook his hand, noticing that it was very big and sturdy, and covered in calluses. Small scars crisscrossed his dark tan up and down his arms. The newcomer looked wild and just a bit dangerous. Handsome, she supposed, but Logan was more appealing to her. Still, it was odd that Logan would be such good buddies with the resort’s pilot. Maybe the manager of a resort had to fly around in a helicopter a lot? She had no idea what his job entailed.

“We’re so glad to see you,” she told the newcomer as they moved toward the helicopter. “I guess I picked the right hotel to be stranded at if it’s the one with the private helicopter.”

They got into the helicopter, and the men buckled her in. The seats were plush leather and incredibly nice. Not what she’d expected from a rescue copter. It seemed almost luxurious. Someone handed her a headset with a microphone, and she put it on. Thank goodness, no more shouting at each other. The thwack thwack thwack of the helicopter blades was so strong it vibrated in her belly, but at least it wasn’t making her eardrums want to burst anymore.

The new man was giving her a confused look, though, as he sat back down in the cockpit again. Next to . . . a pilot. Strange. “Does this dump of a resort have a helicopter, Logan?” the new guy asked.

Logan’s response was crisp over the headphones. “It does not.”

“Huh.” The newcomer grinned, then turned back to Brontë. “I’m Jonathan, by the way.”

Something wasn’t adding up. “You don’t work for the hotel, Jonathan?” she asked.

He laughed as if she’d said something hilarious. “Hell, no. And if anybody asked, this is a Red Cross helicopter. Or Coast Guard. Or something.”

“It’s not?”

Logan fixed her with a meaningful look. “We’ll talk about this later, Brontë.”

That sounded like he was trying to quiet her down. She narrowed her eyes at him, her jaw set. “What’s going on?” She turned back to Jonathan. “Who are you, exactly?”

“Just an old friend,” he said, flashing her a white smile. “And somehow I’m thinking Logan’s in trouble, isn’t he?”

That depended on what exactly was going on. She studied Logan’s clenched jaw, his slacks. The shirt he’d casually pulled on, hiding his tattoo. The luxury helicopter they were currently sitting in that wasn’t Red Cross or Coast Guard. The laughing man who looked as if he were enjoying her confusion way too much.

It wasn’t adding up.

She gave Logan a curious look. “You’re not the manager of this place, are you?”

“I’m not.” His words were clipped and displeased.

“Then who are you?”

He said nothing.

Over his shoulder, Jonathan grinned. “He’s the owner, baby.”

He what? Brontë stared at Logan, betrayed. It didn’t make sense. And yet . . . it all made sense. The expensive necklace he’d offered her. His lack of knowledge of how the hotel worked. All of it. Logan wasn’t a manager. He was some rich a*shole who’d decided to have a good laugh at her while lying about who he was.

And to think that she’d slept with him!

The entire thing was a lie. Just like her mother, she’d stupidly fallen for a man’s smooth words and let her heart get carried away. Just like her father, he’d turned around and betrayed her.