Page 39 of Her Temporary Duke (Rakes and Roses #2)

“You are… correct. The balance should be addressed forthwith.”

He stood and turned to face Charlotte. Slowly, he lifted the shirt, pulling it up over his head and tossing it casually to the ground.

Then he unbuttoned the breeches before pushing them down and kicking them aside.

Charlotte was dimly aware of him removing his stockings, too, but only dimly.

She could not pull her eyes from his nakedness.

She had seen marble statues of gods before—Diana’s temple in Yorkshire had one in the rose garden—but never had she seen a man made of flesh and sinew stand before her with such quiet command, so completely without shame.

The firelight from the hearth gilded Seth’s skin in warm golds and reds, playing across the angles of his chest, the solid plane of his abdomen, the heavy strength of his thighs.

He looked like a man carved from flame and iron. Her husband. Hers .

She couldn’t look away.

“I think,” she whispered softly, “the advantage is not mine at all.”

Seth came to her then, slow and deliberate, as if giving her time to change her mind. But Charlotte didn’t want time. She wanted this. Him. Them .

He eased onto the bed beside her, and the mattress dipped beneath his weight. One hand tugged loose the tie at the collar of her nightgown. The fabric gave way, parting slightly to reveal the slope of her collarbone. His fingers found her jaw, tilting her face up toward his.

“I have thought of you like this so many times,” he murmured. “In this bed, flushed and soft, waiting for me.”

Her breath caught. She hadn’t expected words to feel like touch.

Seth kissed her then. Deeply. His mouth was slow, firm, persuasive.

Not coaxing, not asking. Taking . She parted her lips for him, and his tongue swept in, hot and sure, and suddenly she was clinging to him.

His hand slipped beneath the loose neckline of her nightgown to cup her breast. He groaned into her mouth.

“You make me mad,” he chuckled low against her lips. “I have never wanted like this.”

She pressed closer. The nightgown, thin and worn soft by washing, was the only thing between them. She felt the hot press of his chest against hers, her nipples stiffening against the cotton. When he lowered his head and caught one through the fabric, sucking gently, she gasped.

The sensation was sharp and new, and it reached straight between her thighs. She arched into him as he suckled her, his tongue dampening the cloth, shaping her through it. His hand covered her other breast, fingers stroking the aching tip until she whimpered.

“I need you,” she whispered.

His fingers acquiesced as they moved to the hem of her nightgown, brushing lightly over her thighs.

She nodded. He gathered the fabric slowly, drawing it up past her knees, her hips, her waist. She lifted her arms and let him peel it away entirely.

Cool air skimmed over her skin, but his gaze was what made her shiver.

She expected him to pounce, but he didn’t. He paused.

“Christ… you’re perfect,” he said softly, almost to himself.

She wasn’t. Her body was not the porcelain ideal praised in drawing rooms. She had curves and flushes and softness. But the way he looked at her—like he’d just uncovered an amethyst—made her believe it.

Seth climbed over her, guiding her back onto the pillows.

His mouth found hers again, and then her throat, and lower.

He tasted her skin as though mapping her by tongue alone.

When he took one bare nipple between his lips, her hips jerked upward.

He caught her there with a strong arm. Her hands scrambled for purchase in his hair as her breath grew short and uneven.

Charlotte had never felt so exposed. Or so alive.

She shifted a little, desperately, until her thighs cradled him. His bare hips rested between them, warm and solid. He was watching her with a focus that made her grow crimson and flustered.

She could feel his manhood, hot and thick against her center.

The anticipation made her toes curl against the sheets.

He hadn't moved yet, yet that stillness was more intimate than anything she'd ever known.

His chest brushed hers, the dusting of hair catching her pebbled nipples as he leaned in to kiss her neck.

Her fingernails curled against his shoulders. “I… I want this,” she whispered.

Seth smiled against her throat. His hand slid down to her hip, fingers splayed, anchoring her as he shifted just slightly. The head of his manhood nudged into her entrance, and the air left her lungs.

He stilled. “Too much?”

“No,” she breathed, the word unsteady. “Just… slow…”

His lips brushed her jaw. “ Always .”

He pressed forward again. Her body stretched around him as he eased inside.

Inch by delicious inch, he began filling her, and the pressure built until her fingernails were scraping his back.

Her eyes clenched shut. She couldn’t speak, not with the way it felt—foreign and thick and somehow perfect. The breath stalled in her lungs.

“Look at me, sweetheart.”

Her eyelids fluttered open. Charlotte had no words. The ache of the stretch melted beneath something far more dangerous—pleasure. Not bright and sharp, but slow and molten. Her hips lifted, needing more of him. He groaned as her body welcomed him fully.

His lips consumed hers again, this time with no gentleness at all.

The first thrust had her crying out against his mouth.

The second left her clinging to him, her body strung tight as silk thread.

He found a rhythm that unraveled her. Each time he sank into her, it knocked her further from the edge of thought, pulling her into nothing but heat and sound and sensation.

Her name left his lips in a whisper, like a prayer lost to the dark.

Soon, she wrapped her arms around his shoulders and turned her mouth to his ear. “I want more...”

He pulled back, a breathless laugh caught in his throat. “More?”

“I… I mean, don’t be careful.”

His gaze locked with hers in understanding, and for a moment, everything stilled, so much so that she almost regretted speaking at all.

Then he hooked an arm beneath her back and rolled them. Charlotte found herself astride him, seated fully on his length. She let out a low gasp. Her hands splayed across his chest for balance.

The angle changed everything . He filled her in a way that made her vision swim. She rocked forward instinctively, chasing that heat. He groaned, hands sliding up her waist to her breasts, thumbs grazing the dusky tips.

She moved again, rolling her hips in a slow, needy circle. His hands gripped her tighter.

“Just like that,” he said roughly.

Charlotte sat up straighter, her hair tumbling down her back as she rode him with growing confidence. Her thighs trembled with effort, but the building pressure between them was worth every ache. He reached up, caught her by the nape, and pulled her back down to him, capturing her mouth with his.

The kiss was hot and open, messy and perfect.

His hands slid down to her backside, guiding her rhythm as they moved together. The sound of their bodies filled the small room—flesh meeting flesh, breath and need and the soft creak of the bed beneath them.

She lost track of everything but the man beneath her. Her husband. The way he felt. The way he looked at her like she was the only woman in the world. The way he made her feel—desired, known, and completely, utterly his.

And Charlotte, flushed and bare, riding her duke in the heart of nowhere, had never felt more like a duchess.