Page 97 of His Duchess of Scandal
His fingers stroked through her hair, his hips snapping up into hers now. Her backside cushioned the hard thrusts, but she could still feel the rough force and delighted in it.
Combing through her hair, Charles tugged her head back, kissing down her neck until he could bury his face in her collarbone as he pulled her flush against him.
His thrusts grew harder, shorter, as they each drew closer to their release.
Her fingers tangled in the hair at the nape of his neck, tugging hard enough to hurt, but Charles never made a single complaint. Hermia drowned in her pleasure, unable to do anything but moan and whimper.
Whether she would explode or drown, she did not know, but her body began to tremble as her climax rose.
“There you are,” Charles murmured, already attuned to her body. “You are so beautiful when you come for me, Hermia. Finish with me. I am close.”
The commands only made her shake harder as she let out a whimper, nodding into his neck. His beard scratched her cheek, but she welcomed the sensation, almost nuzzling into it.
Keeping one hand buried in the hair at the nape of his neck, her other fingers curled into his beard, not quite tugging, but letting her pleasure have some sort of tether.
His length slid into her from that angle, thrusting in and out, and she clenched her walls, trying to keep him inside her. When they finally climaxed, it was a mess of moans, groans, and tangled tongues. Hermia felt his length twitch inside her, followed by a wet warmth.
Her climax ripped through her so fast that she slumped, boneless, once he had wrung all the pleasure from her limbs. Her thighs quivered.
Charles’s hands slid down her spine, soothing her, and then grabbed her hips.
For a moment, she was floating. She had no strength, but she didn’t need it. She laughed breathlessly, pushing her face into Charles’s neck for an indulgent moment. She pressed a few kisses to his shoulder before finally pulling back.
His pupils were blown with pleasure, and his smile reflected hers—blissful, sated.
Together, they lay side by side, their chests rising and falling. Charles held up his arm, a silent invitation for her to move closer. Hesitantly, she did. Intimacy was one thing, but the tender affection was another.
Yet as soon as she nestled into the hollow between his arm and chest, she relaxed.
“Do not go back to your chamber tonight,” Charles told her quietly. “Stay here with me. Let me—” His voice wavered. “Let me wake up to you.”
It sounded like such a vulnerable request that Hermia could only nod, lifting her head to kiss the underside of his jaw, brushing over his beard, before she tucked herself back against his side.
Chapter Twenty-Five
“Why is the gallery locked?”
Hermia asked Charles the question two days later as they had breakfast on the terrace of the library.
Hermia half wished they were at Branmere Hall, with its rolling countryside and village sounds only just audible from the right spot.
Charles paused with his fork halfway to his mouth. Promptly, he lowered it and instead sipped his coffee.
Hermia braced for silence, despite the closeness they had experienced. She waited for the lack of response, for those walls to go up. His face was pinched, his jaw working, suggesting hewantedto respond in that manner.
So, she was caught off guard when he answered her.
“I have a complicated history with my parents,” he said. “Much like you.”
“What sort of complicated history?”
“Have you ever loved two people so much, only to realize that love is not in the equation? Except nobody told you not to wait for such things until it was too late? That sort of complicated history.” Bitterness laced his voice.
He wiped his mouth and rested his forearms on the edge of the table. In the morning light, she could see how fatigue still clung to the circles beneath his eyes. It slowed his smile, as tight as it was, as if he was embarrassed to speak about such things.
“I have,” she admitted. “I always waited for my mother to see me as a girl to love, rather than just her duty-bound eldest daughter. I always waited for my father to take a true interest in my life rather than be passive in my mother’s matchmaking schemes.”
Charles nodded, his eyebrows knitted together. “My parents were the same. When I was a young boy, I—” He broke off, laughing again, as if embarrassed once more. “I was clever, spirited. In fact, I see a lot of myself in Phoebe’s unruly behavior. It is… it is why I feel so guilty about how I react to her tantrums and adventures at times.”
