by Kate Bateman
Georgie shivered, even as her skin flushed with embarrassment. A small lamp had been left burning in the room, and when she complied, she knew she was completely open to his gaze. He hadn’t been able to see her in the submarine; she’d been shielded by her skirts and the darkness. Now, he could see everything, demand everything. No modesty. Complete surrender.
He was still completely clothed. Suddenly shy, she slid her hand down and tried to cover herself, but he kissed the sensitive skin on the inside of her knee.
“Don’t hide from me, Georgie. Let me see you.”
He slid his hands higher, up to her thighs, and pressed a kiss there too. Her stomach tensed in anticipation, but he simply looked at her, and the heat in his gaze somehow transferred itself to her skin. She burned. He licked his lips, his gaze between her legs. “Now this? This is worthy of a stanza or two.” His fingers crept higher, and she fought the urge to beg. “I can see how a man might be inspired to write a sonnet about this.” His expression turned wicked. “Of course, anticipation is sometimes the best part. Will you be hot? Wet?”
His fingers found her, a slow caress that circled with agonizing leisure.
Oh, yes.
“What will you taste like, I wonder?” he murmured dreamily, and she frowned as her slow brain struggled to made sense of the words. Taste?
His breath warmed her skin a moment before his mouth joined his fingers.
Oh, God.
Pleasure hit her like a lightning strike, and she almost bowed off the bed. It was agony. It was sublime. He licked her deeply, penetrating her, drinking her in. Georgie writhed and bucked, but he steadied her with a hand on her hip, urging her to accept his glorious ministrations. He lifted his head, and his cheeks were flushed. “Sugar and spice and all things nice,” he murmured. “That’s what Mrs. Wylde tastes of.”
He bent again, and she tightened her knees around his shoulders as he used his tongue in a wicked counterpoint to his nimble fingers. Heat built, and tension, and she clutched his hair, trying to hold him closer.
Yes. So close. More.
Just when she thought she could take no more, a rush of cool air hit her. She almost screamed in protest. Benedict knelt between her legs, his chest heaving, his jaw taut with strain. “Not without me,” he panted, stripping off his shirt in a blur of frantic movement. “Not this time.”
He kicked off his breeches, and she had the briefest glimpse of his body, a vast expanse of smooth, muscled skin, and then he was over her, full length, and all she could feel was heat, the incredible sensation of skin on skin.
“I need to be inside you.”
His chest pressed against her, abrading the points of her nipples. His thighs bracketed hers, all solid muscle and tickly hair. The hard length of him nudged her slick folds, and she bucked against him, desperate for the more he’d promised.
More and more and more.
“Show me,” she panted, curling up for a kiss. She tasted herself on his tongue, a musky, earthy scent that enflamed her further, and he dropped to his forearms, bracketed her face with his hands, and kissed her as if it was the last time he’d ever have the chance. As if his whole soul belonged to her.
She writhed against him in unbearable anticipation. He rocked his hips and entered her just a fraction, a burning, stretching ache that made her tense at the unfamiliar intrusion. He was larger than his fingers. He pressed again, inching deeper, and Georgie tilted her hips to ease the ache. He stilled, his chest heaving, and rested his forehead against hers. “Slow,” he panted raggedly. “Don’t want to hurt you. God.”
Georgie caught his face and kissed his jaw, her heart swelling with the care he was taking with her. “It’s all right,” she whispered. “Do it.”
He gave a deep groan and pushed his full length into her, one deep thrust, and Georgie cried out. The momentary discomfort quickly gave way to an astonishing feeling of fullness, of completion. With a harsh breath, he withdrew almost completely and seated himself again, and this time the slipperiness of her body eased the way, and he slid in with a delicious friction that made her entire body jerk in response. Her vision blurred.
“Touch me,” he rasped, and she realized her arms had fallen to the bedcovers. Suddenly greedy, she ran her fingers over his shoulders, glorying in the muscles in his arms, the smooth contours of his back. He was tall and elegantly formed, all long, fluid lines, and she could feel the tremors in him, the taut control as he struggled to restrain himself.
