Her legs were shamelessly splayed, and though she was still covered, cool air kissed her core through the split in her drawers, sending an erotic charge through her.
“What are you doing?” she asked, confused.
From what she understood, he needed to release his member and join it with her. This—him on his knees, hands caressing her thighs, made no sense.
“Having you,” he said succinctly.
He caressed his way to the waistband of her drawers. With shocking ease, he located the buttons, sliding them free of their moorings. Then he tugged the simple white cotton down her hips. She swallowed as she felt the fabric leave her.
She was seated upon his desk, bereft of her drawers, her legs still open. Which meant that the hot, large hands traveling over her thighs were caressing her bare flesh. And which also meant that his possessive gaze, fixated upon her most intimate flesh, was seeing her.
All of her.
Instinct had her drawing her knees together, desperate to preserve her modesty.
His hands stayed her. As did his words.
“Do not hide yourself from me, Isabella. You are beautiful everywhere, every part of you, just as I said.”
Had he said that? Her cheeks were hot. But her blood was hotter. There was something inherently wicked about what he was doing. She had not been told about such an intimacy. But if she were honest, she would admit there was something deliciously exciting about it.
His eyes were devouring her as surely as his mouth had hers with kisses.
“This is depraved,” she protested halfheartedly. “You should not be looking upon me so.”
“You are pink and pretty here, darling,” he told her, his voice a low, decadent rumble. “I am going to do more than merely look.”
She supposed he had intended it as a warning.
And she ought to have been warned.
But nothing could have prepared her for what he did next. Those knowing, tender hands of his continued stroking her thighs, kneading her flesh, knowing just how to handle her. Everywhere his fingertips traveled, they sent fire and fresh need in their wake. His head dipped.
He was not going to…
No, he could not mean…
“Oh,” she cried out when his mouth settled upon her.
A kiss first. His beautiful mouth was upon her core. Then, the slick brush of wet heat over her parted flesh came. She jerked, her hips instinctively seeking more. Her breasts felt achy and full, her nipples hardened into painfully tight points beneath her corset. Another slick, warm glide worked over her.
His tongue, she realized weakly.
Lord in heaven.
He licked into her, finding the pulsating center of all her raw desire for him. She was so sensitive there, where he had brought her to a crashing crescendo with his fingers. He flicked his tongue over her, then sucked her into his mouth. When the gentle abrasion of his teeth worked the most responsive part of her, she moaned.
Her hips lifted from the desk. She shamelessly ground herself against his face, seeking more. More. She was desperate, so close. On the edge already. After the last time with him, she understood now what pleasure was. How easily it could be reached. And she knew she was almost there.
He sucked again.
She sank her teeth into her lower lip, doing her utmost to keep from crying out. His tongue flicked over her again, traveling along her slit, then sinking lower, to another, equally sensitive place. To the place that ached with the need to be filled. He sank his tongue inside her.
She could no longer control herself. Her nails bit into her skirts, which she still held pinned to her waist, and she rocked into his face.
“Oh dear, sweet heaven,” she whispered on a strangled moan.
“Mmm,” he murmured against her fevered flesh. “This is the closest to heaven I have ever been. You taste so sweet, like the finest dessert. I could lick you forever. Tell me what you like, sweetheart.”
She could not find words. Indeed, she did not know precisely what it was he was doing to her. All she did know was that she wanted—nay, needed—more.
“Everything,” she said on a gasp as his tongue slid inside her once more. “I like everything. Do not stop.”
The anguish inside her grew to the same delicious crescendo as it had before. She ought to be ashamed of herself, sitting on his desk as he pleasured her. Some dim part of her mind knew this was wrong and wicked. But nothing had ever felt more right. There was something about the sight of this great man on his knees before her, golden head bent, as if he were a slave to his desire, that undid her.
He returned to the responsive bud, flicking his tongue over her in long strokes, then alternating between licking and sucking. When he delivered a playful nip with his teeth, her hips jerked. She lost herself. Bliss rippled from her center, radiating through her body in white-hot waves. She gasped his name.
Still, Benedict was relentless. He stayed with her, lapping at her, his gaze fastened on hers as he devoured her. She could not look away. She was his willing prisoner, held captive by need. Hers for him, his for her.
When the last swell of desire rolled through her, he stood. Cool air replaced the humid heat of his lips and tongue. He settled himself between her legs, aligning the prominent ridge in his trousers with her aching core, and thrust against her.
Another gasp escaped. A new need burned. She should be shocked. He had just loved her quite thoroughly, and now another, more demanding part of his anatomy was glancing over the flesh he had tormented. But she writhed against him instead, seeking more. She wanted his bare skin on hers, without the barrier of his trousers.
His gaze was fiery and intense, the slash of his jaw tensed with restraint. He cupped her face. “I want you, Isabella. So bloody much.”
She released her hold on her skirts and reached for him, clutching his shoulders. “Yes.”
He rocked against her, his
