The Postilion (The Masqueraders #2) - S.M. LaViolette Page 0,130
voice rough with arousal, and then he thrust her over the edge of bliss.
His fingers disappeared from her clenching body, but even as she groaned at the loss of him, she felt the scalding heat pushing between her swollen lips.
“Yessss,” she hissed.
“Hot and wet and so soft,” he murmured, pulsing his hips so that his blunt crown stroked her sensitive flesh. “I want to be inside you, Benna.”
She reached between her thighs and wrapped her fingers around his slick shaft.
His sucked in a harsh breath and shuddered at her touch.
Benna wanted to stroke him—to tease him—but the angle was too awkward. Instead, she stood on her toes and positioned him at her opening.
They both groaned as he entered her, invading her slowly. It had been months since she’d had him inside her and the sensation of being stretched and filled was almost painful.
“You’re so damned tight, Benna.” He didn’t stop until he was in her as deeply as he could go. And then he stilled, his chest heaving against her back.
“Good?” he asked a moment later, his voice taut and his hips tensing as he flexed inside her.
“Very good,” she whispered, clenching her inner muscles in response.
He hissed in a breath. “And you’re very, very bad.” He pulled out with agonizing slowness, and then thrust hard enough to lift her off her toes.
Benna braced herself against the wall with both hands as his hips began to move.
“I missed you so much,” he gasped, his pumping rhythmic and deep. “I’m never letting you go again, Benna. Never”
She canted her hips, offering him everything; opening herself to pure sensation as he rode her, pounding into her without mercy, driving her toward yet another peak.
“I’m already too damned close, darling,” he grunted, his thrusts becoming savage and less controlled.
Benna came apart just as her lover drove himself home, his body spasming as he spent deep inside her.
“I love you, Benna” he said in a voice hoarse with passion. “I love you so much.”
Joy spread through her at his words.
But lurking behind her elation—like a sneakthief ready to snatch away her happiness—was a crippling fear.
Would he still feel the same way when this night was over?
***
“Brandy?” Benna offered, gesturing to a nearby tray with a decanter and two glasses.
“Please,” Jago said, even though he didn’t particularly want one. But tension had replaced the bliss that he’d seen on her face only moments earlier.
He took the glass she offered and patted the seat beside him when she looked as if she might sit in one of the chairs.
She hesitated.
“You don’t have to tell me anything you don’t wish to, Benna. I’ll love you no matter what I learn about your past.” He paused, and then plunged ahead. “If this is about Fenton, I know you were lovers—perhaps you were even in love with him. I’ll admit I’m jealous, but it isn’t as though—”
“I’m a murderer.”
Jago blinked. “I’m sorry?”
She raised the glass to her mouth with a trembling hand and drained the contents in one swallow.
“Careful, darling—not so fast,” he murmured, taking her empty glass from her shaking fingers. “Everything will be all right,” he soothed. “You don’t have to—”
Benna turned to him, her gaze oddly flat. “No, I need to tell you.”
Jago nodded. “Very well. I’m listening.”
And then he held her hand while her story poured out of her.
She told him about a lonely, willful girl who’d grown up loved but neglected by her absent father. About a brother who’d once been her best friend but had slowly drifted away as he’d come of age, and about an old man—a servant—who’d been her best friend and had probably saved her life.
By the time Benna finished describing Tom’s death in that spinney the tears were running down her cheeks. “I repaid his friendship by stripping him of his valuables and leaving him there,” she said, squeezing Jago’s hand so hard that the bones shifted. “I don’t even know where Michael buried him—I doubt I’ll ever find out so I can never tell his brother or give him peace.”
“You did what you had to do Benna,” he said, his words woefully inadequate. “And it was exactly what Tom wanted you to do. As for Diggle?” Jago scowled. “Well, that sounds like an accident, not murder.”
“It was an accident; I hadn’t meant to kill him.” Her expression shifted from desolate to feral in a heartbeat. “But after what happened to Tom, I was glad, Jago,” she said, her eyes fierce.