Dimly, Georgie realized that the muffled sounds of the workmen still resonated outside. She bit her lip to stifle a moan. Wylde rocked against her again, forward then back, a slow insidious rhythm that somehow managed to hit that maddening spot between her legs perfectly every time. It was exquisite torture. A sheen of sweat formed at her hairline as her body twisted and begged. Something was building inside her, and she ground against him, reaching for it, but the sensation was like an object bobbing on the water—always just out of reach.

She was so focused on where they touched that she barely registered the slam of the warehouse door, but Wylde stilled and she groaned in frustration.

“They’re gone,” he panted. “We should—”

“No! I don’t care! Benedict!” She bucked again, urging him to finish what he’d started. “Show me!”

With a half laugh, half groan, he claimed her mouth and drove his tongue deep, deliciously demanding, drinking her in, and her limbs dissolved to water. And then his hand was under her skirts, over her stockings, sliding up the smooth skin of her thigh, and she parted her legs eagerly, desperate for his touch there, where it ached. His fingers found the slit in her drawers, and she groaned into his mouth as he found the center of her body and circled the little button of flesh, sending jolts of sensation spearing through her.

Good God. She’d had no idea she could feel like this.

Both of them were panting now, their breath mingling together. Georgie arched up as his finger mimicked the action of his tongue and slid inside her. She let out a shocked gasp, torn between amazement and bliss, even as her body clenched around him. He played, in and out, winding her tighter, higher, closer, and she began to tremble as the pressure built and built until it was almost unbearable.

He seemed to know exactly how to touch her. She threw her head back, held her breath—and everything inside her shattered. She was falling, pulsing, burning up. Her vision dimmed as pleasure washed over her in endless pounding waves.

A glorious lethargy suffused her limbs. When she could finally breathe again, she became aware of Wylde, propped up on his elbow, watching her in the darkness with a faint satisfied smile.

“Now you know,” he said softly. He reached out and stroked her flushed cheek with the back of his fingers. “That really was a pleasure, Mrs. Wylde.”

Chapter 28.

Benedict couldn’t believe his voice came out as steadily as it did, considering that his hands were trembling and his heart was near to bursting out of his chest. That had been the most intense, most erotic encounter of his entire life—and he hadn’t even climaxed himself. He was still rock-hard in his breeches, and yet he wanted to laugh in sheer primitive triumph. With joy.