Benedict leaned down for one final, searing kiss as his hips surged forward. He felt her stiffen slightly around him as he broke through her maidenhead, and he bit—he actually bit his hand to keep himself from coming at that very second.
It was like he was a green lad of sixteen, not an experienced man of thirty.
She did this to him. Only her. It was a humbling thought.
Gritting his teeth against his baser urges, Benedict began to move within her, slowly stroking when what he really wanted to do was let go completely.
“Sophie, Sophie,” he grunted, repeating her name, trying to remind himself that this time was about her. He was here to please her needs, not his own.
It would be perfect. It had to be perfect. He needed her to love this. He needed her to love him.
She was quickening beneath him, and every wiggle, every squirm whipped up his own frenzy of desire. He was trying to be extra gentle for her, but she was making it so damn hard to hold back. Her hands were everywhere—on his hips, on his back, squeezing his shoulders.
“Sophie,” he moaned again. He couldn’t hold off much longer. He wasn’t strong enough. He wasn’t noble enough. He wasn’t—
“Ohhhhhhhhhhhh!”
She convulsed beneath him, her body arching off the sofa as she screamed. Her fingers bit into his back, nails raking his skin, but he didn’t care. All he knew was that she’d found her release, and it was good, and for the love of God, he could finally—
“Ahhhhhhhhhhhh!”
He exploded. There was simply no other word for it.
He couldn’t stop moving, couldn’t stop shaking, and then, in an instant, he collapsed, dimly aware that he was probably crushing her, but unable to move a single muscle.
He should say something, tell her something about how wonderful it had been. But his tongue felt thick and his lips felt heavy, and on top of all that, he could barely open his eyes. Pretty words would have to wait. He was only a man, and he had to catch his breath.
“Benedict?” she whispered.
He flopped his hand slightly against her. It was the only thing he could manage to indicate that he’d heard.
“Is it always like this?”
He shook his head, hoping that she’d feel the motion and know what it meant.
She sighed and seemed to sink deeper into the cushions. “I didn’t think so.”
Benedict kissed the side of her head, which was all that he could reach. No, it wasn’t always like this. He’d dreamed of her so many times, but this . . . This . . .
This was more than dreams.
Sophie wouldn’t have thought it possible, but she must’ve dozed off, even with the thrilling weight of Benedict pressing her down against the sofa, making it slightly difficult to breathe. He must’ve fallen asleep, too, and she woke when he woke, aroused by the sudden rush of cool air when he lifted himself off of her body.
He placed a blanket on top of her before she even had a chance to be embarrassed by her nakedness. She smiled even as she blushed, for there was little that could be done to ease her embarrassment. Not that she regretted her actions. But a woman didn’t lose her virginity on a sofa and not feel a little bit embarrassed. It simply wasn’t possible.
Still, the blanket had been a thoughtful gesture. Not a surprising one, though. Benedict was a thoughtful man.
He obviously didn’t share her modesty, though, because he made no attempt to cover himself as he crossed the room and gathered his carelessly flung garments. Sophie stared shamelessly as he pulled on his breeches. He stood straight and proud, and the smile he gave her when he caught her watching was warm and direct.
God, how she loved this man.
“How do you feel?” he asked.
“Fine,” she answered. “Good.” She smiled shyly. “Splendid.”
He picked up his shirt and stuck one arm into it. “I’ll send someone over to collect your belongings.”
Sophie blinked. “What do you mean?”
“Don’t worry, I’ll make sure he’s discreet. I know it might be embarrassing for you now that you know my family.”
Sophie clutched the blanket to her, wishing that her dress wasn’t out of reach. Because she suddenly felt ashamed. She’d done the one thing she’d always sworn she would never do, and now Benedict assumed she would be his mistress. And why shouldn’t he? It was a fairly natural assumption.
“Please don’t send anyone over,” she said, her voice small.
He glanced at her in surprise. “You’d rather go yourself?”
“I’d rather my things stayed where they were,” she said softly. It was so much easier saying that than telling him directly that she would not become his mistress.
Once, she could forgive. Once, she could even cherish. But a lifetime with a man who was not her husband—that she knew she could not do.
Sophie looked down at her belly, praying that there would be no child to be brought into the world illegitimately.
“What are you telling me?” he said, his eyes intent upon her face.
Damn. He wasn’t going to allow her to take the easy way out. “I’m saying,” she said, gulping against the boulder-sized lump that had suddenly developed in her throat, “that I cannot be your mistress.”
“What do you call this?” he asked in a tight voice, waving his arm at her.
“I call it a lapse in judgment,” she said, not meeting his eyes.
“Oh, so I’m a lapse?” he said, his tone unnaturally pleasant. “How nice. I don’t believe I’ve ever been someone’s lapse before.”
“You know that’s not the way I meant it.”
“Do I?” He grabbed one of his boots and perched on the arm of a chair so that he could yank it on. “Frankly, my dear, I have no idea what you mean anymore.”
“I shouldn’t have done this—”
He whipped his head around to face her, his hot, flashing eyes at odds with his bland smile. “Now I’m a shouldn’t? Excellent. Even better than a lapse. Shouldn’t sounds much naughtier, don’t you think? A lapse is merely a mistake.”
“There is no need to be so ugly about this.”
He cocked his head to the side as if he were truly considering her words. “Is that what I’m being? I rather thought I was acting in a most friendly and understanding manner. Look, no yelling, no histrionics . . .”
“I’d prefer yelling and histrionics to this.”
He scooped up her dress and threw it at her, none too gently. “Well, we don’t always get what we prefer, do we, Miss Beckett? I can certainly attest to that.”
She grabbed her dress and stuffed it under the covers with her, hoping that she’d eventually find a way to don it without moving the blanket.
“It’ll be a neat trick if you figure out how to do it,” he said, giving her a condescending glance.
She glared at him. “I’m not asking you to apologize.”
“Well, that’s a relief. I doubt I could find the words.”
“Please don’t be so sarcastic.”
His smile was mocking in the extreme. “You’re hardly in a position to ask me anything.”
“Benedict . . .”
He loomed over her, leering rudely. “Except, of course, to rejoin you, which I’d gladly do.”
She said nothing.
“Do you understand,” he said, his eyes softening slightly, “what it feels like to be pushed away? How many times do you expect you can reject me before I stop trying?”
“It’s not that I want to—”
“Oh, stop with that old excuse. It’s grown tired. If you wanted to be with me, you would be with me. When you say no, it’s because you want to say no.”
“You don’t understand,” she said in a low voice. “You’ve always been in a position where you could do what you wanted. Some of us don’t have that luxury.”
“Silly me. I thought I was offering you that very luxury.”
“The luxury to be your mistress,” she said bitterly.
He crossed his arms, his lips twisting as he said, “You won’t have to do anything you haven’t already done.”
“I got carried away,” Sophie said slowly, trying to ignore his insult. It was no more than she deserved. She had slept with him. Why shouldn’t he think she would be his mistress? “I made a mistake,” she continued. “But that doesn’t mean I should do it again.”
“I can offer you a better life,” he said in a low voice.
She shook her head. “I won’t be your mistress. I won’t be any man’s mistress.”