Page 13 of Sweet Duke of Mine
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A lastair stiffened beneath her hands, the tension in his body a brief hesitation—just long enough for Daisy to wonder if she’d made a terrible mistake.
And then everything changed.
His hands slid around her waist, strong and sure, fingers pressing into the fabric of her dress, molding her to him. The heat of his palms branded her, sent tingles cascading down her spine.
“Daisy.”
Her name vibrated between them, more felt than heard, his voice raw with feelings that made her toes curl.
The kiss was familiar—achingly so—but it was also brand new.
They had been two dreamers once, free to love in a world of their own making. But time apart had reshaped them, carved new edges, buried innocence beneath betrayal. And yet, in this moment, none of that seemed to matter.
In the years since they’d parted, she had breathed.
She had eaten. She had even loved .
But she had not felt like this.
This was life rushing back into her, a current of heat and longing igniting every nerve, every pulse point. This part of her heart had been frozen, locked away in the past—untouched, unreachable. And yet, by returning her clumsy kiss, Alastair had found it, warmed it. And shattered that ice.
Along with the scent of the lather she’d smoothed over his skin, she tasted him—clean, fresh, and something else, something undeniably him . A taste both familiar and foreign.
Older.
Stronger.
Intoxicatingly sexy.
His mouth left hers to burn a scorching trail along her jaw, teasing her skin, featherlight, only to return—hungry, insistent—to claim her eager mouth again.
Daisy’s fingers curled into the thick hair at the nape of his neck, reveling in the feel of him, the way he felt so solid, so real.
“Alastair,” she whispered, breathless, awed. “It’s you.”
His hands framed her face, thumbs sweeping along her cheeks, tilting her head just so, deepening the kiss.
“So sweet,” he murmured, voice rough, reverent.
She didn’t realize he was guiding her backwards until the edge of the table pressed into the backs of her thighs. His hands found her waist, sliding lower, gripping as he lifted her onto the tabletop, and she—God help her—parted her knees, welcoming him between them.
She didn’t want the dream to end.
She clung to him to her, her body pressing into his, arching closer, seeking more.
For the first time in years—long, lonely, endless years—she wasn’t thinking.
She wasn’t worrying .
She wasn’t planning.
She wasn’t sacrificing.
Not today.
Today, she wanted. And today, she was taking.
And then… he snatched it away.
One moment, Alastair was pressed against her, his warmth sinking into her skin, his hands anchoring her in a way that made her feel cherished. Claimed.
The next, he was gone.
Standing two feet away. Breathing harshly. Looking torn.
And—oh God—was that regret?
Daisy’s stomach flipped, the warmth in her chest evaporating into cold, creeping doubt.
His eyes met hers, apology written all over his face. “My apologies, Daisy.” His voice was laced with emotions she didn’t want to decipher. He shook his head, as if trying to clear it, as if trying to undo the last few moments.
Her breath hitched.
“No. I was the one… I—I kissed you,” she said, barely forcing the words past the tight, aching lump in her throat.
She was the one who’d started this.
She.
Kissed.
Him.
What had happened to her good sense? Her self-control? Her pride?
“I didn’t stop you.” His voice was low. And oh, yes, that was regret.
Oh, God.
A rush of heat—shame, humiliation—swept through her. She clenched her hands into fists.
She had thrown herself into a man’s arms—his arms—like a foolish girl ruled by impulse and longing. And worse? She’d done it knowing he didn’t even remember her .
He was injured. Weak. Vulnerable. He didn’t know his own name, let alone hers.
He had belonged to her once—a very long time ago. But not anymore.
And now? He was a stranger. A man who had deliberately ended that kiss.
He had stopped, and then stepped away.
The humiliation of it burned through her like fire licking up dry parchment.
“Wait.” He reached for her, but Daisy jumped down from the table, her heart slamming against her ribs.
She couldn’t explain herself. Not now. Not yet.
Oh, God.
“Please, forgive me,” she said stiffly, forcing her tone into something cool, something controlled. Something not utterly mortified. “If you’ll excuse me, I have… things to do.”
Without waiting for a response, she turned and fled, practically flying up the stairs before locking herself in her small bedchamber.
She pressed her back against the door, chest heaving.
What have I done?
She stared blindly out the window, not noticing how the sun hovered on the horizon and then dipped below it.
She was going to have to return to the kitchen eventually. Face him. And when she did…
What would she say?
What could she say?
Would he be angry? Or worse—would he pity her?
Pity the poor shop woman who had thrown herself at a man who had no recollection of her—who might very well have a fiancée waiting for him?
He wore no wedding band, but that didn’t mean there wasn’t a wife.
A wife. A home. A whole world she wasn’t a part of .
Kissing him, as incredible as it had been, had been a mistake of historical proportions.
But as she lay back on her bed, staring up at the cracks in the ceiling, the warmth of his lips still lingering on hers, she couldn’t bring herself to regret it.