by Julia Quinn
Benedict watched her intently. He opened his mouth to speak, but he discovered that he had no words. There were no words for a moment like this.
“Deep inside,” she murmured, “you’ve the soul of an artist.”
“No,” he said, shaking his head.
“Yes,” she insisted. “I’ve seen your sketches. You’re brilliant. I don’t think I knew how much until I met your family. You captured them all perfectly, from the sly look in Francesca’s smile to the mischief in the very way Hyacinth holds her shoulders.”
“I’ve never shown anyone else my sketches,” he admitted.
Her head snapped up. “You can’t be serious.”
He shook his head. “I haven’t.”
“But they’re brilliant. You’re brilliant. I’m sure your mother would love to see them.”
“I don’t know why,” he said, feeling sheepish, “but I never wanted to share them.”
“You shared them with me,” she said softly.
“Somehow,” he said, touching his fingers to her chin, “it felt right.”
And then his heart skipped a beat, because all of a sudden everything felt right.
He loved her. He didn’t know how it had happened, only that it was true.
It wasn’t just that she was convenient. There had been lots of convenient women. Sophie was different. She made him laugh. She made him want to make her laugh. And when he was with her—Well, when he was with her he wanted her like hell, but during those few moments when his body managed to keep itself in check . . .
He was content.
It was strange, to find a woman who could make him happy just with her mere presence. He didn’t even have to see her, or hear her voice, or even smell her scent. He just had to know that she was there.
If that wasn’t love, he didn’t know what was.
He stared down at her, trying to prolong the moment, to hold on to these few moments of complete perfection. Something softened in her eyes, and the color seemed to melt right then and there, from a shiny, glowing emerald to a soft and lilting moss. Her lips parted and softened, and he knew that he had to kiss her. Not that he wanted to, that he had to.
He needed her next to him, below him, on top of him.
He needed her in him, around him, a part of him.
He needed her the way he needed air.
And, he thought in that last rational moment before his lips found hers, he needed her right now.
Chapter 17
This Author has it on the finest authority that two days ago, whilst taking tea at Gunter’s, Lady Penwood was hit on the side of her head with a flying biscuit.
This Author is unable to determine who threw the biscuit, but all suspicions point to the establishment’s youngest patrons, Miss Felicity Featherington and Miss Hyacinth Bridgerton.
LADY WHISTLEDOWN’S SOCIETY PAPERS, 21 MAY 1817
Sophie had been kissed before—she had been kissed by Benedict before—but nothing, not a single moment of a single kiss, prepared her for this.
It wasn’t a kiss. It was heaven.
He kissed her with an intensity she could barely comprehend, his lips teasing hers, stroking, nibbling, caressing. He stoked a fire within her, a desire to be loved, a need to love in return. And God help her, when he kissed her, all she wanted to do was kiss him back.
She heard him murmuring her name, but it barely registered over the roaring in her ears. This was desire. This was need. How foolish of her ever to think that she could deny this. How self-important to think that she could be stronger than passion.
“Sophie, Sophie,” he said, over and over, his lips on her cheek, her neck, her ear. He said her name so many times it seemed to soak into her skin.
She felt his hands on the buttons of her dress, could feel the fabric loosening as each slipped through its buttonhole. This was everything she’d always sworn she would never do, and yet when her bodice tumbled to her waist, leaving her shamelessly exposed, she groaned his name and arched her back, offering herself to him like some sort of forbidden fruit.
Benedict stopped breathing when he saw her. He’d pictured this moment in his mind so many times—every night as he lay in bed, and in every dream when he actually slept. But this—reality—was far sweeter than a dream, and far more erotic.
His hand, which had been stroking the warm skin on her back, slowly slid over her rib cage. “You’re so beautiful,” he whispered, knowing that the words were hopelessly inadequate. As if mere words could describe what he felt. And then, when his trembling fingers finished their journey and cupped her breast, he let out a shuddering groan. Words were impossible now. His need for her was so intense, so primitive. It robbed him of his ability to speak. Hell, he could barely think.
