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“Benedict—”
“I want you in my bed,” he growled. “I want you tomorrow. And I want you the next day.”
She was wicked, and she was weak, and she gave in to the moment, arching her neck to allow him greater access. His lips  felt so good against her skin, sending shivers and tingles to the very center of her being. He made her long for him, long for  all the things she couldn’t have, and curse the things she could.
And then somehow she was on the ground, and he was there with her, half-on and half-off of her body. He seemed so large,  so powerful, and in that moment, so perfectly hers. A very small part of Sophie’s mind was still functioning, and she knew  that she had to say no, had to put a stop to the madness, but God help her, she couldn’t. Not yet.
She’d spent so long dreaming about him, trying desperately to remember the scent of his skin, the sound of his voice. There  had been many nights when the fantasy of him had been all that had kept her company.
She had been living on dreams, and she wasn’t a woman for whom many had come true. She didn’t want to lose this one  just yet.
“Benedict,” she murmured, touching the crisp silkiness of his hair and pretending—pretending that he hadn’t just asked her  to be his mistress, that she was someone else— anyone else.
Anyone but the bastard daughter of a dead earl, with no means of support besides waiting on others.
Her murmurings seemed to embolden him, and his hand, which had been tickling her knee for so long, started to inch  upward, squeezing the soft skin of her thigh. Years of hard work had made her lean, not fashionably curvy, but he didn’t  seem to mind. In fact, she could feel his heart begin to beat even more rapidly, hear his breath coming in hoarser gasps.
“Sophie, Sophie, Sophie,” he groaned, his lips moving frantically along her face until they found her mouth again.  “I need you.” He pressed his hips hotly against hers. “Do you feel how I need you?”
“I need you, too,” she whispered. And she did. There was a fire burning within her that had been simmering quietly for  years. The sight of him had ignited it anew, and his touch was like kerosene, sending her into a conflagration.
His fingers wrestled with the large, poorly made buttons on back of her dress. “I’m going to burn this,” he grunted, his other hand relentlessly stroking the tender skin at the back of her knee. “I’ll dress you in silks, in satins.” He moved to her ear,  nipping at her lobe, then licking the tender skin where her ear met her cheek. “I’ll dress you in nothing at all.”
Sophie stiffened in his arms. He’d managed to say the one thing that could remind her why she was here, why he was kissing her. It wasn’t love, or any of those tender emotions she’d dreamed about, but lust. And he wanted to make her a kept woman.
Just as her mother had been.
Oh, God, it was so tempting. So impossibly tempting. He was offering her a life of ease and luxury, a life with him.
At the price of her soul.
No, that wasn’t entirely true, or entirely a problem. She might be able to live as a man’s mistress. The benefits—and how  could she consider life with Benedict anything but a benefit—might outweigh the drawbacks. But while she might be willing  to make such decisions with her own life and reputation, she would not do so for a child. And how could there not be a child? All mistresses eventually had children.
With a tortured cry, she gave him a shove and wrenched herself away, rolling to the side until she found herself on her  hands and knees, stopping to catch her breath before hauling herself to her feet.
“I can’t do this, Benedict,” she said, barely able to look at him.
“I don’t see why not,” he muttered.
“I can’t be your mistress.”
He rose to his feet. “And why is that?”
Something about him pricked at her. Maybe it was the arrogance of his tone, maybe it was the insolence in his posture. “Because I don’t want to,” she snapped.
His eyes narrowed, not with suspicion, but with anger. “You wanted to just a few seconds ago.”
“You’re not being fair,” she said in a low voice. “I wasn’t thinking.”
His chin jutted out belligerently. “You’re not supposed to be thinking. That’s the point of it.”
She blushed as she redid her buttons. He’d done a very good job of making her not think. She’d almost thrown away a  lifetime of vows and morals, all at one wicked kiss. “Well, I won’t be your mistress,” she said again. Maybe if she said it enough, she’d feel more confident that he wouldn’t be able to break down her defenses.
“And what are you going to do instead?” he hissed. “Work as a housemaid?”
“If I have to.”
“You’d rather wait on people—polish their silver, scrub out their damned chamber pots—than come and live with me.”
She said only one word, but it was low and true. “Yes.”
His eyes flashed furiously. “I don’t believe you. No one would make that choice.”
“You’re a fool.”
She said nothing.
“Do you understand what you’re giving up?” he persisted, his arm waving wildly as he spoke. She’d hurt him, she realized. She’d hurt him and insulted his pride, and he was lashing out like a wounded bear.
Sophie nodded, even though he wasn’t looking at her face.