She didn’t want restraint. She wanted abandon. She arched her back, urging him on, and he groaned deep in his throat, an animal sound of pure pleasure. And then he began to move within her. He slid his hand under her bottom and lifted her hips, and the change of angle sparked a familiar curl of pleasure. She dug her heels into the mattress and reached for it, jerking in awkward counterpoint to his thrusts until she found the rhythm, and suddenly they were moving together in perfect synchronicity. He caught her thigh and urged her leg around his hip, and she was climbing higher, higher toward that glorious point of light.
“Come for me, Georgie,” he breathed in her ear, and her body convulsed, fracturing in endless joyous beats. Flashes of light exploded behind her eyelids as she dissolved in mindless bliss.
He cursed as her body clenched around him. He gave one last thrust, withdrew from her body, and pressed himself hard against her stomach, holding her tightly in his arms with an incoherent groan. Jets of warm wetness coated her skin as every muscle in his body went rigid. He collapsed in shuddering exhaustion, his body heavy on hers, and Georgie closed her eyes as a wonderful, drugging lethargy claimed her limbs.
So that was the “more.”
She smiled sleepily. It was certainly worth the wait.
Chapter 31.
Benedict returned to earth with his heart hammering against his ribs as if he’d faced a squadron of French dragoons. His entire being was suffused with an overwhelming feeling of contentment.
When awareness returned more fully, he realized he was squashing Georgie beneath him. With a murmured apology, he rolled to one side, relieving her of his weight but keeping one arm slung over her body, reluctant to sever contact with her entirely. The scents of their lovemaking filled his nose, and he experienced a surge of primitive triumph.
He let out a rueful laugh. “I meant to go slower than that, you know. In respect for your first time. But things got a little … out of control.”
He’d meant to be gentler, to rein himself in. He hadn’t wanted to frighten her with the full depths of his desire. But her untutored caresses had inflamed him so much that he’d forgotten every intention for a leisurely seduction. He’d been lost in mindless instinct. Lost in the wonder of her.
She gave a sated sigh. “Well, I thought it was perfect.”
He almost purred with satisfaction but couldn’t resist teasing her. “What do you know? That was your one and only experience. You don’t qualify for an opinion until you’ve tried it at least ten times. It’s like eating a strawberry bonbon and then declaring it’s positively the best flavor in the world, when you haven’t ever tried lemon or sherbet or cherry.”
“I see your point,” she murmured sleepily. “I wouldn’t want to make any rash decisions. Not about something so momentous.”
“Good. Because there’s still a lot to discover. That was only lesson two.”
He would teach her everything he knew, he thought dreamily. Show her the heights to which she could climb. God, it would be an honor. A delight.
His forearm was still draped over her ribs. She stroked it idly with her fingertips, and the contact sent a soundless shudder of pleasure through his body. After a few moments, he propped himself up on his elbow and used his discarded shirt to clean her belly. She tensed at his ministrations, and a charming blush spread down her throat and across her chest. He chuckled. “Don’t tell me you’re embarrassed now, Mrs. Wylde?”
He glanced at her face and saw her brow wrinkle. She gestured at her stomach. “Why did you
…?”
“Pull out?” he finished, shaking his head at her charming naivety. “Because we don’t want any little Wyldes making an appearance in nine months’ time, do we? And that’s one of the best ways to ensure it doesn’t happen.” He studied her expression, searching for any hint of what she thought, but apart from a little frown, her face was inscrutable. He wasn’t sure whether she was relieved or disappointed that he’d retained enough working brain cells to finish outside of her body.
Oddly enough, the idea of her round with his child didn’t fill him with horror. On the contrary, it made his chest ache with a strange combination of wistfulness and yearning. She would make an excellent mother, fair and loving. The precise opposite of his own mother.
He shook his head, dismissing the ridiculous notion. The amazing coitus they’d just had must have disordered his mind. There was no future for them, not one that included children. They were simply going to enjoy themselves until the season ended and then part ways as friends.