He wasn’t certain how this woman had come to mean so much to him. It seemed that one day she was a stranger, and the next she was as indispensable as air. And yet it hadn’t happened in a blinding flash. It had been a slow, sneaky process, quietly coloring his emotions until he realized that without her, his life lacked all meaning.
He touched her chin, lifting her face until he could peer into her eyes. They seemed to glow from within, glistening with unshed tears. Her lips were trembling, too, and he knew that she was as affected by the moment as he.
He leaned forward . . . slowly, slowly. He wanted to give her the chance to say no. It would kill him if she did, but it would be far worse to listen to her regrets in the proverbial morning.
But she didn’t say no, and when he was but a few inches away, her eyes closed and her head tilted slightly to the side, silently inviting him to kiss her.
It was remarkable, but every time he kissed her, her lips seemed to grow sweeter, her scent more beguiling. And his need grew, too. His blood was racing with desire, and it was taking his every last shred of restraint not to push her back onto the sofa and tear her clothes from her body.
That would come later, he thought with a secret smile. But this—surely her first time—would be slow and tender and everything a young girl dreamed.
Well, maybe not. His smile turned into an outright grin. Half the things he was going to do to her, she wouldn’t have even thought to dream about.
“What are you smiling about?” she asked.
He drew back a few inches, cupping her face with both hands. “How did you know I was smiling?”
“I could feel it on my lips.”
He brought a finger to those lips, tracing the outline, then running the edge of his fingernail along the plump skin. “You make me smile,” he whispered. “When you don’t make me want to scream, you make me smile.”
Her lips trembled, and her breath was hot and moist against his finger. He took her hand and brought it to his mouth, rubbing one finger against his lips in much the same way he had done with hers. But as he watched her eyes widen, he dipped her finger into his mouth, softly sucking at the fingertip, tickling her skin with his teeth and tongue.
She gasped, and the sound was sweet and erotic at the same time.
There were a thousand things that Benedict wanted to ask her— How did she feel? What did she feel? But he was so damned afraid that she’d change her mind if he gave her the opportunity to put any of her thoughts into words. And so instead of questions, he gave her kisses, returning his lips to hers in a searing, barely controlled dance of desire.
He murmured her name like a benediction as he lowered her onto the sofa, her bare back rubbing up against the upholstery. “I want you,” he groaned. “You have no idea. No idea.”
Her only response was a soft mewling sound that came from deep in her throat. For some reason that was like oil on the fire within him, and his fingers clutched at her even tighter, pressing into her skin, as his lips traveled down the swanlike column of her throat.
He moved lower, lower, burning a hot trail on her skin, pausing only briefly when he reached the gentle swell of her breast. She was completely beneath him now, her eyes glazed with desire, and it was so much better than any of his dreams.
And oh, how he’d dreamed of her.
With a low, possessive growl, Benedict took her nipple into his mouth. She let out a soft squeal, and he was unable to suppress his own low rumble of satisfaction. “Shhh,” he crooned, “just let me—”
“But—”
He pressed one of his fingers against her lips, probably a little too roughly, but it was getting harder and harder to control his movements. “Don’t think,” he murmured. “Just lie back and let me pleasure you.”
She looked dubious, but when he moved his mouth to her other breast and renewed his sensual onslaught, her eyes grew dazed, her lips parted, and her head lolled back against the cushions.
“Do you like this?” he whispered, tracing the peak of her breast with his tongue.
Sophie couldn’t quite manage to open her eyes, but she nodded.
“Do you like this?” Now his tongue moved to the underside of her breast, and he nibbled the sensitive skin over her rib cage.
Her breath shallow and fast, she nodded again.
“What about this?” He pushed her dress further down, nibbling a trail along her skin until he reached her navel.
