I shouldn’t. I really shouldn’t.
“You’re cold and wet, and we’ve been through an ordeal,” Benedict says softly. “Let me take care of you. Nothing will happen if you don’t want it to.”
“I know that,” I scoff, and enter the house. Benedict is a gentleman. I’m more afraid of myself. What I want and what is wise are so far apart, they live in different countries.
But I can’t resist another cuddle session on the couch, with Benedict fussing over me.
That is exactly where I end up: dry, and dressed in a pair of Duke University sweats, on the loveseat in his private study. Benedict covers me in a blanket, smoothing it over me. Just like last time.
Then he hands me a glass of brandy. Just like the last time. There are crinkles in the corner of his eyes. “You don’t have to drink it.”
“Seriously?” I regard the amber liquid. I’d say a prayer to St. Francis, but the saint washed his hands of me a week ago.
Benedict settles himself next to me, far enough away I can take in his casual posture. Portrait of a lord in repose. Out of a suit, he looks younger but just as powerful. He sips his brandy, looking thoughtful.
A long silence passes, and then he recites, “Nature never framed a woman’s heart of prouder stuff than that of Beatrice. Disdain and scorn ride sparkling in her eyes, misprizing what they look on, and her wit values itself so highly that to her all matter else seems weak.”
“Someone’s been studying their Shakespeare.” I smile into my glass. “If this is your idea of foreplay, it's working.”
He looks at me then, and I feel the full weight of his hunger. “Come to bed with me, Frankie.”
My stomach turns to stone. I lower my brandy, cradling it to my chest like a shield over my heart. “I should check on Elvis.”
“He’s fine. I hired not one but two parrot sitters. They have veterinary degrees. Ornithological specialities.”
Tempting. It is so tempting. He’ll kiss me, do marvelous things to my body, and exit stage right, leaving my heart on the floor.
“Benedict, this is fake. All of it.”
“It doesn’t have to be.” His dark eyes bore into mine. He seems sincere.
I set down my glass. That’s my cue. “I had rather hear my dog bark at a crow than a man swear he loves me,” I quote Lady Beatrice. I planned these lines, anticipated them. I expected them to feel triumphant, but they leave me hollow.
I rise, and he rises with me. I head to the door, but my steps slow as I reach it, as if I’m waiting for something.
Benedict obliges, right on cue. “Who said anything about love?”
He’s standing by the fireplace, staring into his glass as if the dark liquid will show the future. Portrait of a devil, ready to make a deal.
I shouldn’t. I really shouldn’t.
But I do. I turn slowly, and walk to him. I’m barefoot and so is he, but I’m so much shorter. “All right, Your Grace. What do you propose?”
Chapter 9
Benedict
Her dark brown eyes tilt up at me, taunting me. Her damp hair falls in a riot down her shoulders. Her lips are full and her head’s tipped back, showing the smooth, pale line of her throat. I shouldn’t, I really shouldn’t. But I’m going to. I’m a duke; I should be used to getting what I want. But my royal life has never been about indulgence. Not when it’s all hanging by a thread.
It occurs to me I could cut that thread. Let go, and dedicate my life to pursuing what I really want. Starting with Frankie.
Frankie sways closer, then halts. She can sense hesitation, and I’ve remained still too long. I step forward and plunge my hand into the dark fall of her hair. “I propose this,” I say, and lower my lips to hers. I mean it to be a coaxing kiss, but as per usual, Frankie’s scent and presence, the pure sparkling essence of her, burns through all my control. I tighten my fingers in her hair, guiding her closer. Her lips part beneath mine, and I plunder. Her mouth is soft and silk and sinful. I lick up the taste. She whimpers, and I realize my fist in her hair has her pulled up to tiptoe.
“This is how it will be, pet,” I murmur. “I’m not going to hold back.” I’m not sure I can. I typically can control myself, do what’s expected in the bedroom, no more, no less, but this is Frankie. She wreaks havoc in every area of my life. Why stop now?
“So that’s what you’re into,” she mutters. “I should’ve guessed. You like to take charge.” She melts against me, pushing higher to nuzzle me, just begging to be taken in hand. “I love it.”
“Naughty girl.”
“Mmmm, yes.” Now she’s trying to climb me. “Keep talking, like that.”
I tug her head back by her hair again, gentle but firm. “You’re not in charge right now.” I take a chance and slip my right hand between her legs, into the pair of sweatpants that hang ridiculously big on her. She’s bare underneath, no panties. Bare and deliciously wet.
“Oh,” she gasps and teeters up higher on her tiptoes. I fondle her soft, juicy folds and find the entrance to her sex. I dip a long finger inside, twisting to collect her essence. Then I remove my hand and let her watch, wide-eyed, as I lick her off my finger.
“Oh, yes.” I hold her gaze as I purr. “I’m going to want more of that.”
She whimpers again, wobbling on weak legs. I scoop her up and carry her to the nearest chair. She’s not ready for bed, not yet. An overstuffed Chesterfield is just the thing.
Eventually I’ll claim her on every surface in my home. My cock twitches at the thought.
She helps me remove the sweatpants, wriggling backwards onto the deep leather seat, her brown eyes deliciously wide. I have unfettered access to her lower half, and she knows it.
My hand shackles her ankle and she jumps. “Easy,” I soothe, stroking her ankle. I wait for her skittishness to subside before drawing her closer. “Come to me, yes, that’s it,” I say, though I’m not giving her any choice. Her legs tense and scrabble a little bit, then relax as I pull her down the seat so she’s lying flat on her back, hair tousled and spilling over the leather, her long legs coltish and awkward as she realizes she’s laid out like a buffet before me. She tries to press her knees together at the last moment and I tsk. “Now, now. Open to me.” I take hold of her knees and ease them apart. Yes. That’s the sight I want, her pink folds flushed, her center glossy with juices as her body readies itself for me.
I spread her legs wide and kneel between them before they can close. One hand props up her inner thigh, and the other pets her pussy. She squirms.
“Be good,” I order, as if that’ll work. She rolls her eyes.
I smack her center, lightly. Her head flies back and her body seizes up. “Oh my god!”
“Your Grace will do.”
She rolls her eyes. “All this power’s gone to your head.”
“Do you mind?” I pet her pussy again, the lightest swipe of my thumb over her folds. And she relaxes right into my touch.
“Mmm, no. I don’t mind.” And then she adds, more softly, “It makes me feel safe.”
I kiss her knee. “Good. No more talking now, unless you want me to stop.” I kiss a trail up to her sex, and spread her open with my thumbs. Her pussy is pink and perfect, her clitoris standing at attention. I lower my head to lick up a taste. She’s got her hands over her mouth, but adorable little squeaks sneak past her fingers. I pause to tell her, “You can make all the noise you like.” Then I flick my tongue against her clit.