Chapter 14
Selena
His face vanishes for a second as he tugs both his hoodie and his t-shirt off at once, but I’m focused only on the sight of his abs and pecs as they appear above those tented sweatpants.
No wonder he’s cocky.
The guy is ridiculous.
He has the lithe build of a natural athlete who’s put in serious hours honing said build at the gym: flat stomach, narrow hips, and his pecs and arms, once he’s chucked his tops behind him, beautifully defined.
Not to mention, that trail of dark hair down his stomach is delicious. My mouth is actually watering.
‘Go on,’ I say, nodding at his sweatpants.
He shoves everything down, bending to tug it all off and wrestle with his socks. When he straightens up, his smile has faded, his face intense.
Holy fuck.
I drink him in in all his bare, golden gorgeousness. His dick stands to attention, leading the way. That thing is massive—shit. I feel like I’m in my own private porno.
I swallow. ‘I might need lube.’
‘Whatever you need, princess. I’ll make sure you’re ready for me.
’ He holds out his hand, and I take it, letting him tug me against him.
Oh, sweet Jesus, I’d forgotten how good this feels: full-body skin on skin.
But there are bodies, and there’s Benedict de Vere, the Bugatti of the male form.
I let my fingers drift over the smooth curves of his bicep as his dick paints my stomach with its moisture.
‘I haven’t— It’s been a while,’ I confess against his chest.
His large hands wander down my back to cup my bottom. There those fingers go again… so close to where I need them. ‘Was that prick Rollo the last?’
I pull back a fraction and gape up at him in shock, planting my hands against his lovely pecs.
‘How did you know about Rollo?’ By definition of the fact that I was engaged, my…
liaisons have always been utterly discreet.
Rollo Cavendish is a hot but vapid charmer who lives in Chelsea and has a fabulous social life that’s completely funded by his parents.
A couple of centuries ago he’d have been called a dandy.
Ben’s right. He’s definitely a bit of a prick.
His mouth narrows into an unimpressed line before he answers. ‘I pay attention where you’re concerned, Slinks. You should know that by now.’
I’m… gobsmacked. And spooked. And not a little flattered. Rollo isn’t the only charmer, it seems. But I can tell from the grim look on his face that he’s not saying it to charm me.
‘Answer the question.’
‘No one since Rollo,’ I squeak. It’s hard to speak—or think—clearly when one is glued to Benedict de Vere’s infamous erection. I mean, I’ve heard the rumours.
I can confirm that they are very much true.
‘So, what, eighteen months? Two years?’ He dips his head and presses his forehead against mine. ‘That’s a long fucking time to go without being taken care of, Slinks.’
‘Tell me about it,’ I manage.
‘I have far better things to do than talk about that dipshit, but answer me one question.’ He slides both hands together before dragging them down either side of my bum crack until his fingertips are pressing centimetres away from my… you know. My vagina. Dear God. ‘Did he ever make you come?’
I hesitate, torn between shame and common decency and the desire to start our intimate relationship off with candour.
‘No,’ I admit in a whisper. ‘But it wasn’t his fault.
It was mine—I—I find it hard to shut off my brain in bed.
’ It’s mortifying to admit, but I’d rather Ben went into this with his eyes open.
I don’t want him resenting me if I can’t turn it on for him.
I mean this—this is heavenly, and I’m definitely feeling…
things, but I might not come through, and I don’t want either of us to feel pressured.
‘Of course you do, sweetheart.’ His voice is low and seductive. ‘I’m well acquainted with that incredible brain of yours. It’s not your fault a boring fucker like him couldn’t distract you enough. Tell me’—his lips brush over mine—‘has any guy ever made you come?’
‘A few times,’ I admit. Usually, I have to be tipsy—relaxed enough to get out of my head but not drunk enough to lose sensation. That’s an admission too far, though. Too much information to share in this very new relationship.
It hasn’t escaped my attention that I’m stone-cold sober tonight.
‘Glad to hear it. I’m going to make you feel good, okay? You don’t have to come—you just have to enjoy yourself. Does that sound all right?’
‘Mmm-hmm,’ I say against his mouth.
‘That’s my girl.’ He kisses me, his tongue breaching my mouth, while, with the confidence of a guy who has no hang-ups whatsoever about his ability to perform in bed, those dangerous fingers slip down the cleft of my bottom before teasing my entrance.
