Chapter 13
Selena
‘Are you sure?’ he asks, his voice tremulous, as if he’s scared to take my words at face value.
Benedict thinks I’m not ready for this marriage to get physical, and he’d be right… only not for the reasons he imagines.
He thinks, maybe, I don’t have feelings for him? He knows I don’t jump into bed with guys easily, so he probably thinks I’m undecided at best.
I’m just grateful he doesn’t understand that I’m not ready because I want this far too badly.
Because I haven’t had nearly enough time to wall off my heart from what I know will be his lethal kind of sexuality.
Because every time I wake up with his dick poking me in the bum, I have to jump out of bed like a scalded cat before I can hike up my nightie and let him take me, there and then.
I’ve been wary of the Benedict I know, the playboy with his easy charm and easy smile and easy lines—he’s easy all round, basically—for good reason. That guy could charm the pants off a nun.
But the exhausted, broken-looking man with shadows under his eyes and the taste of whisky on his tongue—whiskey with which he’s presumably just toasted his father’s death—is another version of him entirely, and it’s a version I haven’t been familiar with before these past few dreadful days.
I’m not doing a great job of explaining, but there’s something about his vulnerability that makes me braver. The power imbalance is less stark, his obvious experience and my inexperience less relevant.
I’ve slept with six guys over the past decade.
They’ve all been guys I’ve dated, but none of them have been long relationships.
How could they have been? The de Vere diamond on my finger has always been a major red flag for them, even if Xavier and I had an understanding that we’d date other people until we were due to tie the knot.
Clearly, he took that agreement to a whole new level with Ivy.
Anyway, I’m not a virgin by any means, but comfortable in bed I am generally not.
And, as someone who values competence and despises being incompetent at anything, it scares the shit out of me that Ben will have sex with me and find me lacking.
He may be talking about pity fucks, but I’m terrified that he’ll screw me and think, Fuck.
I’ve trapped myself in a lifetime of bad sex with a wife who’s basically frigid.
There.
I said it.
So I am genuinely shitting myself as I tell him I want it, but I’m also being as honest with him as I know how to be. I can’t have him look at me like that, with those moss-green de Vere eyes so filled with need, and not let him take whatever the hell he wants.
If he’s captivating all the time, he’s irresistible like this.
It’s a good thing for our marriage, I tell myself. A good first step. Better for the first time to be spontaneous. If not, I’ll overthink it until I’ve totally clammed up and am incapable of putting out.
You’re overthinking it right now, Selena. Just get out of your head, for God’s sake, and focus on the body you know is under that hoodie and those sweatpants: the body he’s been parading around like a peacock in a towel every fucking morning after his shower.
For heaven’s sake, shut your brain off and just devour the guy. It’s what you’ve wanted to do for a decade, after all.
Instead of answering him, I cup his face and kiss him again, harder than before, parting my lips so our tongues can entangle. Unfortunately, that kiss he gave me in the church was an accurate representation: he’s a fantastic kisser.
He takes my cue and runs with it, tugging on my hair tie until it comes loose and my hair tumbles down my back.
With a pleased grunt into my mouth, he grabs handfuls of it, his other hand roaming down my back until he’s gripping my bottom again and pressing me against his hard-on, his strong fingers digging into my skin.
I find myself wishing he’d just hurry up and slide a couple inside me.
I wouldn’t describe myself as a particularly horny person—my brain is usually far too busy for me to fully relax and enjoy sex, so I don’t think about it much—but Benedict is threatening to turn me into an animal, and I don’t hate it.
I’m in excellent hands; I know it. If I can surrender to him, to it, it should be one hell of a ride.
‘Fuck, sweetheart,’ he mutters into my mouth before pulling away so he can dip his head and suck one nipple into his mouth through the silk of my nightie. I gasp at the sharp shock of desire that hits me between the legs as he sucks, his pulls sending their echoes throughout my body.
Shit. This is a lot—and he’s just getting started. I grab at his shoulders. I should probably hold on for dear life.
His tongue flickers over my nipple, and I squeeze my eyes closed. So good. So good. Next thing I know, he’s sliding the spaghetti straps off my shoulders and tugging the nightie down so my breasts are bared to him. He backs away for a moment and just stares as I gulp nervously.
I try not to be body-conscious; I really do.
I work out, and I’m naturally slim, and I know that I have what is objectively considered a good figure.
I’m far too fixated on certain things: my boobs are a cup size too small to fill out a tight top nicely, and I’d rather be less boyish.
I wish my waist-to-hip ratio was better.
Weirdly, I tend to spend far more time wondering what other women think of my body—and specifically, how my clothes look on me—than how men find it.
A lifetime engagement, image-obsessed parents, and a career in fashion will do that to you, I suppose.
But more than that, I’m vulnerability-conscious.
The fact of being naked in front of Ben is far more about vulnerability for me than any body hang-ups.
Which is why, when he tears his gaze away from my boobs and glances up at my face, his eyes dark and hooded, the stark desire on his face has me wanting to sigh in relief.
‘You’re fucking perfect,’ he says gruffly, straightening up. ‘And now… let’s see…’
He slides the nightie lower, silk gliding over my body until it slithers to pool at my feet and I’m completely naked in front of him.
He barks out a single, choked laugh. ‘Fuck, Slinks. Have you any idea how long I’ve wanted to do this for?
’ He raises an eyebrow sexily, and I give my head a little shake.
‘Years. Years and years and years. But my fucking brother…’ He blows out a breath and lets his knuckles trail down over my stomach, sparking goosebumps so intense that I shiver.
‘Anyway, never mind. It’s my ring you’re wearing now.
’ He takes a step back, crossing his arms. ‘And I want to look at my wife.’
Perhaps I was wrong about this dynamic between us tonight.
I was wrong to think he was feeling vulnerable, that I’d be better matched with him.
Perhaps it’s the complete opposite. Perhaps the death of his father has taken its toll, pushed him to the brink.
Perhaps letting him loose on me in this state, when he has no more fucks left to give and no easy grin to mask the predator within, is a dangerous move indeed.
My nipples tighten even more at the thought of it.
His words are intoxicating, too. I want to look at my wife. I mean, Jesus, could he sound any more primitive? This is an arranged marriage, after all; I’m basically a chattel. And nothing about that should be sexy… but right now, it is.
Because, in this moment, my husband looks and sounds like a man who’s paid dearly. A man who expects to recoup every last penny in his marital bed. The way he’s looking at me makes me think he’s evaluating just how he should put me to work.
My lips part, and he notices. The corners of his mouth curve up into a proprietary smile. ‘I’m feeling good about my life choices right now, Slinks. Very fucking good.’
‘I want to see you, too,’ I say with whatever shreds of dignity I can gather as I stand here naked before him. ‘It’s only fair.’
His grin turns wolfish. ‘Is that a fact?’
‘Yeah.’ I nod in the direction of his tented sweatpants. ‘Get them off.’