Page 31 of His Duchess of Scandal (Brides of Scandal #1)

Not pulling her flush against him was agony in itself, for he wanted her as close as possible. He wanted their bodies aligned, pressed so close that not even a breeze could slip between them.

The need seized him so suddenly that he almost pulled her into him right then and there. Instead, he kept his composure and held her at a proper distance.

As soon as he met her eyes, though, every proper thought flew out of his mind. He pulled her into the first steps of the waltz and tried not to think of the warmth of her hand on his waist.

Immediately, he was swept beneath the spell of the dance.

His heart pounded so hard, and he swallowed back the urge to tell her such a thing.

He led her through the steps, his mind whirring, unable to stop thinking of the taste of her kisses, the look in her eyes when she had noticed the bulge in his breeches the night before.

Her hands on his waist and shoulder almost drove him to insanity. He needed them elsewhere. Needed them everywhere.

He held her eyes throughout the dance, and all he could wonder was whether she could sense his thoughts tumbling over one another.

Hermia’s breath came short and quick, and her fingers curled slightly. He couldn’t help but wonder if she was having the same thoughts.

He fought not to lose his footing, his hand tightening around her.

“I saw you speaking with Grenford,” he finally said, needing a distraction. “I believe I warned you against being in his company.”

“You did,” Hermia agreed. “But he approached us, and I did not want to turn him away in front of a group.”

“I only beg you to be wary of him.”

“And you still have not explained why,” she pointed out.

Charles’s grip tightened on her. Not in warning, but frustration.

Fine .

“My family has a history with his. Does that satisfy you enough to heed me?”

Hermia, ever needing to rile him up, smirked. “Hmm, family. I see. So it is not because you are jealous of another man?”

Charles stumbled over the next step, taken aback, but then quickly collected himself and leaned in. He did not care if he tossed fuel over the embers of his desire. He would burn, and could only hope his wife would burn with him.

“Yes,” he admitted. “Both. I am indeed jealous, Hermia, because you are my wife, and I detest any man who looks at you with interest.”

He heard her breath catch, and he dared to let his fingers stroke up her spine. She shivered against him.

“And instead of dancing such a proper waltz, where I cannot pull you as close as I want, I should be tasting my wife. I should be overwhelmed with your scent and taste, and yet…”

He let his offer hang in the air, pulling back in time to see her blush.

“Then you did not get your fill that night at Anton Bentley’s,” she dared to say.

It only made something snap inside him. Because, of course , he had not gotten his fill, and he was tired of pretending otherwise.

As soon as the waltz ended, Charles dragged her off the dance floor, ignoring the looks from her sisters and Levi.

He had only one intention.

He led her out of the ballroom and ushered her into one of the side rooms, locking them both in.

Hermia stared back at him, her breasts straining against the neckline of her dress, and Charles knew the last thread of his patience and control had well and truly snapped.

“No,” he uttered, answering her question. “No, I did not get my fill. I do not think I ever will, Hermia. Not when it comes to you. I could feast on you for hours, and I do not think it will be enough to quench the thirst I have for you.”

Slowly, he stalked towards her, forcing her to back up against the wall.

“Then do not stop until your thirst is quenched,” Hermia breathed.

The challenge was like a wildfire that was lit in his veins.

“You do not know what you are asking for.”

“I do.” Her eyes darkened with memories of their night together a year ago.

If Charles could coax even half the noises she had made that night, then he would sleep just fine.

When he stopped before her, her focus remained on his cravat. He grabbed her chin and tilted her head up.

“Do you remember what I told you that night?” he asked quietly. “About where to look.”

“Yes,” she whispered. “You told me to keep my eyes on you.”

He gave her one long look of warning before he kissed her.

It was deeper than the kiss at the cottage. This was an unfettered desire that he let snap between them, knowing they would not be disturbed. Knowing that nothing would stop him from feasting on her the way he craved.

“Then do it,” he murmured.

And then he was kissing her again, but not for long.

He moved to her neck, kissing down that slender, pretty column that he ached to lick up. He moved to her collarbones, nudged her sleeve down her arm, and kissed the curve of her shoulder.

He pressed open-mouth kisses down her decolletage, her ribs, her belly, pretending her gown was her skin, until he was kneeling before her. His eyes flicked up, finding hers still on him as he had ordered.

It stirred his arousal such that his length twitched in his breeches. He fought back the urge to simply take her. He would not rush it, and certainly not in a side room in someone else’s house.

But he could allow himself this: kissing her calf, trailing his lips over the side of her knee, the inside of her thigh, until he finally reached the apex of her thighs, that sweet flesh that called to him.

“Will you let me quench my thirst, Duchess?” he asked.

“Yes.”

Heavens, he could get drunk on how her voice cracked.

Charles wasted no time in pushing up her skirts, so he had full access.