Oh my God. I feel it instantly, the ease with which they slide through my flesh, how slippery I am down there.
He makes a low, male sound deep in his throat that has down there clenching.
‘Your cunt is way sluttier than the rest of you, princess,’ he rasps into my mouth, forcing a laugh out of me (even if I find the C-word unnecessarily crude, especially when used anatomically).
Even when he’s broken, he’s outrageous. His fingertips probe me bluntly, and I widen my legs automatically as his dick jerks between us.
He’s right. He will make me feel good.
But really, I need to get my act together.
This isn’t about me. It’s about making him feel good after the evening he’s had, the week, and it’s about impressing him.
Convincing him I know my way around a penis well enough that he shouldn’t run for the hills…
or into another woman’s bed. Ben’s a sexual creature, that much is clear, and if we’re going to do this, I’m going to prove to him what an accomplished wife I can be.
I will not fail at this most basic of human activities.
If every idiot out there can fuck, then I can fuck with the best of them.
I squeeze a hand between us, which is difficult given that his wicked fingers still have us glued together, and run my thumb over the silky moisture beading at his tip, smearing it over the velvety-soft skin of his crown.
He moans and kisses me harder, his tongue diving urgently into my mouth.
But when I attempt to get a proper grip on his dick, he pulls his fingers away and pulls me away.
‘Nope. This is about you.’
‘But I want to,’ I protest. I was about to get on my knees.
I’ve never been a massive fan of giving head, but blow jobs aren’t exactly rocket science, and they are a surefire way to please a guy, so they’re something I’ve perfected.
And, honestly, giving pleasure is far less stressful than being on the receiving end of someone’s well-meaning efforts and wondering if you should just fake it and get it over with.
‘What I want is to explore my brand-spanking new wife. Do you have a problem with that?’
The way he says it sends goosebumps erupting all over my body, as does the way he’s looking at me. I actually shiver. ‘No.’
‘Good.’ He jerks his head towards the bed where, only a few moments ago, I was innocently reading my book. ‘I want you on your back and holding yourself open for me.’
‘I— What?’
He doesn’t repeat himself. He doesn’t even say, You heard me. He simply raises that dratted eyebrow and waits for me to comply.
I’m not sure what’s going on, but I’m fairly sure he’s using some kind of eyebrow-led hypnosis technique because I turn and walk the few steps towards our bed with as much dignity as I can muster, conscious that his eyes are likely trained on my backside.
I get onto my side of the bed and put the Kindle on the bedside table, lowering myself back onto my pillows.
He saunters over to the end of the bed and wraps his hand around his dick, stroking it.
Oh fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck. I’m in way over my head here.
‘Legs up. Open them,’ he orders me.
Slowly, self-consciously, I draw my knees up, bare soles sliding over cotton sateen, and then let my knees fall open. I squeeze my eyes shut at the mortification of it, equally horrified that all this shame feels, in some perverted way, good.
‘Open your eyes, sweetheart, and hold yourself open for me, too. Use your fingers. I want to see.’
I would far rather keep them squeezed shut (my eyes, not my legs, though that too), because I’m dying of embarrassment, but he puts a knee up on the bed and then another, until he’s kneeling up at the end of the bed, tall and proud, his dick still in his hand. That eyebrow wings up again.
‘Okay, okay,’ I say in a panic. I reach down and part myself with ginger fingers. I don’t love touching myself unless I’m actually touching myself, if you catch my drift. The bedroom is warm, but the air feels cool on my exposed clit.
‘That’s it,’ he says, approval dripping from his voice, and then he’s bending and full-on inspecting me from, like, inches away. Oh my God. Instinctively, I go to close my knees, but he puts a firm hand on one, pushing it back. ‘Don’t. Let me see. Oh, fuck.’
That break in his voice on the last word is just as hypnotic as the eyebrow. I let my legs fall open again as he gets even closer. Shit, he’s going to—
‘I can’t not,’ he says brokenly as he closes the gap, and then there’s the impossible-to-explain delight of his tongue slicing cleanly through my most intimate parts.
‘Most people see with their eyes, not their tongue,’ I say archly, trying to hold myself the hell together, my hands scrabbling uselessly at the sheets.