would brain him with a book.
Maybe he saw the threat in her gaze.
Or maybe he just wanted her as badly as she wanted him.
Whatever the reason, he tightened his hold on her rather than pushing her away.
“Your hands feel so good, Benna,” he murmured, feathering kisses over her jaw and nibbling the lobe of her ear.
The sound of her name on his lips was almost as devastating as his kisses.
Benna allowed her fingers to roam lower, across his chest, her hands moving inexorably toward a part of his body that she’d fantasized about touching an embarrassing number of times.
His rock-hard hips were a delicious counterpoint to the smooth, silky material that sheathed his lower body. Her fingertips twitched to grab his buttocks, but at the last moment she turned shy, instead smoothing her palms up over his taut belly and digging her fingers into the tight, narrow column of his waist.
Benna closed her eyes and visualized what she was touching— corded, ridged muscles beneath pale skin—her fingers drifting dangerously south, getting ever closer to the stiff ridge that was thrusting against the placket of his pantaloons.
Jago pressed closer, his growl encouraging, the erection grinding against her belly unmistakable proof of his desire for her.
He wants me as badly as I want him.
The thought sent bolts of lust arrowing throughout her body and need pooled in her belly, sex, and breasts.
She felt a touch on her side and realized, with a shock, that his hand was no longer on her back, but he’d somehow managed to pull her shirttails from the waist of her trousers without her noticing.
Warm fingers skimmed over her belly, and then up over the strips of cotton that bound her breasts. He pressed his palm over her heart and stilled, the thud thud thud of her pulse deafening in her ears.
Benna’s neck became boneless and her head fell back like a flower tilting on its stem.
“Unbutton your coat and waistcoat, Benna,” he murmured against her mouth before nipping her lower lip.
She hissed in a breath, her fingers fumbling at the buttons on her clothing.
He didn’t let her vest deter his questing fingers, his hand stroking between the layers of wool and cotton, not stopping until he cupped an imprisoned breast.
“You bind them,” he whispered against her throat, nuzzling her neckcloth aside to kiss her throat.
Once Benna’s vest and coat both hung open he speedily located the end of the cotton strip and plucked it loose, insinuating his hand beneath the fabric.
When his finger grazed her nipple, she whimpered and arched against him.
“Oh, God, Benna.”
Benna thrilled at the raw need in his voice.
He tugged and pulled and sloughed away the bindings until he could settle a bare hand over each breast.
“You feel so beautiful,” he murmured, looking into her eyes as his thumbs caressed her already stiff peaks. “I have spent far too much time imagining what you look like beneath your clothing.”
His words were more erotic than anything she’d ever heard. Benna threaded her hands into his soft hair and pulled him toward her, plundering his mouth. The kiss was wild and wet and robbed her of breath.
When she came up for air his lust-swollen lips curved into a wicked smile and he gently pinched one of her nipples.
Benna groaned and pushed against him. “Please,” she whispered.
“Like this?” He smiled wickedly and stroked her again, his fingers alternating pinching and stroking until her nipples were as hard as diamonds and she was shuddering and thrusting against him.
“You have bewitched me, Benna,” he whispered, his mouth hot on her throat, his hands relentless.
Benna ground her pelvis against his and then slid a hand over the front of his snug pantaloons and squeezed his thick, hard shaft. “I need you inside me, my lord.”
Her harsh, raspy words were like sharp bits of metal that pierced the fog of desire that enveloped them.
Jago’s body jolted and his clever fingers ceased their magic.
Benna wanted to weep with frustration; it had been those two small words, my lord.
She grabbed his waist, digging her fingers into the warm, compact flesh—to keep him near—and opened her mouth to beg.
But he pulled back far enough to look at her, his eyes hooded and dark. “Bloody hell. What am I doing?” His hands slid from her breasts to her hips. “I’m not the sort of man who molests his servants.” His words were soft and almost questioning, as if he were asking himself, testing his resolve.
He released her entirely and stepped back. “This is wrong.”
It was