Her whimper was shameful, but no more so than his groan.
“Eliza…God.” His voice broke as his hand cradled her waist, guiding her closer. One after the other, he shut the French doors with his free hand.
In a blink, he had her caged between his frame and the side of the house. His ragged breath mingled with hers, and she could taste the honeyed, caramel malt of scotch.
Sinclair—Benedict, she couldn’t call him Sinclair while pressed against him in this way, not even in her mind—radiated warmth where his chest glanced along her breasts. The wayhis arm braced against the brick wall of the house, the other soon joining it, left her dizzy, overwhelmed. He was everything. Everything she could see. Everything she could hear. Everything she could smell. Everything she could feel. She was greedy for evenmore.
“I don’t know what I’m doing here. I shouldn’t be here, Eliza. Tell me to go. Please.” His voice broke on the plea. Eliza had never seen such an expression on his beautiful face. He was… overwhelmed. There was an aching desperation in the breathless set of his lips and the need in his gaze…
“I don’t want you to go.” The words escaped without thought, but thoughtlessness made them no less true.
“What do you want?” he begged in a rumble.
Gooseflesh danced down her spine. “I...”
“I’ll give you anything, everything I have.”
“Benedict—”
“God, the way you say it…” His forehead fell to her shoulder, his nose dragging along the sensitive flesh at the side of her throat. “Say it again?”
Eliza was incapable of denying him anything. “Benedict.”
“Someday… someday you’ll cry my name when you climax. That sound is going to haunt me.” The words frayed at the edges, ragged with sentiment.
The gravel of his voice against her flesh was a sensual drug, leaving her weak. She reached out to touch the wavy locks that tempted her fingers—thick and unbearably soft. She raked her nails along the base of his scalp before pulling his face from her neck. His groan was too loud in the moonlit garden. He leaned into her touch like a cat seeking scritches.
“Shh.” Eliza brushed a finger over his full lips—a pretense to satisfy her own curiosity. Benedict caught her hand again and dropped a kiss on her palm, more sensual than anything she’d experienced, before moving to her wrist.
“Benedict!” she cried on a whispered inhale.
“Yes, Eliza,” he breathed against her fluttering pulse, her name a caress. “What else do you want?”
“I—”
Long fingers abandoned her wrist and found her cheek. Hers were left to brush along the biting stubble of his jaw. His hand was so large, so immense, that his fingers curved around the back of her neck even as his palm engulfed her jaw, thumb brushing along her cheekbone.
“I’m going to hell, Eliza. But I’m going to make it so good for you. I promise.”
“I-I don’t understand.”
“I know, little violet. I know. Can I— I want to try something.”
“Anything.” Her heart flipped at his endearment, her thumb brushing along his temple.
Benedict’s head hinged back with a groan. When he straightened, his hand slid farther back, fingers curling around her neck. “Don’t say that. Please don’t give me that power. But this—yes, to this.”
“Yes?”
“I’ll stop. I’ll always stop,” he vowed.
“Alright.” She nodded. Her hands found his jaw. She trapped him in place, claiming his gaze. “Alright.”
His forehead dropped to hers as he inched the gap between them closed.
Eliza’s breath hitched when his knee slotted between hers. Her fingers slid back to clutch at his shoulder. Between them, Benedict’s swallow was pointed, loud. He released a shuddering exhale, mingling with her own.
Comprehension dawned when his other hand abandoned her waist to trail down to her hip. There, he tenderly, so unbearably gently, guided her hip to rock against his thigh.
