Epilogue
Benedict’s finger rose and fell with each of Eliza’s vertebrae as he traced the line of her spine.
She hummed, stretching in languorous appreciation. “How much longer do we have?”
“Negative three minutes, but I can work with that,” Benedict murmured, then caught her hand in his and pressed a kiss to her wrist—the sort that never failed to make her breath hitch.
As expected, his wife rolled over in bed. Lecherous to his core, he couldn’t help but note the tightened buds that topped the creamy peak of each breast.
“On borrowed time? You do like to live dangerously,” she teased. She curled her hand around his neck and pulled his lips to hers.
“Yes, I’m a very dangerous man. Didn’t you know?” he asked as he pulled away to trail his tongue down the line of her throat.
“I think I heard someth—” Eliza’s teasing response was interrupted when his lips closed around her petal-pink nipple, his tongue swirling in that way she preferred. Her tongue darted out to wet her lips while Benedict transferred his appreciation to the other. “Something to that effect.”
“Hmm?”
“Lord of Sin, if I remember correctly.”
“What does that make you?” he asked, nipping at the edge of her rib cage with blunt teeth before soothing the spot with his lips.
“Lady of Sin, obviously.”
“Obviously,” he agreed, a mirthful note in his voice as he traced the divot of her navel before exploring the thin white bands that ran vertically along each side of it. “And how would my lady like to sin this morning?”
Eliza waited until he lifted his gaze to meet hers.
Ensured of his attention, she traced one hand along her generous curves down, down, down to dip between her thighs.
She worked her sex with one, two fingers before pulling them free.
And then, because she delighted in leaving him aroused and addled, she held those two elegant fingers before his lips.
His groan echoed in their quiet bedchamber as he swallowed them down to her palm.
“Shh,” she laughed. “They’ll know we’re awake.”
With a quick swirl of his tongue, he released her fingers and raised a brow, silencing her. “Do you want me to taste your honey, Eliza?”
“I didn’t think I was being subtle.”
Benedict caught his lip between his teeth, biting back a chuckle before he nipped her thigh in punishment. Luxuriating, he dragged that thigh up and over his shoulder, then nuzzled along it as he inched ever closer to her scent—still earthy and floral.
“Benedict,” she whined when he tarried, distracted by the sight of his fingers digging into her lush thigh. When she could take no more of his delays, she tangled her fingers in his hair and brought his lips to her center. “Be good for me.”
He released another groan, this one muffled by her damp flesh.
And he was quite pleased to note that Eliza was already wet for him.
Benedict preferred to draw out this act until Eliza’s toes were curling and her fingers threatened to rip his hair from the roots—sometimes thrice.
But he hadn’t been exaggerating when he told her their time was limited.
Already that morning, he’d heard the patter of tiny feet racing down the hallway while his wife slept.
With a silent vow to make up for the brevity with intensity, he set to his task.
Grinding his erection into the bed beneath him, he worked Eliza quickly.
Fortunately, his wife had awoken already damp with need.
He focused on her pearl, sucking harder than he usually would so soon as he listened to her breathy moans for his cues.
He thrust into her cunny with two fingers, rocking hard and fast. She met him eagerly, her hips matching his rhythm.
Eliza’s whimpers increased in pitch and frequency.
His beautiful violet was close now, rocking up to meet his mouth.
He pressed a palm to her lower belly, sucking hard on her button and curling his fingers up in that way that never failed to draw a peak from her.
Her back bowed off the bed as her hand smacked across her own mouth to quiet her cry of pleasure.
When Benedict glanced up from between her thighs, he found her dreamy gaze beyond her heaving bosom.
She tugged him up her supple frame by the hair, wrapping a leg around his waist as she crashed her lips onto his.
“I love you,” she whispered when they broke apart for air. “You’re always so good to me.”
“Eliza—”
Bang, bang, bang.
Benedict fell back onto the bed with a sigh, flopping an arm across his brow.
“Maybe if we’re very quiet, they’ll think we’re asleep,” Eliza breathed as she curled up into his side. Her breasts pressed into his ribcage, tormenting him thoughtlessly with their supple loveliness.
“Papa?” a small voice called through the carved rosewood door. “Mama?”
“Fucking hell,” Benedict muttered, offering his silent apologies to his prick.
“I’m sorry, my love.”
He clambered out of bed and reached for the trousers he’d abandoned the night before. A glance at his wife left him groaning again.
