Page 40 of Love in the Time of Scandal
“Have you ever touched yourself?” Benedict whispered, his lips brushing the skin below her ear.
She blushed scarlet. “What?”
“Intimately.” His wayward hand nudged between her thighs. “Here.”
There was no question about it: she was drunk. That was the only explanation for her response, which was a soft moan just before her knees—and the last of her resistance—gave out. He held her up easily, and his hand slid fully between her thighs and cupped her sex.
He inhaled sharply, still nuzzling her ear. “Have you?” he asked again. “Have you brought yourself to climax?”
“A—a few times...” She ought to be mortified that she’d just admitted that to him; she tensed a little in anticipation of him being shocked or displeased. But his fingers were circling, stroking between her legs, sparking feelings that were very different from the little shocks of pleasure her own fingers had wrought. She would be on the floor right now if he weren’t holding her against him. Her breasts felt swollen and sensitive, and the brandy must have vanquished her power of speech along with her legitimate worries that this was a bad idea.
Instead he gave a low growl of satisfaction. “Excellent. I like a woman unafraid of pleasure.”
A riot of images streamed through her mind. Of herself, naked as the day she was born; of him, also naked. Of his face, taut with hunger—for her. Of him touching her, everywhere—with his hands, with his mouth, with his naked body. Of him driving himself inside her until they both expired in ecstasy.
No, she wasn’t afraid—at least not of pleasure. She forced all her other fears into a dark corner of her mind and closed a door on them. Tomorrow she would sort through her tangled new circumstances; tonight she wanted euphoria, bliss, mindless desire. She threw back her head, arching her spine to press against the marvelous feel of his fingers on her breast, and gave herself over to the sensations surging through her.
Her shift loosened; he had pulled loose the ribbon at the neckline. Penelope blushed again as he tugged it down until it puddled on the floor around her feet. “That’s better,” he murmured, running his hands over her shoulders, her breasts, her belly, her hips. Two more quick tugs and her pantalets came off as well. She was naked except for her stockings. “Come here, wife,” he said once more, swinging her into his arms in one quick motion.
Disoriented, she curled her arms over her chest. The facings on his regimental coat scraped her, and she squirmed. “Aren’t you going to take off your clothes?”
“As quickly as possible,” he assured her as he dropped her on the bed. Penelope pushed herself up and watched in avid interest as he stripped off his coat and waistcoat. His shirt came over his head and her eyes grew round. No wonder Mama had never wanted her to see the statues at the museum. Without taking his eyes from her face, her new husband yanked off his boots and unbuttoned his trousers, shoved everything down and kicked it away.
And then she stared. She had read so many descriptions of a man’s privy parts, but nothing compared to seeing them. And even though Constance wrote approvingly of men who were amply equipped, Penelope suddenly wasn’t sure she agreed. His erection was quite a bit larger than she’d expected, and when one thought about where it was meant to fit—
“Alarmed?”
She jumped at his question, and made a face. “I was merely trying to judge it objectively.”
“Were you?” He took her hand and brought it to his lips, which were shaped into a sinful half smile. To her astonishment, he licked her palm, once, twice, then each finger. It felt wicked and debauched, his tongue on her skin, and she could only stare in dazed fascination as he sucked one fingertip between his lips for a moment. Then he carried her hand lower, lower, and wrapped her fingers around his rigid member, his own hand closing over hers to keep it in place.
Penelope inhaled a strangled breath. He was thick and hot; his skin was as soft and smooth as silk. Leisurely he slid her hand down the length, right to the black hair that grew at his groin, then back up. Then he repeated the motion, his fingers tightening around hers. She felt his blood surge and his flesh quicken beneath her palm, and when a fine shudder went through his body, she instinctively smiled in female satisfaction.
“Impressed?” he rasped, stroking himself yet again with their combined grip.
She barely heard him, but managed to nod. Her skin seemed to burn where he touched her and shiver like frost where he didn’t. There was a relentless, maddening throbbing between her legs, and she couldn’t take her eyes off his erection.
“Good,” he muttered. He released her hand and pushed her shoulders. Startled, Penelope lost her balance and sprawled on the bed. Her knees came up as she tried to catch herself, but Benedict didn’t seem to mind. He pushed her thighs apart, hiking one of her knees a little higher around his waist as he did so, and then he settled the head of his cock against her and pushed.
She flinched at the invasion. Now he felt very thick and very hard, and some of the restless throbbing inside her faded. She tried to lever herself up but he put his hand, fingers spread, on the middle of her chest and held her down. “It will be easier this way,” he said, his voice ragged. Dark hair fell over his face as he loomed over her, holding her in place, forcing himself into her. Penelope gasped and wriggled as the stinging stretch grew uncomfortable. He paused for a moment, even pulled back a bit to her relief, but then he pushed forward harder than ever. She bit her lip to keep from crying out, furious with herself for being disappointed and furious at him for hurting her. He noticed; his jaw clenched and his grip on her thigh grew almost painful. He pulled back again, then drove forward so fiercely she did let out a little cry.
“That’s it,” he said, sounding as if he was holding his breath. His head sank and for a moment he just held her hips, refusing to let her wriggle away. “That’s the end of the pain.” He opened his eyes, and they seemed to blaze like blue fire. “Now it’s only pleasure, from here on.” And he laid his hand on her heaving belly and dipped his thumb into the blond curls below.
If she had thought it felt intense before when he touched her, it was nothing to this. Her body, smarting from being stretched to accommodate his, was raw and defenseless. He touched her and she shivered; he stroked her and her limbs spasmed. She writhed without thought, exquisitely conscious of him inside her, slipping in and out just a little with every movement she made. After a moment she realized he was also rocking back and forth, magnifying the advance and withdrawal. And a moment after that, she realized each thrust seemed to feed something inside her, like a clock spring being wound tighter and tighter. She focused on his face, and discovered with a mild shock that he was watching her, his attention unwavering.
“You like this,” he said, his voice a rough rumble.
She could only nod once. A dark, dangerous smile crossed his lips, and the strokes of his hips grew longer, slower, harder. His thumb still played lightly over the aching nub of flesh. He bent over her and cupped one breast, teasing her nipple with his tongue. Penelope gripped his shoulders, trying to anchor herself as the bed ropes creaked beneath their coupling. He overwhelmed her, above her, inside her, across every inch of her skin. The delicate strokes of his thumb grew firmer and more demanding. Heat seemed to be rolling through her in waves, each one stronger than the last—
And then they broke. She shook and let out a gasping moan as her body convulsed, far more powerfully than it ever had alone in her spinster’s bed. Benedict said something under his breath—it almost sounded like a curse—and pushed himself impossibly deep inside her before dropping his head right onto her bosom and shuddering.
The first thing she became aware of was the sound of her own breathing. It was harsh and labored, and sounded as if she’d run a mile. The second thing she heard was her husband’s breathing, which was even rougher than hers. She opened her eyes—which took some effort—and gazed up at the ceiling, somewhat overwhelmed. So that was making love. No wonder Constance felt ill and out of sorts when she went a fortnight between lovers.
Slowly her husband raised his head, and for a moment their eyes met. He was still inside her, still gripping her hip with one hand and her shoulder with the other. Penelope realized that one of her legs was looped over his back, and she was clutching his arm. She had never been so exposed, so uninhibited with another person, and yet felt only a vague amazement that it was with him. It must have been the brandy.
“Is that how it is in your stories?” he asked quietly. “Was that what you crave?”
A tiny tremor went through her; she could feel the vibration of his voice all the way inside her. “All that and more,” she said, feeling reckless and wild.