He pulled the bedclothes over them both and rolled her so she was facing away from him then tugged her close, his body curving around hers so she was cocooned in his arms. She gave a soft sigh and wriggled her bottom against him. To his weary astonishment, he felt himself grow hard again. She had the most amazing effect on him.
Her uninhibited ardor had been immensely gratifying. She’d trusted him to guide her in her first foray into lovemaking and he was fiercely glad he hadn’t betrayed that trust by hurting her or by being selfish.
She gave a sleepy yawn. “I can’t stay much longer. I have to be back before the servants get up.”
Benedict glanced at the clock on the mantel. There were still a few hours until dawn, and God knew, he would gladly spend the rest of them making love to her, but she was right. There was no sense in risking a scandal. Everything she’d done up to this point had been to avoid such a thing. Her coming here had been risky, but he wouldn’t have changed it for the world.
With the greatest reluctance, he drew away from her and left the bed. He slipped on his breeches to spare her maidenly blushes, then scooped up her simple cotton shift. “Come on, sleepyhead,” he said, tugging on her arm until she sat up, grumbling. “Let’s get you dressed.” He threw the garment over her head, then went out into the sitting room to retrieve her dress and give her some privacy.
It struck him that Georgie was the first woman he’d ever brought here, to his rooms. Despite the rumors about his profligacy, he’d only had two lovers since he’d returned from France, both discreet widows, and each affair had lasted only a few weeks. He’d visited both ladies at their own residences and had always left to spend the night in his own bed. He’d had no desire to linger.
He wished Georgie could stay. He wanted to drift off to sleep with her in his arms, to wake her slowly with a kiss and make love to her again, lazily, as dawn broke over the rooftops.
Impossible.
She was sitting cross-legged on the bed when he returned, a rumpled goddess amidst the messy sheets. His heart thudded to a stop. She looked so damned tempting there in his bed that he clenched his fists in her dress to stop himself pushing her back and kissing her breathless all over again. His cock throbbed in silent encouragement.
She was like one of those sirens that lured sailors to their doom with just a smile. He felt a sudden kinship with poor, mythical Odysseus, tied to the mast of his ship, valiantly trying to resist the promise in a glance, the temptation of a song. Her skin was flushed, her lips delightfully puffy, and he experienced a surge of deep satisfaction that he’d been the one to put the pink in her cheeks, that twinkle in her eye.
* * *
Georgie sucked in an admiring breath as Benedict reappeared shirtless in the doorway. The man was impossibly handsome. His skin glowed with health, and his breeches rested low on his narrow hips.
She’d barely seen him during the frenzied blur of their earlier lovemaking, but now she looked her fill. The soft glow of the oil lamp on the nightstand caressed his body in the same way her fingers itched to do, and her pulse galloped as she studied the intriguing ridges of his sculpted stomach and chest.
He was hard and lean, muscled but not bulky, as if every part of him had been honed to perfection by grueling necessity. His skin was tawny, darkened by the sun like a sailor’s, not pale and paunchy like most gentlemen’s of the ton.
Her heart squeezed at the sight of him. His dark hair was tousled in glorious disarray, and she felt a kind of wonder. He’d done things to her that were as astonishing as they had been pleasurable. It was like discovering a whole new continent where the map had shown nothing but empty sea. An entirely different landscape of sensation she’d never known existed.
She’d never imagined the all-consuming pleasure of making love with a man. She’d thought it would be pleasant in the same way it was nice to have Tilly rub her shoulders, or the way a bonbon dissolved on her tongue. Not so. It was pleasant in the way of the most fearsome of storms—exhilarating and overwhelming, terrifying in its power. But now she’d weathered it and come out safe the other side, she felt elated and reborn. Glad to be alive.
She sent him a tremulous smile, determined to be as cool and sophisticated as his other lovers. “So, will I see you tomorrow at the Cavendish garden fête? I’m fairly sure that after your performance at the Evans’ this evening, the book at White’s will be filling up with bets about us announcing our engagement.”
