He reached the bed and knelt over her, his eyes dark. He reached for the plate that held the remains of the gateau by the bedside.
“I like a bit of play.”
“Aye?”
“You taste of the stars and trouble, my Highland duchess,” he whispered, before trailing a tiny sliver of the rich, dark chocolate down the curve of her throat. “I find I have acquired a taste for both.”
He brought his mouth down and licked the dark, sweet cream. Then, he swiped another taste and trailed it from her collarbone to her breasts to the flat plane of her tight belly.
Isla arched beneath him, gasping, her control shredding under the intimate, sensual focus of his attention as she waited for the feeling of his tongue on her skin.
“Shall I have another taste, sweet duchess?” He purred as he lowered his head once more to lick the trail of sweet chocolate, proceeding to worship her body with his mouth. “You taste like Heaven…”
When he finally rose, poised above her, his breathing ragged, his eyes were blazing.
“Normally, I would make sure you are good and ready for me, but something tells me you already are,” he rasped as he undid his pants.
“Aye, I am ready for ye, husband,” she whispered.
He entered her then, slow and deep, filling the aching void she had felt all evening.
“Mine, Isla,” he groaned into her mouth, moving with the deep, possessive rhythm she craved more than oxygen itself.
“Always,” she purred as she wrapped her legs tight around him, as he pounded into her again and again.
He drove them both higher and higher, the passion fierce and undeniable, praising her with every thrust.
“You. Are. My. Good. Girl.”
“Aye, Benedict!”
As the familiar, unbearable pressure mounted, Benedict abruptly paused, his breath hitching as he wiped sweat from his brow. He pulled back, his jaw tight with the effort of control, escaping her body just as his release shattered through him, spilling himself on her belly.
“Mine,” he said as he collapsed on her, his heart hammering against her chest.
Isla simply held him, stroking his damp hair. His fierce control and protective instinct, even in the height of passion, only cemented the profound, deep faith she had placed in him.
Chapter Twenty-One
The warm scents of bacon and coffee wafted through the Ealdwick Townhouse. The carriages were already drawn up outside, polished to a high sheen, and the crest of the family gleaming on the doors. A mountain of luggage waited in the entrance hall.
Benedict stood by the drawing-room fireplace, his back to the smoldering embers, consulting with his estate manager, Mr. Fredrickson. He wore a heavy, charcoal-gray traveling coat, ready for the journey.
“That will be all, Your Grace,” he said as he took the last of the papers. “We will be sure the townhouse is kept in perfect order until Your Graces are ready to return. I also can confirm your other properties are doing well and are ready for the winter. Shall we provide the appropriate holiday bonuses to the usual staff?”
“Yes,” Benedict said as he put on his gloves. “With a five percent increase, and ten for yourself.”
“Your Grace, that is incredibly generous for this time of year. I cannot tell you how much Mrs. Frederickson will appreciate this. She is with child you know…”
“I did not know,” Benedict said as he clapped him on the shoulder. “Make it fifteen percent then.”
“Thank you! A most happy Christmas to you and your beautiful family, Your Grace,” the man said as he exited the room with his files.
Across the hall, in the morning room, Isla was supervising the packing of delicate personal effects she had procured while at the market the other day. A maid carefully tucked a set of porcelain trinkets into a padded box while Isla reviewed a list of items to be left behind for when they return.
“Where is Oliver?” Benedict asked as he walked into the morning room, tugging on his gloves in preparation for the cold journey.
“I believe he is just in the main hall, Your Grace,” a footman said with a bow, carrying one last parcel out to the coach.
