Page 30 of The Spare

No wonder he’s cocky.

The guy is ridiculous.

He has the lithe build of a natural athlete who’s put in serious hours honing said build at the gym: flat stomach, narrow hips, and his pecs and arms, once he’s chucked his tops behind him, beautifully defined. Not to mention, that trail of dark hair down his stomach is delicious. My mouth is actually watering.

‘Go on,’ I say, nodding at his sweatpants.

He shoves everything down, bending to tug it all off and wrestle with his socks. When he straightens up, his smile has faded, his face intense.

Holy fuck.

I drink him in in all his bare, golden gorgeousness. His dick stands to attention, leading the way. That thing is massive—shit. I feel like I’m in my own private porno.

I swallow. ‘I might need lube.’

‘Whatever you need, princess. I’ll make sure you’re ready for me.’ He holds out his hand, and I take it, letting him tug me against him. Oh, sweet Jesus, I’d forgotten how good this feels: full-body skin on skin. But there are bodies, and there’s Benedict de Vere, the Bugatti of the male form. I let my fingers drift over the smooth curves of his bicep as his dick paints my stomach with its moisture.

‘I haven’t— It’s been a while,’ I confess against his chest.

His large hands wander down my back to cup my bottom. There those fingers go again… so close to where I need them. ‘Was that prick Rollo the last?’

I pull back a fraction and gape up at him in shock, planting my hands against his lovely pecs. ‘How did you know about Rollo?’ By definition of the fact that I was engaged, my… liaisons have always been utterly discreet. Rollo Cavendish is a hot but vapid charmer who lives in Chelsea and has a fabulous social life that’s completely funded by his parents. A couple of centuries ago he’d have been called a dandy.

Ben’s right. He’s definitely a bit of a prick.

His mouth narrows into an unimpressed line before he answers. ‘I pay attention where you’re concerned, Slinks. You should know that by now.’

I’m… gobsmacked. And spooked. And not a little flattered. Rollo isn’t the only charmer, it seems. But I can tell from the grim look on his face that he’s not saying it to charm me.

‘Answer the question.’

‘No one since Rollo,’ I squeak. It’s hard to speak—or think—clearly when one is glued to Benedict de Vere’s infamous erection. I mean, I’ve heard the rumours.

I can confirm that they are very much true.

‘So, what, eighteen months? Two years?’ He dips his head and presses his forehead against mine. ‘That’s a long fucking time to go without being taken care of, Slinks.’

‘Tell me about it,’ I manage.

‘I have far better things to do than talk about that dipshit, but answer me one question.’ He slides both hands together before dragging them down either side of my bum crack until his fingertips are pressing centimetres away from my… you know. My vagina. Dear God. ‘Did he ever make you come?’

I hesitate, torn between shame and common decency and the desire to start our intimate relationship off with candour.

‘No,’ I admit in a whisper. ‘But it wasn’t his fault. It was mine—I—I find it hard to shut off my brain in bed.’ It’s mortifying to admit, but I’d rather Ben went into this with his eyes open. I don’t want him resenting me if I can’t turn it on for him. I mean this—this is heavenly, and I’m definitely feeling… things, but I might not come through, and I don’t want either of us to feel pressured.

‘Of course you do, sweetheart.’ His voice is low and seductive. ‘I’m well acquainted with that incredible brain of yours. It’s not your fault a boring fucker like him couldn’t distract you enough. Tell me’—his lips brush over mine—‘has any guy ever made you come?’

‘A few times,’ I admit. Usually, I have to be tipsy—relaxed enough to get out of my head but not drunk enough to lose sensation. That’s an admission too far, though. Too much information to share in this very new relationship.

It hasn’t escaped my attention that I’m stone-cold sober tonight.

‘Glad to hear it. I’m going to make you feel good, okay? You don’t have to come—you just have to enjoy yourself. Does that sound all right?’

‘Mmm-hmm,’ I say against his mouth.

‘That’s my girl.’ He kisses me, his tongue breaching my mouth, while, with the confidence of a guy who has no hang-ups whatsoever about his ability to perform in bed, those dangerous fingers slip down the cleft of my bottom before teasing my entrance. Oh my God. I feel it instantly, the ease with which they slide through my flesh, how slippery I am down there.

He makes a low, male sound deep in his throat that has down there clenching. ‘Your cunt is way sluttier than the rest of you, princess,’ he rasps into my mouth, forcing a laugh out of me (even if I find the C-word unnecessarily crude, especially when used anatomically). Even when he’s broken, he’s outrageous. His fingertips probe me bluntly, and I widen my legs automatically as his dick jerks between us.