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But just because she couldn’t havelovedidn’t mean she couldn’t havefun.

And judging from the night prior (not to mention the highly indelicate things that Diana had let slip over the course of her marriage), what waited ahead of her would be great fun, indeed.

Even surly Benedict seemed to be enjoying himself if the sly smile she glimpsed before he pressed her against the inside of her bedchamber door and pressed his mouth to hers was any indication. He leaned his full weight against her, and she let the syrupy feeling—now becoming familiar and honestly addictive—overtake her as he crushed her against the unyielding wood.

They kissed and kissed, a hint of bourbon on his tongue, until he (far too soon in Emily’s opinion) pulled back.

“Why!” she demanded, not even caring that she sounded terribly spoiled and petulant.

Benedict apparently did not care either. He grinned.

“I want to try something,” he said, the words eager and almost playful for all that they were lit with wicked promise. “Do you trust me?”

What a question! Emily knew it had to be some sort of lust-induced lunacy, but she found herself grinning back at him.

“Yes,” she whispered and was rewarded with another deep, probing kiss that, again, ended far too quickly.

The truly mad thing was that she did trust him. Perhaps not with her heart—he’d made it plenty clear, after all, that he had no wish to be trusted with anything so fragile as that. But no matter that they constantly snapped and swiped at one another, like angry cats posturing for the show of the thing, she had never yet been disappointed with his handling of her body.

So, whatever clearly devilish thing he wished to try?

Yes, she trusted him.

“Come,” he ordered, herding her across the room, seemingly unable to remove his hands from her. It took ages longer than it ought to have to cross from her doorway, though the small antechamber, and to her bed itself, their progress interrupted by Benedict’s wandering hands and his playful nips at her neck and shoulders where they were exposed by the neckline of her practical day gown.

“Have I ever mentioned,” he asked as he pressed hot, open-mouthed kisses to the curve of her neck, “how much I adore that you’re tall? Which of your ancestors gave you your height? I’m going to lay flowers on their grave every day of my life.”

She let out a startled laugh, half at his exaggeration, half at the absurdity of his compliment.

“You do not,” she scolded, the effect somewhat ruined by the way her words were slurred with pleasure. “I’m a giantess. Nobody likes their women this tall.”

He stopped his kissing. Rude, that.

She, in a picture of benevolence, decided to forgive him when he snaked one hand down to her belly. He pressed hard against her lower stomach, forcing her back to come more firmly in contact with his body.

With one certain part of his body in particular. One certain part that was unusually pronounced, not that Emily was any great expert.

“Tell me again how I don’t like it,” he growled against her ear, grinding himself against the soft flesh of herderriere. Emily struggled against a moan.

But she told him again anyway because she was obedient and helpful like that…and because she liked how he made his arguments to her very much, indeed.

“You don’t,” she insisted breathlessly. “I’m very, very tall.”

His hands flew to her shoulders, whirling her. In an instant, she was held tightly against him again, only now this time it was herfront that was pressed against that prominent part of him. This, she found, was even more to her liking.

He inclined his head slightly, his forehead pressing against hers.

“No,” he corrected, voice vicious in a way that made Emily shiver down to her bones. “Iam very, very tall.Youare pleasantly tall. I can say this with authority due to my superior tallness. And do you know what’s the most pleasant about how pleasantly tall you are?”

The wordtallwas starting to sound like nonsense, but Emily muddled through to find the question anyway which was no mean feat, given the blazing lust in her mind.

“No,” she said hoarsely. “What?”

“It’s that I can do this—” He kissed her swiftly, thoroughly, brutally, leaving her breathless. “—without bending at the waist. I am not a young man, darling. Have some pity for my poor back.”

Every time this playful side of him appeared, it set her reeling. She wondered if this was because it mainly occurred when he set her reeling with other affronts to her senses.

“Yes,” she agreed, falling short of insouciance. “You’re ancient. Six and twenty. We’d best arrange for pallbearers posthaste. Who knows how much time you have left to you?”