Leaving Cad in a bruised heap upon the ground, you and Benedict hurry out a side exit of the labyrinth and into the servants’ quarters. The housekeeper, a fine woman, finds you a pitcher of water, some cloths and bandages, and a spare room. She then leaves you there in privacy.
“Allow me,” you say as you help a wincing Benedict out of his shirt. Your eyes lock with his silver-gray ones, which smolder at your touch. Running your hand over his powerful form, you try to keep your mind on the task at hand and ease him into a seat.
You turn and soak one of the cloths, then wipe some of the dirt and blood from Benedict’s firm pectorals, biting your lip at the sight of his deeply masculine chest. It is dusted with dark hair that leads down in a trail from the V of his lower torso to his…
Enough! You have a wounded man to tend to, not slobber over. “This might sting a little,” you murmur as you apply an astringent salve to grazes that lace his firmly muscled left shoulder. Benedict’s breath contracts with pain, but he remains still.
“I—I must apologize to you, I think,” he says. His formerly arrogant eyes are awash with contrition.
“I think I owe you an apology as well,” you admit. “I feel I went too far.”
“You were trying to help. Even though you had every reason to despise me, you still tried to help,” he says in wonder. “That is not a thing to apologize for. It is a thing to be admired.” He chuckles under his breath. “It’s funny. All my life I have tried to avoid love—after witnessing the misery that was my parents’ marriage.” His expression takes on an intensity that makes you giddy. “After seeing how heartbroken my mother was when my father deserted her, I never really forgave him. Or trusted love.”
“I see,” you say quietly, trying to hide your devastation at this confession. As you turn away slowly, he gently grabs your wrist.
“But you don’t see!” he says in a voice so low you feel it travel down your spine. You turn back and stare at him for a few loaded moments as you watch this man, normally so composed, struggle to find words.
“I—it—it is strange.”
“Strange?” you say in a whisper.
“Yes.” Benedict stands and gently brushes the hair out of your eyes. “Strange that at this moment, when everything I have has been taken from me, when I should be feeling entirely lost…I don’t.”
You scarcely believe what you are hearing. He smiles at you, genuinely this time, his eyes darkened with desire.
“No?” you manage to say. He shakes his head.
“No. Instead, for the first time I finally feel complete.” And with that he sweeps you into an ardent embrace.
Your knees buckle as you kiss him with a ferocity that is matched only by his own.
“Oh, Benedict, you fool,” you sigh.
You feel his mouth smile against yours.
“Indeed. It is just my luck that when I finally feel this way, it is with a woman who drives me to distraction.” You look up as laughter and desire dance in those steel-gray eyes.
“Truly, we are the unluckiest pair that has ever lived,” you counter, “for the feeling is mutual.”
“A tragedy, indeed,” he says as he kisses you again, and you both tumble onto a nearby settee.
Benedict trails a stream of kisses from your mouth, down your neck, to your décolletage. Your back arches and you dig your fingers into his disheveled dark hair.
“We really should stop now,” he murmurs, his mouth having reached the opening of your scandalously ripped bodice.
“You’re probably right,” you say as he rips it open even further and exposes a heaving breast. His wicked mouth opens, and his tongue traces the outline of your silken rosebud nipple as you squirm against him.
“This is a terrible idea,” he whispers as his hand travels slowly up your trembling legs to the petal-soft folds of your womanhood.
“Indeed,” you cry, heat pooling deep within your secret center as he strokes the glistening pearl at the apex of your thighs. “Quite the worst idea we have ever had, really.”
His head rises to meet yours as he looks into your eyes with questioning intensity. You hold his face with trembling hands, knowing that despite your passion, fate may yet tear you apart.
Rafe’s claim to his fortune, however false, may not be disproved. Benedict may still misguidedly refuse to do anything about it, out of love for his sister. Poverty may force him to marry an heiress…of the sort you are far from being. A long and dreary life of tending to the Dowager Dragon and embroidering her undergarments may await.
Regardless, this is hot. Do you throw caution to the wind and fornicate? Turn to .
Or are you worried about your chances of happiness together in this cold and cruel world which conspires against your wishes, your desires, and your happiness? Is it, therefore, a better idea to just, ah, fool around? Turn to .