Page 38 of His Duchess of Scandal (Brides of Scandal #1)

“That is me,” he confirmed. “Nobody knows, although I have told Anton Bentley, for I used the alias to attend his parties. We have that investment and protection against one another. I risk as much as he does if word gets out, so we keep one another’s secrets.

But this is me, utterly me. Unabashedly me.

Vulnerably me. And, as I said over breakfast, it is not easy for me to be vulnerable. ”

“It is not,” she murmured.

“Except with you.”

Her face was cupped softly, her attention drawn up to him.

“I have painted you from thought alone too many times,” he said quietly. “Just this once, my wife, will you do me the honor of sitting for a portrait? This one shall remain between us. A private moment as husband and wife, a painter and his muse.”

He turned to the chaise lounge, as if he, despite their earlier conversation, had planned this. “There is a robe there. The door remains locked, and we will not be disturbed. Please, get comfortable.”

“What shall I do?”

“Simply be your beautiful self. I will orchestrate the rest.”

And so Hermia did.

Feeling his eyes fixed on her intently, she shed her gown, her corset following next, until she stood bare before him. She half ignored the robe, until she had the thought of draping it over herself the way he had painted her a year ago.

Sometimes teasing a body was as tantalizing as the bare skin on display. So she donned it, lowered herself onto the chaise, and positioned her arms artfully over her head.

Charles’s gaze darkened as he set himself up before the canvas, preparing his paints and brushes.

She was caught between focusing on her arousal and the intent in his eyes—the unfettered attention.

“Like this?” Her question was barely a breath.

“Like that,” he affirmed, his own voice breathy.

And then he began painting.

The only sounds in the room were of his paintbrush as he created her, stroke by stroke, and her labored breathing. Charles’s eyes flicked from the canvas to her, raking over her body so intensely that she felt it despite the distance between them.

Her arousal grew, and as the time passed, she became unable to ignore the growing ache between her legs.

“You are squirming,” Charles noted, not looking up from the canvas for a minute.

Somehow, the divided attention only made the heat burn hotter inside her.

“How can I not when pinned beneath the attention of my husband for so long? You know the effect you have on me.”

“And you on me, Duchess,” Charles answered smoothly.

Finally, his eyes met hers, and that usual jolt went through her. Her chest heaved, and Charles’s gaze dragged over her heavy breasts. Soon, he stepped back, wiping his brushes on a stained rag.

Paint-stained hands reached for her, finally pulling open her robe. “Heavens, I cannot keep my wits about me when I see you.”

There was so much desire in his eyes, and Hermia chased it hungrily, pressing her mouth needily to his. His hands encased her waist.

Within seconds, she had his breeches unfastened and pushed down enough for him to break the kiss and yank them off. His length sprang up, thick and curved, and the ache between her legs pulsed .

“I must prepare you,” he muttered against her mouth when she reached to guide him between her legs.

“I am certain that I do not need it,” she answered.

“I refuse to take that risk.”

“I am ready. I am fine .” She grasped at his face, her nails dragging through his beard, which faintly smelled like bergamot and vanilla. “I do not need preparation.”

Although her eyes dropped to his impressive girth.

Charles smirked. “I will prepare you.”

But Hermia was impatient, had been aching for the duration of her posing for the painting, and simply pushed her knees up and pressed them to her chest the way he had shown her.

Charles’s gaze darkened, and he cursed under his breath.

“Look at you.” He slid an affectionate hand down the back of her thigh before squeezing it. Her breath caught in her throat, and she shimmied towards him. “So ready for me.”

“Always,” she whispered. “ Please , Charles. Give me all of you.”

His length pressed against her, teasing and warning at once. “You know I am weak for anything you ask of me, you wicked wife of mine.”

With that, he entered her in one sharp thrust. A whine tore from her throat. It was as though every time they did not couple for a day or two, she forgot just how much he could fill her.

Charles slid right into her. There was no preamble, no waiting, nor adjusting. She found she did not need it, not beyond a moment to catch her breath, which was immediately punched back out of her with his next thrust.

She moaned as he rocked into her. Her thighs remained pressed to her chest, and Charles framed himself between them. Her knees draped over his shoulders, her ankles crossed over his back.

“Heavens, you are so deep,” she groaned, her voice breaking.

Her hand dropped to her stomach. She could swear she would feel him if only she pressed hard enough. She might even see his shape.

Charles let out a harsh breath, as if he read her thoughts. His fingers slid through hers before he took her wrists in one hand and pinned her arms above her head. It allowed her to take him deeper.

His hips snapped against her backside, the sound erotic, like a dream Hermia had always shied away from. But there she was, folded, the object of her husband’s desire.

Their bodies moved in tandem, and she kept thinking of how she was his muse. How he had the duchess he wanted to watch the stars with, and how she had found a man who listened to her and thought she was beautiful. Who thought she was more than that.

Who looked at a lady who had been forced to raise her three sisters, who had neglected her own future to begin securing theirs, and yet thought that she was still enough. More than enough. Who saw all of that and still thought her intelligent and a mother figure and worthy of painting.

“Charles,” she gasped. “Charles, I want to climax with you.”

“I am close,” he told her, his voice not quite a growl, but more of a breathy groan. “Come with me.”

After a few more thrusts, Hermia felt her walls clench around his length, heard his strangled groan as he finally spilled into her. She welcomed every part of him as he rocked shallowly before finally pulling out.

He did not stand up immediately. Instead, he pulled her closer on the chaise, his smile softened from that sharp smirk. Hermia rested on his chest, boneless. She let herself be held.

A small voice in her head dared to think that she was finally letting herself be loved .