“Hush. Be a good patient for me.”
Benedict was grateful she was occupied digging in the basket he’d indicated and did not see his reaction to that order—which he followed promptly and entirely without intent.
When she glanced up, she froze for a moment before jolting back into motion. She held a roll of old linen strips, anapothecary tincture, and a small jar of honey he kept for this purpose. She placed the items on the bed beside him before carrying the ewer over and setting it on the bedside table.
“Oh,” she whispered, catching sight of her glove resting there.
Benedict’s eyelids slid shut as shame overwhelmed him. She would know. He didn’t know how, but she would know the way he’d used her glove, and she would be revolted.
“You know, that was the most erotic moment of my life—until last night.”
His heart stopped. “What?” he blurted.
“When you took my glove. I’ve never— You left me quite flustered.” There was nothing accusatory or displeased in her tone. And her expression—a becoming flush bloomed on her cheeks as she settled beside himon thebed. His prick gave an appreciative twitch even as he willed it to behave.
“It might have been the most erotic moment of my life as well.”
She tutted, busying herself with unraveling a few of the linen strips. “Don’t be silly.”
“I’m not. You’re—” He shook his head. “I’m not an innocent. You know that. But it’s— You’re different.”
“Different how?” she asked, lips curved into a perfect O.
“Just… the way you make me feel—protective, tender—I’ve never felt those things before.”
“And you do with me?”
“Yes.”
She swallowed before turning back to her linen strips and dropped one in the ewer. It dribbled over the bed coverings when she fished it out. Dark eyes met his as her teeth caught her lower lip. Slowly, and oh, so gently, she brought the cloth up to his lip. She worked at the dried blood he was certain was there.
“You make me feel that way too. Protective, tender. I didn’t like seeing you hurt tonight.”
“I’m not usually quite this beat up. I was distracted.”
“Anything I can help with?” she asked, dragging the cloth along his throat to his chest.
Benedict was almost positive there was no more blood there, only bruising. But he wasn’t a good enough man to stop her—not with her parted lips and hungry eyes.
“No, it’s… no.” Industrious fingers slid down his chest, down, down toward his breeches. He coughed, then caught her hand in his. “He’s not allowed to hit me there.”
“I was being thorough,” she retorted with a cheeky grin. The deepening, flaming flush on her cheeks lessened the effect. Her gaze dropped to the cuts on his knuckles, for she set to work cleaning them.
Finally, when she seemed satisfied, she reached for the tincture. “I can manage that,” he said. There was no way he would survive the sight or sensation of her tiny hands rubbing the salve on his chest.
Her gaze caught his, studying before breaking off to find the jar of honey. She opened it and dipped her ring finger inside, then brought the finger up to his lower lip, drawing it along the split.
When her eyes skimmed up to his, Benedict was lost. No one had ever needed to be kissed the way Eliza did in that moment—he was certain of it. He shouldn’t want her hands on him, shouldn’t want her lips, shouldn’t want her tenderness—but God help him, he wanted all of it.
The hell with it!
Benedict was a mere mortal; a saint could not be expected to resist Eliza.
His hand found her jaw, cupping it. He covered the entirety of her cheek in his palm, fingertips curling around the back of her neck.
Eliza reached up to tangle her fingers in the damp locks at the back of his head.
He swallowed. “I need to kiss you. Please, Eliza.” Benedict was not above begging. Not tonight, at least, with his blood still thrumming from the fight, rushing from the sight and smell ofher.
