An Offer From a Gentleman (Bridgertons 3)

He was so warm, and even though his muscles were hard and powerful, his skin was seductively soft. He even smelled good, a warm masculine mixture of sandalwood and soap.

Sophie touched her fingers to his hair as he moved to nuzzle her neck. It was thick and springy, and it tickled her chin as he tickled her neck. “Oh, Benedict,” she sighed. “This is so perfect. I can’t imagine anything better.”

He looked up, his dark eyes as wicked as his smile. “I can.”

She felt her lips part and knew she must look terribly foolish, just lying there staring at him like an idiot.

“Just you wait,” he said. “Just you wait.”

“But— Oh!” She let out a squeal as he flipped off her shoes. One of his hands wrapped around her ankle, then teased its way up her leg.

“Did you imagine this?” he asked, tracing the crease at the back of her knee.

She shook her head frantically, trying not to squirm.

“Really?” he murmured. “Then I’m sure you didn’t imagine this.” He reached up and unsnapped her garters.

“Oh, Benedict, you mustn’t—”

“Oh, no, I must.” He slid her stockings down her legs with agonizing slowness. “I really must.”

Sophie watched with openmouthed delight as he tossed them over his head. Her stockings weren’t of the highest quality, but they were nonetheless fairly light, and they floated through the air like dandelion tufts until they landed, one on a lamp and the other on the floor.

Then, while she was still laughing and looking at the stocking, hanging drunkenly from the lampshade, he sneaked up on her, sliding his hands back up her legs until they reached all the way to her thighs.

“I daresay no one has ever touched you here,” he said wickedly.

Sophie shook her head.

“And I daresay you never imagined it.”

She shook her head again.

“If you didn’t imagine this . . .” He squeezed her thighs, causing her to squeal and arch off the sofa. “. . . then I’m sure you won’t have imagined this.” He trailed his fingers ever upward as he spoke, the rounded curves of his nails lightly grazing her skin until he reached the soft thatch of her womanhood.

“Oh, no,” she said, more out of reflex than anything else. “You can’t—”

“Oh, but I can. I assure you.”

“But— Ooooooh.” It was suddenly as if her brain had flown right out the window, because it was near impossible to think of anything while his fingers were tickling her. Well, almost anything. She seemed able to think about how utterly naughty this was and how very much she didn’t want him to stop.

“What are you doing to me?” she gasped, her every muscle tightening as he moved his fingers in a particularly wicked manner.

“Everything,” he returned, capturing her lips with his. “Anything you want.”

“I want— Oh!”

“Like that, do you?” His words were murmured against her cheek.

“I don’t know what I want,” she breathed.

“I do.” He moved to her ear, nibbling softly on her lobe. “I know exactly what you want. Trust me.”

And it was as easy as that. She gave herself over to him completely—not that she hadn’t been nearly to that point already. But when he said, “Trust me,” and she realized that she did, something changed slightly inside. She was ready for this. It was still wrong, but she was ready, and she wanted it, and for once in her life she was going to do something wild and crazy and completely out of character.

Just because she wanted to.

As if he’d read her thoughts, he pulled away a few inches and cupped one cheek with his large hand. “If you want me to stop,” he said, his voice achingly hoarse, “you need to tell me now. Not in ten minutes, not even in one. It has to be now.”

Touched that he would even take the time to ask, she reached up and cupped his cheek in the same way he held hers. But when she opened her mouth to speak, the only word she could manage was, “Please.”

His eyes flared with need, and then, as if something snapped within him, he changed in an instant. Gone was the gentle, languorous lover. In his place was a man gripped by desire. His hands were everywhere, on her legs, around her waist, touching her face. And before Sophie knew it, her dress was gone, on the floor next to one of her stockings. She was completely nude, and it felt very odd but somehow also very right as long as he was touching her.

The sofa was narrow, but that didn’t seem to matter as Benedict yanked off his boots and breeches. He perched alongside her as his boots went flying, unable to stop touching her, even as he divested himself of his clothing. It took longer to get naked, but on the other hand, he had the oddest notion that he might perish on the spot if he moved from her side.

He’d thought he’d wanted a woman before. He’d thought he’d needed one. But this—this went beyond both. This was spiritual. This was in his soul.

His clothes finally gone, he lay back on top of her, pausing for one shuddering moment to savor the feel of her beneath him, skin to skin, head to toe. He was hard as a rock, harder than he could ever remember, but he fought against his impulses, and tried to move slowly.

This was her first time. It had to be perfect.

Or if not perfect, then damn good.

He snaked a hand between them and touched her. She was ready—more than ready for him. He slipped one finger inside of her, grinning with satisfaction as her entire body jerked and tensed around him.

“That’s very—” Her voice was raspy, her breathing labored. “Very—”

“Strange?” he finished for her.

She nodded.

He smiled. Slowly, like a cat. “You’ll get used to it,” he promised. “I plan to get you very used to it.”

Sophie’s head lolled back. This was madness. Fever. Something was building inside of her, deep in her gut, coiling, pulsing, making her rigid. It was something that needed release, something that grabbed at her, and yet even with all this pressure, it felt so spectacularly wonderful, as if she’d been born for this very moment.

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“Oh, Benedict,” she sighed. “Oh, my love.”

He froze—just for a fraction of a second, but it was long enough for her to know that he’d heard her. But he didn’t say a word, just kissed her neck and squeezed her leg as he positioned himself between her thighs and nudged at her entrance.

Her lips parted with shock.

“Don’t worry,” he said in an amused voice, reading her mind as always. “It will work.”

“But—”

“Trust me,” he said, the words murmured against her lips.

Slowly, she felt him entering her. She was being stretched, invaded, and yet she wouldn’t say it felt bad, exactly. It was . . . It was . . .

He touched her cheek. “You look serious.”

“I’m trying to decide how this feels,” she admitted.

“If you have the presence of mind to do that, then I’m certainly not doing a good enough job.”

Startled, she looked up. He was smiling at her, that crooked grin that never failed to reduce her to mush.

“Stop thinking so hard,” he whispered.

“But it’s difficult not to— Oh!” And then her eyes rolled back as she arched beneath him.

Benedict buried his head in her neck so she wouldn’t see his amused expression. It seemed the best way for him to keep her from overanalyzing a moment that should have been pure sensation and emotion was for him to keep moving.

And he did. Inexorably forward, sliding in and out until he reached the fragile barrier of her maidenhead.

He winced. He’d never been with a virgin before. He’d heard it hurt, that there was nothing a man could do to eliminate the pain for the woman, but surely if he was gentle, it would go easier for her.

He looked down. Her face was flushed, and her breath was rapid. Her eyes were glazed, dazed, clearly rapt with passion.

It fueled his own fire. God, he wanted her so badly his bones ached.

“This might hurt,” he lied. It would hurt. But he was stuck between wanting to give her the truth so that she would be prepared and giving her the softer version so that she would not be nervous.

“I don’t care,” she gasped. “Please. I need you.”