“Hold them,” he ordered quietly.

And once Hermia did, once she bared herself to him, he became a starved, helpless man.

Her scent drew him closer. A groan slipped past his lips as he fell into her heat. Another escaped as he pressed his tongue to the wet flesh he had been craving ever since that night a year ago.

“I could get drunk on you,” he muttered, before closing his eyes and diving in.

His tongue licked from her entrance to her bud. His breath shuddered out of him at her heavenly taste. Charles knew no taste would ever be enough to sate his need, but he needed this.

He wanted this.

Heavens, he wanted her .

His tongue slipped into her, and he moaned quietly when he was rewarded with a burst of her juices. In response, Hermia made a muffled noise.

He looked back up, finding her gaze still on him as he had instructed. Except her eyelids were heavy, her lips parted.

She was a woman come to ruin him; he was certain of it.

He dived back in, closing his eyes and letting himself feast on her. She had given him full access, and he did not hesitate to take it.

Lick by lick, he coaxed pleasure from her, and her moans grew heavier and breathier.

It was a symphony to his ears. It was sweeter than any melody a full orchestra could play. His wife, moaning and panting above him, helpless to the pleasure he delivered.

He sucked on her, alternating between gentle, light bites on her inner thighs that nobody would see but him, and then thrusting his tongue into her.

Heavens, her taste truly was addictive.

How had he ever gone this long without it?

Hermia surrounded him—her taste and scent, her noises, her thighs quivering around his head.

“Hold onto me if you need,” he murmured.

Immediately, her fingers slid into his hair, both guiding him closer and grounding herself, he knew.

Charles buried his face between her thighs, uncaring of his straining erection. This was about her. About the desire she ignited within him.

This was about them .

Every moment of avoidance—it all shattered right then and there.

Charles was lost in her. He was lost in his own lust, echoed by Hermia’s moans as he plunged his tongue into her over and over.

He found what she liked through her noises, and he gripped her thighs, anchoring himself to her. He did not dare move until she climaxed.

And when she did…

When she did, he would take her whole.

He moaned into her, utterly undone.

Her hips rocked against his face, and although he held them, it was not to restrict her, but more to tether himself.

“Give me everything,” Charles murmured. “Let go, Hermia. We are safe here. We are concealed.”

And so she did. Her hips moved faster, grinding against him as if seeking more than he gave. He stiffened his tongue, letting her rock herself onto it. His beard brushed her sensitive inner thighs, but she did not complain. Instead, she seemed to give in to the pleasure as much as he did.

“I want you,” she moaned softly, her fingers tightening in his hair. “I want you without limits. Without boundaries. I grow impatient, Charles.”

“I know,” he murmured. “I know. Soon, my Duchess.”

She let out a broken moan as he slipped a digit into her. He ached to bury himself inside her, to see how she would take him after so long. But for now, he limited his ministrations to suckling and lapping at her as he thrust his finger into her.

Moans of pleasure tore from her throat. Her body quivered beneath him, and he found himself aching for more. Curling his finger inside her, he flicked his tongue against her bud.

“I am—I am close,” she breathed.

Her fingernails scraped across his scalp, and he almost lost control.

“Then let go,” he purred. “I will be there every single time.”

Hermia moaned in response.

He lapped at her quicker, alternating between licking into her and curling his finger, until her thighs clamped around his head and she climaxed.

She let out a cry—that sweet, loud cry that had haunted his dreams so many a night—only to clamp her hand over her mouth and muffle it. Charles smiled against her folds, for he knew how loud she could be.

Still, he licked and feasted on her as he had promised, and he didn’t stop until her hips bucked against his face one last time. To watch her come apart completely would be a spectacle, but to feel such a thing had him utterly unmoored.

He lapped up her juices, giving one last, deep suck before pulling back. Hooded eyes looked back at him as her face flushed a deep red.

“Beautiful,” he said quietly, standing up. “Perfect. Perfect. ”

Her breath came in ragged pants as she pulled him to her, taking his lips in a hard kiss. Her tongue slid against his, and she shuddered against him in the aftermath of her climax.

“I want more,” she whispered.

Charles stepped back, smirking. He slowly fixed her skirts, letting them fall back to the floor as if nothing had ever happened.

“Then you will have more,” he promised. Her hand brushed his erection, and he gritted his teeth. “But I will take you to my bed, Hermia. No more turning you away at that infernal door that blocks us from one another. I will take you as you want, as you deserve, but only in my bed.”

Hermia nodded slowly, her eyes unfocused as if she couldn’t quite get her bearings. Charles stroked her hair back where it had come loose and kissed her forehead.

“Let me take you home, Duchess,” he said.

“Then take me,” she answered quietly, meeting his gaze.

And that was when Charles knew his wife would be the death of him.