Page 17
Chapter
Seventeen
B efore Benedict could think better of it, he threw the curtain aside and reached for Angelica before she could get very far. He dragged her back into the confessional, sealing them off from the world.
The space, sacred and solemn, now felt stifling and fraught with temptation. He shouldn’t be here. Not like this. Not with her. But God help him, he couldn’t stay away.
“Angelica,” he whispered, his voice thick with longing, a prayer and a plea in one. His fingers curled about her hips, and he didn’t—God forgive him—stop her when she moved closer, brushing her lips against his.
The kiss undid the last restraints he clung to. The carved wood pressing into the back of his knees, the scent of wax and wood polish, the dimness did nothing to bring clear thought and sense to his mind. He shouldn’t want this. Shouldn’t want her. But he did.
Fiercely.
He tried to recall a psalm. Any psalm. But her kiss erased scripture, replaced it with heat and softness and the dizzying taste of her mouth. His cock stirred and a heavy need pulsated in his groin.
She opened for him, like a blossoming flower, and he kissed her deep and long. Their tongues danced, fought for domination, and he braced himself to be struck by heaven itself for his sin.
His hand slipped about her nape and there was no longer any hesitation, any barrier to their desire. He kissed her hard, drank her sweet moans and urged her to touch him, to hold him as he held her.
The desperation of their kiss stole his breath and sent his pulse pounding in his ears.
"Please choose me, Benedict," she begged.
Her words were like a punch to his lungs. How could he choose? God’s service or this woman who made his body ache and his soul quake?
You could always choose a different faith, the Church of England…
“I cannot deny you anything,” he said, truth and torment tightening his throat. “Even here.” God forgive him, but let him have this moment. Have her…
He backed her against the confessional wall, his lips trailing across her jaw, his hands taking his fill and learning every delicious curve, every sweet mound of her person.
Without thought, he lifted her into his arms. She wrapped her legs about his hips, her core pressed against his, sending his mind to shatter into a million pieces.
Never had he ever felt this way. Never touched a woman so intimately, so scandalously. Never known the weight of his own desire until now.
And it terrified him.
Her hips moved against him, teasing and taunting like a seductress. Her moan lit something carnal within him he didn’t know he possessed.
He set her down, breath sawing between his teeth. “Touch me, Angelica. I need you to touch me.” His words were desperate and vulnerable. His skin was too tight, too constricting, and if she did not free him from this torment he would surely perish.
“Where?” she asked, her lips swollen from their kisses.
Benedict took her hand and guided it to his arousal. “Here,” he said. “Touch me here.”
She bit her lip, her eyes widening at the initial contact of her hand upon him. Benedict closed his eyes, reveling in the feel of her doing what he yearned for almost from the very first moment of their meeting.
Her touch was hesitant, reverent even, as though learning through her inexperience. Both of theirs in fact. Still, her petting undid him.
He clenched his jaw and scandalously pressed into her touch. He wanted to say more—confess his inexperience, his fear, that he wanted to touch her in return. Make her feel as good as she was making him.
“Like this?” she asked, looking up to meet his eyes.
He groaned as her fingers curled around his member and pulled. “Yes, just like that.” He paused, taking a calming breath. “You make me want to do things—dirty things—to you.”
It was wrong. It was blasphemous. But it was also honest.
“I want that too.”
He’d not thought she would ever ask for him to touch her, and yet her plea only made him more determined to satisfy her.
He reached down, lifting the skirt of her gown.
His hand slipped about her thigh, stroking her soft, warm skin.
Her silk stocking teased his fingers before he moved to stroke her between her legs.
He didn’t stop, just watched her as his hand slowly moved over her mons to dip between her legs.
Her breath hitched and her body trembled as he pressed his fingers between her wet, hot folds. He swallowed a moan, fought not to spend in his breeches as she watched him, her cheeks flushed with need, her lips parted in awe.
He would never be the same. He was falling. Not from grace—but into love, into her.
“Benedict,” she moaned, her voice breaking over his name like a psalm gone ragged.
Their hands moved with increasing urgency, stroking, coaxing, tempting. He felt her need, matched it with his own. They were on a precipice—and he wasn’t sure if he wanted to leap or be saved.
“I’ve never felt this way before,” she said. “You’re making me feel so good, Benedict.”
He pressed harder into her grasp, biting back a groan. “Stroke me, Angelica.”
She reached to undo his breeches, and he caught her hand. “No,” he rasped. “Not here.” Not in God’s house. Not where absolutions were offered. Not when he hadn’t yet faced his own.
“I need you.” She pouted and his resolve almost crumbled. Damn it all to hell, was there nothing that this woman couldn’t do without him losing his senses?
“I will see you again,” he promised, his heart pounding. Because if he didn’t, he feared he might lose her forever—and if that happened, he didn’t know how he’d survive the weight of his choice.
“But you should go before anyone comes and finds us alone.” He kissed her once, twice, as if imprinting her against his soul, then slipped out of the confessional, making himself stride back to his small office and away from the temptation that was almost too much to deny.
Even here.
Her presence clung to him like incense. Her scent. Her taste. Her touch.
And yet, all he could think as he crossed the church floor was her and when he would see her again.
What have I become?
Right at this moment, he did not recognize himself. He doubted he would, even should he look into a mirror.