“Pretty,” he remarked as he lifted and handed it off.
Eliza, anticipating his next request, stepped out of her silver slippers as soon as he pulled at the knot tied around her ankle.
Benedict admired her dainty feet, so much smaller than his own, for a moment before drawing his gaze upward. Eliza’s stockings were finer than they had any right to be, all lace and silk fastened with a little violet-colored ribbon. Benedict plucked at the bow and guided the stocking down Eliza’s luscious calf. He couldn’t resist the urge to press closer, drag his lips along her lower thigh, breathe in her scent.
She was warmer here, earthier and more sensual, but that hint of violets remained. Benedict couldn’t imagine Eliza placing her perfume here—the very notion would scandalize her. He now wondered if she bathed with the petals. That thought threatened to overwhelm him.
Benedict caught her gaze again, sliding his hands along her thighs, over the glorious curve of her bottom to catch the waist of her drawers. He begged wordlessly for an unobstructed view.
Her pink tongue darted between her lips before she said, “Yes,” her voice hoarse with want. It lent a low, sensual note to the word.
“Thank you,” he groaned, reverent, devout now that he had been given permission to idolize her properly. His forehead fell to her lower belly, above where her skirts were gathered, too overwhelmed to breathe for a moment.
Because Eliza was allowing this, wanted this—him. He could not be such a wretched creature if she could allow him to touch her with sullied hands.
His fingers slipped into the ties of her drawers and guided them down the tantalizing curve of her hips. Eliza’s free hand fellto his shoulder, grasping for balance as he helped her step free. A sharp snap of pain threatened to draw him from the moment, but it was vanquished by the sight of her—the treasure that awaited him between Eliza’s thighs, spread open for his perusal. A flower, with individual petals, dampening for him. Benedict breathed in the nectar of her, his cock hardening to the point of pain.
He was a letch, he knew that. But he could please her so well while he debauched her. Until she wouldn’t, couldn’t spare another glance at that Bellemere boy. Until she couldn’t bear to leave him or the pleasure he could give her. Maybe, just maybe, if he was good enough, she could love him, forgive him.
“Eliza,” he implored, gaze flicking up to catch hers.. “Please.” He wasn’t even certain what he was begging for: permission, forgiveness, love. It hardly mattered.
“Yes, Benedict.” His name falling from her lips once again—after only a single night as Sinclair—left him weak, strung tight as his lips fell to the velvet of her thigh. Her skin tasted of salt and her honey, and with one sip he was addicted. How could he ever go back to a life without this, without her?
Eliza’s groan, mingled with his own, was a melody more beautiful than that of the courtesan on stage in the house. Benedict allowed himself the impossible luxury of tracing the evidence of her pleasure to its source with his tongue.
Those lovely, gentle fingers he’d so admired speared their way into his hair, clutching him to her center, as if he ever intended to leave the heaven he’d claimed. Usually tender and kind in her touch, Eliza was demanding, greedy in her arousal. Benedict’s cock throbbed, a dampness forming in his trousers to match Eliza’s—though not nearly so wondrous.
His tongue lapped at her entrance, and he wondered if it was possible to drown in her. Her thighs dimpled under his fingers. All he could make out was the slick slide of his tongue along hersex, the rustle of too many layers of the finest silks and linens, and the needy whimpers falling from his Eliza’s lips with each greedy lick.
Eliza’s fist, still clenched in his hair, tugged slightly, just enough for him to read her and move to the dainty pearl at her apex.
“Benedict,” she gasped, as he answered her wordless need.
His prick ached for attention, but he hadn’t earned that, not yet. Perhaps this would be his punishment for his sins. What a sweet torment that would be, an eternity spent supping on Eliza’s pleasure while his cock begged for a taste of its own, for the pleasure her channel promised. A torturous heaven that would be.
“Benedict, I—” She broke off with another devastating whimper. Sensing a change in her breathing, in the squeezing of her thighs, in the grasp of her fingers, Benedict’s gaze snapped to hers, catching the rich golden mahogany of her eyes with his own.
He watched the precise moment the truth washed over her. Her expression softened, lips parting as her fingers loosened, then glided down to caress his cheek.
She knew now that this was no seduction, no ruination, no scheme. It was only Eliza and Benedict together in that orangery. Only a man desperately devoted to a woman, determined to prove his sincerity in a way that inadequate, insignificant words never could.
Refusing to relinquish her gaze, he pressed a kiss to her wrist before redoubling his praise of that little bud that ripped devastating gasps and moans from Eliza’s chest. Those ruinous sounds increased in pitch and volume as her pleasure grew.
Benedict, the greedy supplicant, could not bear to draw out her peak for the length of even another breath. He swirled his tongue hard before drawing her pearl into his mouth.
Eliza shattered, hand fisting in her skirts while the other curled around his throat. A supple thigh quaked at his shoulder as her little toes curled against his flank. Benedict was far too drunk on her pleasure to recall even the memory of pain.
He drew a tentative finger across her entrance, watching in aroused fascination as she pulsed in rhythmic pleasure.
At her knees he remained, quite contented to coax her cunny through the lingering shudders until she was finished with him. His cock protested the lack of attention, but this was not the moment for such things—perhaps someday, if he proved his trustworthiness and earned her forgiveness.
His violet was flushed a becoming pink across her cheeks clear down to the wide neckline of her gown, her breaths coming in gasping pants, occasionally interrupted with little trembles. But her eyes were clear.
Eliza saw him, had understood what he hadn’t the words for. Her hand slipped back up to cup his cheek, thumb brushing along the bone. Slowly, gently, she raked her short nails through the locks at his temple before curling to rest at the nape. Every single tendon in his body abandoned its efforts, leaving him a boneless heap at her feet—only held aloft by her tender fingers.
“Benedict,” she breathed, increasing pressure to the back of his neck. His feet scrambled for purchase, knees slow to cooperate, as he rose to accommodate her wishes.
The hand clutching her skirts loosened, letting the fabric waterfall between them before joining its twin in threading through the close-cropped strands at his hairline. His heart swelled, threatening to burst with hope at the gesture. Eliza clutched at him as though he were hers.
