Page 44 of Her Beast of a Duke

“So do tempers,” she replied, eyes flicking up to his.

“Mine?” he asked, voice low. “Or yours?”

“Perhaps both.”

The sugar touched her lips. For a heartbeat, she didn’t move, and then she bit delicately, the faintest smile curving her mouth. “Mm. I can see the appeal.”

His expression didn’t change, but his stance and breathing sharpened. “Can you?”

Her laughter was light, a sound that made something old and tight in him strain against its bonds. “Yes. You were right; it is one of life’s simpler pleasures.”

She brushed a stray grain from her fingers. Oscar’s gaze followed the motion like a hunter tracking the smallest movement of prey.

“You missed a spot,” he said quietly.

She froze, her pulse stuttering. “Where?”

He stepped forward, close enough for her to feel the warmth radiating from his chest. “Here.”

Before she could question him, he caught her wrist gently, his thumb pressing into the soft skin beneath it. Her fingers trembled, sugar dust clinging faintly to her skin.

His head bent slowly, deliberately, and his mouth brushed her hand.

Isabella gasped softly as he drew her sugared fingertip past his lips, his tongue warm and deliberate against her skin.

Her knees nearly gave out. “Oscar,” she breathed.

He lifted his gaze to hers, still tasting her skin.

“You are trembling,” he observed softly.

“And whose fault is that?” she managed, her voice unsteady.

His gaze flicked to her lips. “I could ask the same.”

The sugar bowl clattered faintly as she released it, forgotten. The air between them shifted, thickened. Oscar’s hand slid from her wrist to her waist, pulling her closer until her body brushed his.

“Tell me to stop,” he murmured.

She couldn’t. Every word had deserted her.

Instead, she reached up, fingers brushing the collar of his shirt.

“I told you,” she whispered, “you hide your sweetness.”

He smirked. “Even a beast has his taste for honey, wife.” His voice dropped, low and dangerous. “And you’re covered in it.” He stepped closer until her back brushed the table. “Do you know what happens when you tempt a hungry thing?”

She tried to laugh, but it came out breathless.

“Show me,” she whispered.

His hand came up to cradle her jaw, thumb tracing the curve of her lower lip. She shivered under his touch, and then his mouth descended on hers—slowly at first, testing, then with a hunger barely contained.

Their lips met in a surge of heat. She clutched at his shoulders, pressing closer, and the taste of sugar and breath and want tangled between them.

He groaned softly against her mouth, as if fighting some internal restraint. But this time, he didn’t pull away.

This was no tentative touch, no dry altar kiss. It was fire. His lips pressed fiercely to hers, and when she gasped in shock, he used it, deepening the kiss, devouring. His hand slid upward, cupping her cheek with surprising gentleness for all his ferocity, while his other hand gripped her waist, dragging her flush against the breadth of him.