But Benedict seemed in no hurry to oblige. In fact, he drew back again, and she bit back a moan of frustration. He lifted first one foot, then the other, and rid her of her shoes; they hit the rug in a succession of quiet thuds. Then he slid his hand up her shin until he reached the ribbon tie of her garter. With the slightest pressure, he urged her to bend her knee and open her body to him.

Georgie shivered, even as her skin flushed with embarrassment. A small lamp had been left burning in the room, and when she complied, she knew she was completely open to his gaze. He hadn’t been able to see her in the submarine; she’d been shielded by her skirts and the darkness. Now, he could see everything, demand everything. No modesty. Complete surrender.

He was still completely clothed. Suddenly shy, she slid her hand down and tried to cover herself, but he kissed the sensitive skin on the inside of her knee.

“Don’t hide from me, Georgie. Let me see you.”

He slid his hands higher, up to her thighs, and pressed a kiss there too. Her stomach tensed in anticipation, but he simply looked at her, and the heat in his gaze somehow transferred itself to her skin. She burned. He licked his lips, his gaze between her legs. “Now this? This is worthy of a stanza or two.” His fingers crept higher, and she fought the urge to beg. “I can see how a man might be inspired to write a sonnet about this.” His expression turned wicked. “Of course, anticipation is sometimes the best part. Will you be hot? Wet?”

His fingers found her, a slow caress that circled with agonizing leisure.

Oh, yes.

“What will you taste like, I wonder?” he murmured dreamily, and she frowned as her slow brain struggled to made sense of the words. Taste?

His breath warmed her skin a moment before his mouth joined his fingers.

Oh, God.

Pleasure hit her like a lightning strike, and she almost bowed off the bed. It was agony. It was sublime. He licked her deeply, penetrating her, drinking her in. Georgie writhed and bucked, but he steadied her with a hand on her hip, urging her to accept his glorious ministrations. He lifted his head, and his cheeks were flushed. “Sugar and spice and all things nice,” he murmured. “That’s what Mrs. Wylde tastes of.”

He bent again, and she tightened her knees around his shoulders as he used his tongue in a wicked counterpoint to his nimble fingers. Heat built, and tension, and she clutched his hair, trying to hold him closer.

Yes. So close. More.