Page 31 of A Devil in Silk (Tales from The Burnished Jade #3)

Chapter Sixteen

Clara didn’t know it was possible to feel so many things at once. Atop the tower, exhilaration had flooded her veins, yet it paled beside the thrill of Bentley’s mouth tracing hot kisses along her jaw.

At the seance, she’d felt fear. But it was nothing compared to the thought of living without this, his hands gripping her bottom, the solid press of his body, stoking the ache low in her belly.

She lusted after adventure, but not as fiercely as she lusted after him. She craved risk, but not half as much as she craved the safety of his strong embrace.

“I need you out of these clothes, Clara, before I lose my damn mind. I need you naked and in my bed.”

The thought was more thrilling than the prospect of soaring high in Mr Green’s balloon or racing hell-for-leather along Rotten Row.

Bentley stepped back, shrugging out of his coat and tossing it aside. His blue eyes no longer resembled a calm sea but the crest of a storm-tossed wave, dark, wild, and fixed entirely on her.

“I can peel you out of them slowly,” he said, tugging at his waistcoat with such urgency that a gold button went skittering across the rug, “or I could be wicked and ruin that sumptuous dress.”

She tipped her chin, heart pounding. “Surprise me.”

“It’s dangerous to give an aroused man free rein.” His cravat was already on the floor, his shirt following in one swift motion.

“I live for danger, remember?”

The sight of him, all bare skin and hard muscle, stole her next breath. Her fingers itched to touch him, to map every ridge and hollow, to learn him by feel rather than sight.

She closed the gap between them and rested her fingertips on his chest. Oh, he was so warm, so smooth, so undeniably male. “I always knew you’d look incredible. But I’ve longed to know how it feels to touch you, Bentley.”

A groan rumbled in his throat. “I’ve imagined this a hundred times too. Don’t stop there.”

His hand closed over hers, guiding her palm over the hard planes. The heat of his skin, the hammering beat of his heart, it was all for her.

“You’re such a contradiction,” she whispered, inhaling the earthy scent of his body. “Soft to touch, all brute strength beneath.”

“Wait until you feel how hard I am. Do you want to know what you do to me? How you drive me mindless with need?”

God help her, she wanted nothing more. “Show me.”

He guided her hand lower, the muscles in his abdomen as taut as braided rope, until she found the solid length straining against his trousers. Heat pulsed through the fabric, urgent beneath her palm.

“Stroke me.”

Her stomach tightened at his shocking command. “Like this?”

She knew the answer when she wrapped her hand around the thick length and worked him through the fine wool. His breath hissed between his teeth, head tipping back as he growled, “That’s so damn good.”

Feeling oddly empowered, Clara tightened her grip. Each stroke drew another shudder from him, another ragged gasp, until she realised she was the one in control, the one undoing him.

A wicked thought popped into her head.

The need to prove she was a devil in silk.

His devil.

Before she could talk herself out of it, her fingers were at the fastenings of his trousers, fumbling from urgency, not fear. One button popped free, then another, until she pushed the fabric low and freed him.

Sweet mercy!

If she’d ever needed a definition of raw, unrestrained power, this was it.

“Clara … wait.”

But she didn’t. She curled her fingers around him, the weight of him hot and heavy in her palm, startling and intoxicating all at once.

Bentley’s breath hitched as he closed his hand over hers, not to stop her, but to guide her pace. “Clara. You undo me. Every damn time you touch me.”

How fortunate, touching him topped her list.

Emboldened, she drew her hand in long, slow strokes, each groan and jerk of his hips a small victory. He was so thick, so perfectly hard, that the thought of claiming him felt like a conquest worthy of London’s boldest adventuress.

“Clara! If you keep this up?—”

His warning died as he caught her wrist, dragging her flush against him. His mouth claimed hers, hot and hungry, his restraint torn to shreds. He walked her back in a fevered rush, trousers hanging low on his lean hips, the crown of his arousal gleaming in the candlelight.

He drove her back until the bed caught her knees, his hands already shoving fabric upward in a tangled rush. He kissed her like a man starved, breaking only to fight with buttons and laces, desperate to strip away every barrier between them.

Silk whispered to the floor. Gown, petticoat, each layer revealing more until she wore only her stockings.

A cool draught brushed her bare skin, pebbling her nipples.

Bentley’s gaze lingered, dark and intent, hunger simmering in its depths. His hand raked over his mouth as though to restrain himself, yet the look in his eyes told her exactly what he wanted—to bow his head and worship the rosy peaks of her breasts.

Her knees nearly gave way when he finally did.

His mouth closed over one tight bud, his tongue circling in slow, maddening strokes. A startled gasp escaped her, followed by a moan she couldn’t contain.

“Whatever you do, don’t stop.”

He obeyed, sucking gently, then harder, his hand cupping her breast, thumb teasing the neglected peak until every nerve in her body sang. A deep, pulsing need built low inside her, sharper than any thrill she’d ever chased.

Don’t let this night end.

He raised his head just enough to meet her gaze. “I could spend a lifetime learning every inch of you, and still crave more.”

She wanted to say she could stay here with him forever, but the words lodged in her throat, too raw, too dangerous to speak aloud.

“I’ve dreamed of doing this so many times.” It was the only truth she dared to admit.

“And I’ve dreamed of you,” he murmured, the words rough, torn from somewhere deep.

He reached for the jewelled comb in her hair, tugged it free, then removed each pin, setting them on the nightstand. When the last one fell away, her hair spilled over her shoulders in midnight waves.

