The Duke of Westmorland was going to be the end of her. She was certain of it.
This woman was going to be the death of him.
Benedict ran his tongue down Isabella’s slit. Teasing her like this had made the pressure in his ballocks into an almost unbearable ache. His cock was rigid, demanding to be inside her. But still, he took his time, mindful of the fact that she had been a virgin. She could be sore, and he had no wish to hurt her.
Instead, he would make her mindless with lust. As mindless as he was.
He probed her entrance with his tongue, thrusting it inside her. Her sweet gasp and the way she twisted from the bed, trying to bring him deeper, were his rewards. She was wet, so wet. He had her almost where he wanted her. Slowly, he licked his way back to her pearl, and then he sank a finger inside her channel. She moaned, gripping him tightly, and he could not suppress his own groan as her heat engulfed him. His cock twitched, eager and ready.
“Are you sore, love?” he asked her, curling his finger and moving it gently in and out of her.
“No,” she gasped, gripping the covers at her side.
He took a moment to admire her, lush creamy curves and sweet, feminine pink. At his sensual mercy. His, all his. He withdrew his finger and then positioned himself over her, unable to wait any longer.
He gripped his cock and probed her entrance with the tip. Warm wetness bathed his cockhead. The pressure within built to a raging crescendo. But he told himself he needed to go slowly. She was yet a novice, and he had much to teach her.
When she was his duchess, he reminded himself.
Today was an aberration.
Tomorrow, he would make amends. He would not bed her again until she was his duchess. But tonight, she was all his.
“You want this?” he asked her, needing to be sure.
“I have never wanted anything more.”
Nor had he.
“Put your hands on me,” he said, craving her touch.
“Thank God,” she breathed, her hands on his back, his shoulders, his arms.
Her touch on him was electric. Longing was a sharp current pulsing through him. He could not wait another second longer.
He thrust, filling her to the hilt. He was as deep as he could go. He had not intended to act with such haste, but he had lost all restraint. And he could not stop now. She was tight, all around him. Slick. Divine. He withdrew, then thrust again. Her body was eager beneath his, undulating in tandem with his rhythm.
Dear Lord, he was going to spill. He guided her legs around his waist, then reached between them to find her pearl. A few swirling strokes over the bud, and she clamped down on him, stiffening as she cried out another release.
A damn inside him broke.
On a hoarse cry of his own, he moved harder. Faster. Deeper.
So deep into her liquid heat. He lowered his head, sucked her nipple into his mouth, voracious now. His need was out of control. Desire licked down his spine, flaring in his ballocks. As the ripples of her spend trembled through her, he spilled, emptying himself inside her.
Triumphant.
That was how he felt as he collapsed against her, heart thundering, breath ragged. He kissed her sweet brow. Mine, said something deep within him. Mine forever.
God, how he loved this woman.
Too much, he feared.
Chapter Sixteen
Benedict woke with a strange sense of unease in his gut.
Perhaps it was the amount of light spilling in through the window dressings, which told him he had slept far later than was his custom. Perhaps it was the memory of Isabella in his bed last night, which was the only part of her which had lingered.
He sat up, glancing wildly around the room for signs of her.
She was gone, and she had taken her dressing gown and that infuriatingly prim night rail. He supposed he ought to be relieved she had slipped unobtrusively from his chamber before the servants were about and someone caught sight of her. However, all he knew was disappointment.
Along with a strange, nagging sense of unease.
He threw back the bedclothes and stalked, naked, to the attached bathing room. At the washstand, he splashed cool water on his face. Today was not going to be an easy one. Not only would he have to continue the investigation into yesterday’s shocking bombings, but he also needed to find a way to persuade Isabella to marry him.
Immediately.
Which meant he needed to find her.
Also immediately.
In haste, he dressed himself, once more not bothering to ring for his valet’s assistance. There was no time to waste, for he had come to know Isabella quite well over the last few weeks, and he suspected she would not simply accede to his wishes, regardless of how responsive she had been in his arms last night.
His pocket watch told him it was nearing noon, and the alarm coursing through him as he fled his chamber in search of her could not be quelled. He went to his study first, hoping to hell he would find her there, already engaged in the act of typewriting his reports. The room was mockingly empty. Irritatingly silent.
His sense of foreboding increasing, he stalked through Westmorland House, attempting to locate her. There was no sign of Isabella anywhere. At last, he encountered his long-suffering butler.
“Young,” he greeted, attempting to keep his rising concern from his voice. Why the devil had he overslept? “May I trouble you to find Miss Hilgrove? In all the clamor of yesterday’s events, I overslept, and I am in need of seeing a number of reports settled.”
That was a lie. The only thing he needed settled was his relationship with Isabella. Namely, her word that she would become his wife.
Young frowned. “Miss Hilgrove is