This time Sophie couldn’t even manage a nod. Dear God, she was practically naked before him, and all she could do was moan and sigh and beg for more.
“I need you,” she panted.
His words were murmured into the soft skin of her abdomen. “I know.”
Sophie squirmed beneath him, unnerved by this primitive need to move. Something very strange was growing within her, something hot and tingling. It was as if she were growing, getting ready to burst through her skin. It was as if, after twenty-two years of life, she were finally coming alive.
She wanted desperately to feel his skin, and she grabbed at the fine linen of his shirt, bunching it in her hands until it came loose of his breeches. She touched him, skimming her hands along his lower back, surprised and delighted when his muscles quivered beneath her fingers.
“Ah, Sophie,” he grunted, shuddering as her hands slipped under his shirt to caress his skin.
His reaction emboldened her, and she stroked him more, moving up until she reached his shoulders, broad and firmly muscled.
He groaned again, then cursed under his breath as he lifted himself off of her. “Damn thing is in the way,” he muttered, tearing the shirt off and flinging it across the room. Sophie had just an instant to stare at his bare chest before he was atop her again, and this time they were skin against skin.
It was the most glorious feeling she could ever imagine.
He was so warm, and even though his muscles were hard and powerful, his skin was seductively soft. He even smelled good, a warm masculine mixture of sandalwood and soap.
Sophie touched her fingers to his hair as he moved to nuzzle her neck. It was thick and springy, and it tickled her chin as he tickled her neck. “Oh, Benedict,” she sighed. “This is so perfect. I can’t imagine anything better.”
He looked up, his dark eyes as wicked as his smile. “I can.”
She felt her lips part and knew she must look terribly foolish, just lying there staring at him like an idiot.
“Just you wait,” he said. “Just you wait.”
“But— Oh!” She let out a squeal as he flipped off her shoes. One of his hands wrapped around her ankle, then teased its way up her leg.
“Did you imagine this?” he asked, tracing the crease at the back of her knee.
She shook her head frantically, trying not to squirm.
“Really?” he murmured. “Then I’m sure you didn’t imagine this.” He reached up and unsnapped her garters.
“Oh, Benedict, you mustn’t—”
“Oh, no, I must.” He slid her stockings down her legs with agonizing slowness. “I really must.”
Sophie watched with openmouthed delight as he tossed them over his head. Her stockings weren’t of the highest quality, but they were nonetheless fairly light, and they floated through the air like dandelion tufts until they landed, one on a lamp and the other on the floor.
Then, while she was still laughing and looking at the stocking, hanging drunkenly from the lampshade, he sneaked up on her, sliding his hands back up her legs until they reached all the way to her thighs.
“I daresay no one has ever touched you here,” he said wickedly.
Sophie shook her head.
“And I daresay you never imagined it.”
She shook her head again.
“If you didn’t imagine this . . .” He squeezed her thighs, causing her to squeal and arch off the sofa. “. . . then I’m sure you won’t have imagined this.” He trailed his fingers ever upward as he spoke, the rounded curves of his nails lightly grazing her skin until he reached the soft thatch of her womanhood.
“Oh, no,” she said, more out of reflex than anything else. “You can’t—”
“Oh, but I can. I assure you.”
“But— Ooooooh.” It was suddenly as if her brain had flown right out the window, because it was near impossible to think of anything while his fingers were tickling her. Well, almost anything. She seemed able to think about how utterly naughty this was and how very much she didn’t want him to stop.
“What are you doing to me?” she gasped, her every muscle tightening as he moved his fingers in a particularly wicked manner.
“Everything,” he returned, capturing her lips with his. “Anything you want.”
“I want— Oh!”
“Like that, do you?” His words were murmured against her cheek.
“I don’t know what I want,” she breathed.
“I do.” He moved to her ear, nibbling softly on her lobe. “I know exactly what you want. Trust me.”