“God above,” he breathed, sinking his fingers into the silken strands. “Do you know what it does to me, seeing you like this? Knowing I’m the only man you’d trust to see you bared?”

The truth of those words settled deep. She trusted him, more than anyone on this earth. “I’m not entirely bare.”

A sensual hum vibrated in his chest. “I’ll strip off your stockings once I have you on the bed.”

“I was referring to my eye patch, not my stockings.”

His gaze softened, not with pity, but with something much like admiration. “Then let me remove that too.”

Touching his chest kept the rising panic at bay. “Wouldn’t you rather I kept it on?”

“I want to see all of you. Every scar. Every truth.” His thumb traced her cheek, easing away her fears. “Nothing could make me want you less.”

Her chest squeezed tight, not from shame, but from the fear of being truly seen. She gave the smallest nod, afraid the truth of her flaws might shatter the moment.

Bentley’s fingers found the ribbon, loosening it with care. The velvet patch slipped free, tumbling soundlessly to the floor. For a heartbeat, he simply looked at her, his gaze steady, reverent.

She forced her chin high, though every nerve screamed to hide.

Then he bent to kiss her forehead, the bridge of her nose, the delicate corner of her blind eye. Each soft press loosened another knot in her chest until she trembled from more than nerves.

When his mouth found hers, the kiss was no longer gentle. It was fierce, desperate, passion igniting into an inferno neither could quench. He kissed her until breathing was impossible, until restraint had no meaning. His remaining clothes fell away in a blur.

Strong arms swept her up, holding her as though she weighed nothing. A low laugh rumbled through him, rich with mischief. “Three feet off the ground isn’t as thrilling as a few hundred, but I promise you’ll see stars tonight, Clara.”

“I thought nothing could match a ride in a balloon,” she said, running her hand over his broad shoulder. “I suspect you’re about to prove me wrong.”

He lowered her to the bed, following her down. The mattress dipped beneath his weight as his mouth claimed hers again, slower now, deeper, until the ache between her legs pulsed in time with every kiss.

He trailed kisses down her throat, across the hollow where her pulse jumped, then lower still, teasing the curve of her breast before closing around one aching peak.

A flick of his tongue had her arching against him, breath catching.

He moved deliberately, coaxing her open with each lingering kiss, each unhurried descent, until his shoulders eased her thighs apart.

“Open your legs, love.”

The endearment struck deeper than his touch. Love . The word wrapped around her heart, sweeter than anything Giuditta Pasta could sing.

The first stroke of his tongue tore a moan from her lips.

Hot, wet, devastatingly skilled, he worshipped her with every sweep and circle, every flick and suck until thought splintered and sensation ruled.

The velvet heat of his mouth, the rasp of his tongue, the maddening rhythm had her fisting the sheets, back arching as a cry escaped.

“Bentley … oh, Bentley …”

Each time his name left her lips, his pace grew more relentless, until pleasure coiled sharp and tight, ready to shatter.

The sound of his name on her lips undid him. He gripped her thighs, holding her still as his tongue urged her higher, circling and stroking until her body trembled on the brink.

Release came swift and sharp. Clara cried out, her vision dissolving into a scatter of stars. Every nerve sparked, every muscle clenched, until she collapsed against the pillows, panting, spent, undone beneath him.

He pressed a lingering kiss to the inside of her thigh before lifting his head. His mouth glistened, and the hunger in his eyes sent another shiver through her.

“I need to be inside you, Clara.” He gripped his engorged manhood, stroking from root to tip. “But we can end this here.”

End it? Good heavens, no.

“No. I need all of you, Bentley.” He would be her only lover, the image she conjured on cold winter nights, alone in her quiet Henley home, when longing became too much to bear.

“You’re certain?” His voice carried a thread of hope.

“I’m certain.”

Bentley eased between her thighs, bracing on his forearms. The blunt heat of him pressed at her entrance, patient yet insistent.

“This may hurt. Tell me if you?—”

“I’ll be fine. Don’t stop.”

Don’t ever stop.

He pushed forward slowly, the first stretch stealing her breath. She tensed instinctively, and he stilled, his lips brushing hers in a tender kiss that coaxed her body to yield.

“Clara?” he murmured.

She nodded, lost to the rising tide inside her. “I need more, Bentley.”

He sank deeper, inch by aching inch, until she gasped and dug her nails into his shoulders. The burn was sharp but not unbearable, more overwhelming than painful, the exquisite shock of being filled, claimed, by him.

Bentley moved with exquisite control, holding himself back. He didn’t drive into her or chase his own release. He watched her, read her breath, waited for the tension in her body to shift.

And when it did, when she rocked her hips up to meet him, moaned softly and whispered his name like a plea, he gave her all of him.

She wrapped her legs around him, drawing him in. Her body accepted him fully now, the ache giving way to pleasure, then hunger. Their rhythm built until she was gasping beneath him, rising again, teetering on the edge.

“I can’t stop,” he panted. “I need to come. I need you to come with me.”

She was already there, clenching around him, moaning into his shoulder as her body pulsed and shuddered. His pace faltered, control slipping.

With a groan, he withdrew, stroking himself hard as he came in hot, jerking bursts across her belly. She reached for him instinctively, needing to feel him in those final moments.

He collapsed beside her, chest heaving, arm flung over his eyes.

Clara lay still, her body thrumming, the sheets damp beneath her. She thought she needed a list. A final adventure before retreating from the world. But he was all she wanted.

Not the thrill of a balloon ride or the hush of an ancient Egyptian tomb.

She would sell her soul for one more night like this.

One more chance to make love to Bentley Sommersby.