Finding you in New York.

5.

"If you could lay on the sofa, with an arm above your head and then draped the other along your side or stomach..." he swallowed his nerves as she lay naked along his sofa – what a sight he thought. "...wait..." he said suddenly and rose from the armchair, "...let me." Benedict stalked towards her and gently positioned her hands. He slowly brushed her hair from her face and whispered, 'beautiful' under his breath.

She shivered.

He went back to his chair and picked up his sketch book and pad. He slowly roamed his eyes over her figure and outlined her silhouette on the page. He could feel the temperature of his body rising, and a single drop of sweat fall down his forehead. Trying to concentrate when she was completely nude deserved him winning some type of award – surely.

He heard a small laugh escape her lips and he looked up, "What exactly are you laughing at Miss Featherington?" he asked teasingly. He wanted to at least try to remain professional, but my god – the way she looked at him. Penelope smiled softly, "Uhm nothing."

Benedict stopped his drawing, "it's obviously something..."

She quickly cleared her throat, "you just look so angry while you draw."

He shook his head, "I can assure you it isn't anger."

Penelope nibbled her bottom lip, "what is that look then?"

Benedict placed down his utensils and looked up towards her once more, "It's concentration, and now you are severely distracting me."

He was never going to be able to look away now.

"Apologises," she murmured.

Silence.

Tension.

A look.

His eyes widened, he rose from the armchair and then made his way closer towards her.

What was he doing?

He was meant to be drawing her.

"I-I'm sorry," he turned back around in shame.

She didn't want this, did she?

Was it all too fast?

God – he was going to royally fuck this up.

Penelope rose from the sofa and grabbed his arm, "don't turn around."

He felt her hand on his arm and looked down towards it. Here she stood holding on to him, here she stood... just for him. He turned around and brushed his fingers along her soft neck. He watched as she closed her eyes under his touch.

"Fuck Penelope, you don't know what you are doing to me."

She quickly opened her crystal blue eyes.

He couldn't hold back.

Not now.

Not ever.

He angled her neck and crashed his lips onto hers. Benedict Bridgerton was a gentleman... but, in the bedroom, he exerted all control. He grabbed her side and she squealed, he needed her closer, he needed to feel her body... all of it. His hands were urgent, needy, they wanted to feel every part of her – repeatedly.

He ripped his shirt from his body, and her fingers dragged along his torso.

Every touch felt euphoric.

He edged his tongue into her mouth while deepening the kiss and it made her breathless. She pulled back and smiled against his lips to catch her breath before he claimed them once more. He placed both hands on her hips and positioned her against his wall. He couldn't see anything else right now, she was possessing his very soul – and he had no complaints.