And it was as easy as that. She gave herself over to him completely—not that she hadn’t been nearly to that point already. But when he said, “Trust me,” and she realized that she did, something changed slightly inside. She was ready for this. It was still wrong, but she was ready, and she wanted it, and for once in her life she was going to do something wild and crazy and completely out of character.
Just because she wanted to.
As if he’d read her thoughts, he pulled away a few inches and cupped one cheek with his large hand. “If you want me to stop,” he said, his voice achingly hoarse, “you need to tell me now. Not in ten minutes, not even in one. It has to be now.”
Touched that he would even take the time to ask, she reached up and cupped his cheek in the same way he held hers. But when she opened her mouth to speak, the only word she could manage was, “Please.”
His eyes flared with need, and then, as if something snapped within him, he changed in an instant. Gone was the gentle, languorous lover. In his place was a man gripped by desire. His hands were everywhere, on her legs, around her waist, touching her face. And before Sophie knew it, her dress was gone, on the floor next to one of her stockings. She was completely nude, and it felt very odd but somehow also very right as long as he was touching her.
The sofa was narrow, but that didn’t seem to matter as Benedict yanked off his boots and breeches. He perched alongside her as his boots went flying, unable to stop touching her, even as he divested himself of his clothing. It took longer to get naked, but on the other hand, he had the oddest notion that he might perish on the spot if he moved from her side.
He’d thought he’d wanted a woman before. He’d thought he’d needed one. But this—this went beyond both. This was spiritual. This was in his soul.
His clothes finally gone, he lay back on top of her, pausing for one shuddering moment to savor the feel of her beneath him, skin to skin, head to toe. He was hard as a rock, harder than he could ever remember, but he fought against his impulses, and tried to move slowly.
This was her first time. It had to be perfect.
Or if not perfect, then damn good.
He snaked a hand between them and touched her. She was ready—more than ready for him. He slipped one finger inside of her, grinning with satisf
action as her entire body jerked and tensed around him.
“That’s very—” Her voice was raspy, her breathing labored. “Very—”
“Strange?” he finished for her.
She nodded.
He smiled. Slowly, like a cat. “You’ll get used to it,” he promised. “I plan to get you very used to it.”
Sophie’s head lolled back. This was madness. Fever. Something was building inside of her, deep in her gut, coiling, pulsing, making her rigid. It was something that needed release, something that grabbed at her, and yet even with all this pressure, it felt so spectacularly wonderful, as if she’d been born for this very moment.
“Oh, Benedict,” she sighed. “Oh, my love.”
He froze—just for a fraction of a second, but it was long enough for her to know that he’d heard her. But he didn’t say a word, just kissed her neck and squeezed her leg as he positioned himself between her thighs and nudged at her entrance.
Her lips parted with shock.
“Don’t worry,” he said in an amused voice, reading her mind as always. “It will work.”
“But—”
“Trust me,” he said, the words murmured against her lips.
Slowly, she felt him entering her. She was being stretched, invaded, and yet she wouldn’t say it felt bad, exactly. It was . . . It was . . .
He touched her cheek. “You look serious.”
“I’m trying to decide how this feels,” she admitted.
“If you have the presence of mind to do that, then I’m certainly not doing a good enough job.”
Startled, she looked up. He was smiling at her, that crooked grin that never failed to reduce her to mush.
“Stop thinking so hard,” he whispered.
“But it’s difficult not to— Oh!” And then her eyes rolled back as she arched beneath him.
Benedict buried his head in her neck so she wouldn’t see his amused expression. It seemed the best way for him to keep her from overanalyzing a moment that should have been pure sensation and emotion was for him to keep moving.
And he did. Inexorably forward, sliding in and out until he reached the fragile barrier of her maidenhead.
He winced. He’d never been with a virgin before. He’d heard it hurt, that there was nothing a man could do to eliminate the pain for the woman, but surely if he was gentle, it would go easier for her.
