Chapter Twenty-Five
His kiss was gentle, tender—not what she expected in that moment.
It was coaxing and reassuring, making her knees go weak.
His hand had trailed sparks over her skin as he traced some invisible line over her face, and now it had followed the curve of her ear down to her neck, spinning her concentration away with soft warmth.
She knew it was a tactic; he was trying to draw her out of her thoughts—her reservations must have been clear to even him. He used one hand to take the nearly full tumbler of scotch from her and set it on the fireplace mantel, then used the other to tilt her head and deepen the kiss.
His mouth was warm and smoky—the lingering scotch on his tongue making her own lips tingle with sensation. His kiss was insistent but not hurried, as if he had all the time he could ever wish for.
She, on the other hand, felt a real urgency building under her skin. It was as if his calm, methodical pace had her growing ever more desperate to lose control. Why did he not feel the same? Frustrated, she slid her hands up his lawn-clad arms and down his sides, pulling him closer.
The man had the unmitigated gall to smile into the kiss.
But he did not relent, even pulling away when she tried to deepen the kiss again.
She let out a frustrated puff of air through her nose, and she could feel the beginnings of laughter in his chest. The feverish frustration that had overtaken her body made her combative.
She pulled away enough to start to speak, “What are you about, teasing—”
“Patience, my love.”
He pulled her back into the embrace and gave her a searing kiss, enough to distract her from her course again.
Then he proved willing to compromise, still maintaining the slow plunder of his kisses but allowing them to build in intensity.
She could not get close enough to him. Her breasts felt uncomfortably confined by the low stays under the gown, and the warmth radiating through the layers of clothing they both still wore was a teasing torture. Tempting her with more.
“Ben, please.” He froze for the briefest of moments, and she wondered if she had spoken too familiarly.
It seemed beyond the intimacy of the moment to care about such things, but she was still unsure how he expected this liaison to go.
Before she could work herself up over the slip, he had pulled back, tearing off his waistcoat and shirtsleeves in one fluid movement, then clutched her to his bare chest. The contact drew a delighted sigh from her just as he brought her lips back to his.
His kisses were even more intense now. He pulled her arms up around his shoulders so he could work the hidden clasps down the side of the dress.
He could have been the modiste himself for the intimate knowledge he seemed to have of the article’s construction.
In the span of a few breaths, he had the entire side unlaced and a hand already under the back of the bodice to undo her stays.
The fluttering of his fingertips as he pulled the laces looser sent shivers over Charlotte’s entire body.
Then suddenly, he had both layers pushed down her shoulders, trapping her arms to her sides and baring her breasts.
“Oh,” she let out a surprised gasp as he splayed his large, rough palm down her chest and over her sternum.
“God, Charlotte.” His voice was not much more than a growl, and when she looked up into his eyes, she saw her own raw need reflected back at her. “I meant to go slow.” His eyes flashed over her bare chest, flushed now up to her neck. “But, damn, Charlotte. I do not think I can.”
She returned his stare boldly and confessed, “Neither can I.”
With a groan, he bent and captured her left nipple in his mouth, laving the flat of his tongue over it again and again until she threw her head back in pleasure. Her nails dug into the taut muscle at his shoulders, unable to contain her own moans.
“God, woman. What have you done to me?” He punctuated the words by wrapping a steely arm around her waist and hoisting her to him.
She could feel his hardness pressing against her. As if of their own accord, Charlotte’s legs wrapped around his lean waist as he carried her through the open door to the bedchamber.
She let out a short squeal as he tossed her onto the mattress as if she were no more than a bundle of linens, following her descent with his own body until she was trapped under his delicious weight.
She wiggled under him, causing him to groan into her hair. “Charlotte, I want to take my time with you.” He sounded so raw and desperate, it made Charlotte thrum with feminine pleasure. She had reduced him to this.
“You have all night to take your time.” She nipped the shell of his ear and felt his hissing breath on her neck. “I want you now.”
It was possibly the most brazen thing she had said in her life, but rather than feel abashed, she felt absurdly powerful.
