Chapter 16
“Mr. Straton!” Anastasia hissed, struggling as Benedict closed the door behind them. “Have you gone mad? Let me—”
“Enough,” Benedict snapped, pulling her toward him. “I will not be taken for a fool any longer. What was that all about?”
Her eyes, wide and unrepentant, gleamed in the candlelight. “What was what about?” she asked with maddening innocence.
“Do not play coy with me.” His grip on her arm tightened, though he fought to keep his voice even. “I will not tolerate your shameless flirting with my friends.”
Anastasia’s lips curved into a mocking little smile.
“Oh? And why ever not? You have made it very clear that you want me married off as soon as possible. I assumed—quite naturally—that you had invited His Grace for me. After our bet, I told you I would not make a fuss with any suitor you bring me, and I intend to keep my word.”
Benedict stared at her, incredulous. “Cassian?”
“I have to admit that he is witty,” Anastasia continued blithely, ignoring the dangerous edge in his tone. “And undeniably handsome. A woman could do worse.”
“Witty?” Benedict’s jaw clenched. “He is a simpleton with a charming grin. And that is even debatable.”
She tilted her head, her smile deepening. “A charming grin can go a long way, Mr. Straton.”
Benedict could hardly breathe for the fury swelling in his chest. “Tell me, Anastasia,” he said tightly. “Are you deliberately trying to provoke me?”
“Perhaps,” she said airily. “It does seem to get your attention, though I am not sure I understand why that is.” He stepped closer until the tips of her slippers brushed his boots. “Are you jealous?” she asked, her voice low, teasing, almost dangerous.
Benedict barked a laugh that was half a growl. “Jealous? Of you and Cassian? Do not be absurd. I could have any woman I wanted.”
Her eyes glittered, steady on his. “And yet,” she murmured, “here you are. Bursting into my room uninvited in the middle of the night. I have to say, I hardly recognize you, Mr. Straton.”
Benedict’s breath caught, and for one reckless, damning moment, he did not know if he meant to shake her… or kiss her senseless.
“Nonsense. I feel responsible for you, and I am trying to protect you. Cassian is not the one for you,” Benedict said.
He closed the gap between them, and he was standing so dangerously close to her that he could smell the vanilla scent wafting from her hair.
Anastasia did not back down one inch. “You forget yourself, Mr. Straton. You can have any woman you want, yes, but you can’t have me.”
The words struck him like a slap.
Not because they were untrue—he had known from the moment she arrived that she would not be easily claimed—but because she said them as though she were certain. As though she did not feel the same heat that had been simmering between them since the moment they met.
He should have stepped back. He should have reminded himself of his list, of his rules, of the very real catastrophe that would follow if he crossed the last line and could not return.
But Benedict knew that he needed to do something about her insolence. He needed to show her what it meant to cross him, and she was going to learn the hard way. And before Anastasia could draw her next mocking breath, his hand shot up, tangling in her hair as he pulled her closer.
She gasped at the swiftness as he crushed his lips hard against hers. This act of possession could in no way be a mere exploration. There was nothing tender about it. Instead, it was consuming. She could feel all the anger and desire that he held hostage within him rising to the surface.
She tried to push back, with her fisted hands pressing against his chest, but Benedict did not let her go.
His other hand wrapped around her waist, holding her in place as he devoured her lips.
Mint and desperation spread across her tongue, making her compliant even as her mind tried to battle against what her body wanted.
His mouth lingered in that one, prolonged, insatiable kiss.
His throat could not help but release a hungry sound—one that called to her own desire so that she could no longer help but kiss him back.
Finally, he pulled back, his eyes dark and filled with desire. He was going to teach her to think twice before poking or speaking back at him.
“Get on your hands and knees,” he barked.
For a heartbeat, she froze, her chest heaving and not knowing how to proceed. But slowly, she lowered herself onto the bed, her hair spilling forward as her gown shifted with the movement. Benedict watched, his gaze on her like fire and brimstone as he lifted her skirts.
He had wanted to do this since the last time she had been in his study, and now he finally had the chance. She just had to be so goddamn sharp-mouthed.
What he saw surprised him because she was already thoroughly drenched in her juices. He had never met a woman who got sopping wet over a kiss.
The sight of her, wet and ready and undone, undid even the tightly wound parts of him. Dark hunger zinged in his blood.
“Tell me, Anastasia,” he muttered, his fingers brushing lightly, cruelly against her heat. “Is this for me?”
Anastasia’s head whipped around, her lips parted, but she held her tongue. She would not give him that satisfaction, and he could tell.
“Very well,” he murmured. “Then listen carefully.”
His hand tightened on her hip.
“By the time I am done with you, the only name your lips will remember is mine.”
Anastasia sucked in a breath.
“Benedict—”
He did not let her speak before his lips crashed down on hers, swallowing every word she was about to utter.
The second kiss carried more demand. It was searching for her compliance.
Her permission. Yes, he was eager and urgent, but he also wanted her to show him she liked it, too, before he moved on to the rest of her body.
He lowered himself between her thighs, and the moment his mouth touched her, it made her cry louder.
“You better be quiet, or you will be punished,” he warned, and the threat made her gasp again. She buried her face in the pillow, muffling the sound, clutching at the sheets with desperate fingers as her entire body trembled.
Benedict explored her folds with slow, agonizing care.
He traced the most sensitive parts of her with his hot, wet tongue.
It was torture. It was feather-light, but it added just the right fuel to her aching need.
She shuddered and gasped when his mouth settled over her mound to suck gently, a slow descent into madness that made her hips move of their own accord.
Anastasia shuddered when his mouth settled higher, sucking gently, coaxing her toward a madness she could not outrun. Her hips moved of their own accord, chasing him. He held her still with his hands, forcing her to take it at his pace.
He flicked his tongue against her bud as she writhed and whimpered. She was spiraling, aching for the release he was coaxing closer and closer, until suddenly, he stopped. His mouth kissed her inner thigh. The sudden absence of intense pleasure felt like a bucket of ice over her.
Her cry was one of desperation. She turned to him, eyes blazing. “I did not make as much as a peep. How dare you?”
Benedict’s lips brushed her thigh, his voice a whisper and a command all at once.
“Say it. Remind me whose name you are supposed to cry out.”
She wanted to be defiant, he could tell, because it was embedded in her very nature. But her body betrayed her, trembling with need. Her voice broke, and she let out the words, completely breathless, “Yours.”
“Say it properly,” he demanded again, without raising his voice.
“Benedict.”
His name tumbling from her lips made him even hotter, and with a groan, he claimed her again. His mouth claimed her without mercy.
He was licking, slurping, and sucking at her wetness, his tongue darting in and out of her in quick succession.
His pace was frantic. He was relentless in the way he plundered the most intimate part of her.
The way he pressed down hard and deep, mimicking what he truly wanted to do to her.
He was still as his lips devoured her to the bone, and the only name that fell from her lips was his in desperate gasps.
Anastasia’s body tightened, trembling on the edge, and then she shattered beneath him. Her cry tore through the room, muffled by the pillow, his name falling from her lips exactly as he had promised.
Benedict lifted his head, chest heaving, his mouth wet with her taste. For once, there was no smugness in his expression, only something so raw it scared him. The sound of his name falling from her lips had set something alight in him that he could not explain.
And Anastasia, trembling and spent, buried her face in the sheets, hating and craving the man in equal measure.
Benedict stood there for a moment longer than he should have, staring at her as though she were both triumph and threat.
Then, in a burst of cold fear that felt too much like vulnerability, he turned and slipped out before she could recover enough to look at him, because he did not trust what he might say—what he might admit—if she did.