“Stay here, looking beautiful. Perhaps it is something simple.”
“An optimistic sentiment,” Eliza said, sitting up.
The lavender bed coverings spilled around her waist, leaving those perfect breasts bare—torture, this was actual torture.
Worse still, she rose and reached for her robe on the nearby chair, then slipped it over her shoulders.
“I suspect my gardens will have to wait until the afternoon.”
Another round of banging overshadowed Benedict’s growl.
He shoved a shirt over his head as he strode to the door, shaking away the last of his appropriate annoyance and inconvenient arousal.
His son stood outside, with red eyes and pouting lips. Guilt welled over Benedict for his brief irritation. He bent down and scooped the boy up into his arms.
“What’s wrong, little sprig?”
The boy’s scrawny legs wrapped around his waist, arms clinging to his neck. With Rafe’s face buried in his shoulder, it took a moment for Benedict to parse his son’s mumbled words.
“You’re mad at your sister?”
He received a head nod in response.
Eliza reached his side, rubbing a hand along Rafe’s back.
“Whyever for?”
The mumbling became higher in pitch and less intelligible as tears dampened the fabric of Benedict’s shirt.
“Try again, darling,” Eliza said softly, running her hand through his brown mop of hair.
“Posy cheated!”
Dark eyes met his over their son’s head. Benedict tipped his head toward the door while Eliza mouthed, “I’ll see to her.”
He nodded and moved to set Rafe on the end of the bed. Crouched before his son, he pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped away the salty tracks from Rafe’s cheeks.
Eliza dropped a kiss on their son’s head before stepping out to find their daughter.
“Deep breaths.” Benedict demonstrated for his son.
After a few moments, Rafe was able to set aside his tears.
Benedict stood, holding a hand out for his son. “Come for a walk. All of life’s woes are made slightly better with fresh air.”
“Promise?” Rafe sniffed.
“No. But we’re still going to try it.”
The boy huffed but grabbed his father’s hand, allowing himself to be led out to the yard.
The exterior of Blackwood never failed to leave Benedict breathless and elated.
Far from the ruins he had inherited, both the house and grounds had been transformed by Eliza into a floral wonder.
His wife could not be constrained to a mere greenhouse—though she used hers to great effect—and had claimed the world for her garden.
Through some sort of witchcraft, she had coaxed every conceivable wildflower to call their plot of land home.
From the first kiss of spring, all the way to the very last whisper of fall, blooms of all sizes and shapes sprouted from the earth in a riot of color.
“Shall we pick a bouquet for your mama?” Benedict asked.
“Alright,” Rafe said, then plopped onto his bottom in between the rows of blossoms.
“Maybe one for your sister too?”
“No, she’s a cheater!” the boy insisted.
Even now, years later, the word cheater in such a tone raised Benedict’s hackles. Hearing the echo of his father in his son’s voice—no matter how innocent—was unsettling.
Benedict sighed and sat beside Rafe on the lush lawn. “Do you want to tell me why you think that?”
“We were playing draughts, and she captured three of my men in one turn!”
He was forced to bite his lip—it was as he suspected. Benedict had watched his children play draughts not three nights ago, and he’d noticed Posy’s improvement even then.
“What about that makes it cheating? Did she move backward before she became king?”
“No,” Rafe muttered with a pout as he plucked at one of Eliza’s blooms absently.
“Did she cheat? Or is it possible that she simply won, and that feels unfair to you?”
“It’s not fair! I’m older. She shouldn’t be able to beat me!
” Rafe plucked another flower from the earth, and Benedict hid his wince—the sight of Eliza’s dedicated efforts meeting their demise left him tetchy.
She would never fret about her cornflowers and daisies in the face of their son’s upset, but that didn’t mean Benedict had to like the destruction.
“I’m older than your Aunt Bella, and she bests me in most things.”
“Does she cheat?”
“Rafe, sprig, just because we lose—no matter how used to winning we are—doesn’t mean that someone else cheated. When you beat me, are you cheating?”
“No.”
“As Posy grows, there will be more and more things that she will be better at than you are. Just as there will be plenty of things that you are better at than her. And those things will change with your interests and as you grow. There may be people in your life who do try to cheat you. But that should never be your first thought. And there should always be proof behind the accusation. Losing when you thought you would win is not proof.”
His son’s gaze was firmly fixed on the daisy he was plucking petals from, but Benedict could sense he was making some headway.