Womanly. Especially when he wrapped both hands around her waist and pulled her to the edge of the bed, her skirts bunched around her abdomen.
She watched as he hastily undid his falls, hands almost shaking in anticipation.
When he kicked them off, it was her turn to suck in her breath.
He looked like the devil himself standing there over her, framed by the sumptuous scarlet bed hangings and illuminated only by the banked fire.
He ran his hands up the smooth planes of her thighs and up under her buttocks, kneading and rubbing as he went.
“Charlotte?” It was clear he was hanging on only by a sliver of self-control. Luckily for him, she had lost her own self-control a while ago.
She nodded, reaching for his forearm to pull herself closer.
In a single breath, he lined himself up and pushed inside.
The stretch was unbelievable and delicious, stealing her breath until she moaned in exhale.
Looking up through the haze of lust, she saw that a sheen of sweat had already broken out across his forehead.
Charlotte rolled her hips to try to get him to move.
He let out a pained groan before taking her invitation and thrusting forward again before withdrawing almost completely.
This time, they both moaned in unison when he pushed forward again.
He set a slow rhythm at first, until it was clear neither of them could stand it much longer.
Both of Benjamin’s powerful hands gripped her hips as he drove into her in increasingly rapid thrusts.
It was all Charlotte could do to draw breath.
Their frenetic movements shook the bed, and she could hear herself groaning with each new intrusion.
When he slid his hand down and lifted one leg against his chest, she almost screamed in pleasure.
“Oh God, Charlotte. I cannot—” He thrust again, even deeper. “I am so close.”
She was not sure if it was the words combined with the look of sheer, pleasurable torture on his face or the next, particularly fierce roll of his hips, but she felt her eyes roll back as liquid fire rolled from their joined bodies, washing over her in wave after delicious wave.
She could distantly hear the guttural shout of her name as Benjamin arrived at his own climax, and it was not for many long, ecstatic moments that she felt herself return to her body.
∞∞∞
“My mother called me Ben.” Charlotte looked up from his wide chest, where she had been lightly tracing scars. They had made love again and were lying tangled together atop the sheets. Charlotte had been close to falling asleep again until he had broken the silence with the unexpected admission.
“Hmm?” she hummed drowsily up at him, but he was still looking up at the bed’s brocade canopy.
“When I was a boy, my mother called me Ben. She was the only one. Delia always called me Benjamin.”
“And your father?” She followed the line of a particularly ragged scar up his chest and over one shoulder. She wanted desperately to know where each and every one of them had come from and marvel at the man who had survived them.
“I do not remember.” He spun a strand of her hair between his fingers.
“We did not really have much cause to see him. I think when Delia was younger, he visited more. She was named after his great-aunt Cordelia. I know he always called her Delia.” He frowned as if he were trying to remember how he knew that.
“I do not recall him calling me anything. When he died and the duchess threw us out of the estate cottage…” His bitterness was plain to see.
“I only found out later that my mother had had offers for a new position.” He paused on the word, clearly battling complex emotions around the reality of his mother’s position.
“But she declined. Even when she knew Winden’s health was failing.
She said she loved him and could not bear to leave. ”
The resentment in his voice was vicious, and Charlotte stopped her tracing.
She knew their arrangement was not born of tender feelings—and was relieved for it, really.
It was the only sensible way to proceed.
But as she grew to care more and more about this man, his clear contempt for even the idea of love was frighteningly disappointing.
“And you feel that you and your sister wound up in dire straits because of her decision.” It was not a question.
“As a direct consequence of it, yes.”
Charlotte splayed her hand over his chest, feeling the rapid beat of his heart.
She did not know what to say. Did not know if it was her place to offer comfort for all that he had suffered as a result of his mother’s decisions.
It was not fair to any of them. Even though she may have loved him, his mother had no power as a duke’s mistress.
Her illegitimate children had even less.
It was indicative of the duke’s disregard for all three of them that he had not provisioned any security for them in his will.