He chuckled. “The last time I checked, it was fifty to one against your acceptance. Your reputation proceeds you, my lady. You’re a hard nut to crack.”
“Well, I’m sure the odds will have shortened now,” she said wryly. A sudden thought struck her. “You know, you could make yourself a whole stack of money if you just bet that I’ll marry you.”
He shot her a mock-wounded look. “Whatever you think of me, Mrs. Wylde, I do have some scruples. Entering into a bet with inside knowledge and a certainty of winning would be extremely ungentlemanly. I won’t do it.”
She nodded, perversely glad that he’d withstood the temptation to solve his financial woes by resorting to such underhand tactics. He had both integrity and personal honor. He was, in fact, the polar opposite of Josiah, who pretended to have impeccable morals, but bent the rules when he thought no one was looking.
Father would have approved of Benedict Wylde. He was exactly the type of man he’d always urged her to find, someone strong and constant, with a good heart. He wasn’t always truthful, of course, and he could be annoyingly high-handed at times, but he was utterly loyal to those lucky few he chose to be his friends.
Georgie shook her head at her own foolishness. If she wasn’t careful, she’d find herself besotted with her own husband. Or worse. “So, will I see you tomorrow?”
“I’ll try to come. It depends on what happens with Johnstone.”
She took her dress from his outstretched hand and put it on, not bothering with her stays. “You mean you’ll be going after him?”
“Yes. Alex, Seb, and I will wait in the tavern we visited today. As soon as he enters the building, we’ll pounce.”
Georgie sighed. “I wish I could be there.”
“You’ve done enough.” He smiled to soften the sting of rejection, drawing her in for a kiss.
Georgie melted against him as her limbs went weak.
It was he who pulled away. He turned her and silently buttoned up her dress, as efficient as any lady’s maid, and she shivered as he pressed a kiss to her exposed neck. “I’ll ask Mickey to take you home,” he murmured softly.
* * *
Pieter had left the back door unlocked, and Georgie sneaked into the house without incident. She entered her room and fell onto the bed in a state of exhausted bliss. Did she feel different now she was no longer a virgin? She made a quick mental catalogue of her body. She felt wonderful. A little sore and achy, slightly more sensitive to the touch of her clothing, but definitely good.
Her long-held goal of taking a lover had be
en achieved, and she already wanted to do it again. And again.
She remembered the incredible sense of peace and warmth she’d felt when they’d been lying together. Tucked against his body, enfolded in his arms, she’d felt cherished and protected and … loved. She pulled herself up short. He probably made every woman feel like that, as if she were the center of his universe.
Part of her hoped her obsession with him would burn itself up quickly. It would hurt when they inevitably parted ways. He would become bored by her lack of experience. She’d have to watch him transfer that blinding heat and teasing laughter to some other lucky recipient and pretend she didn’t care.
She shoved that depressing thought away. She would take Benedict’s advice and seize the moment, enjoy their time together, no matter how brief.
But first, she needed sleep.
Chapter 32.
Georgie woke to a scratching at her door and sat up as Juliet slipped into the room and bounded up onto the bed like an overeager puppy. She studied Georgie’s face with a close, laughing scrutiny. “What were you up to last night, you naughty girl?”
Georgie frowned as a guilty flush warmed her cheeks. She pushed her hair out of her eyes. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, you weren’t in bed when I came in to talk to you,” Juliet accused. “I wanted to tell you about Simeon kissing me in the Evans’ hothouse, but you weren’t here.”
Georgie stifled a groan.
“So where were you? And with whom?”
Juliet waggled her eyebrows, and Georgie couldn’t prevent a smile at her gleeful prodding. There was nothing her sister liked better than an intrigue. And really, if Georgie hadn’t been so fixated with Benedict, she would have remembered not to underestimate her sibling’s ability to sniff out a scandal. Juliet was like a bloodhound, able to scent the merest whiff of impropriety at fifty paces. Most of the time it was all in her fertile imagination, of course, but this time she’d hit upon the truth.