Chapter 9 #2
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.
She yielded. Sweet heavens, she yielded.
Isabella let out a soft sound as he ran his tongue over her bottom lip, silently asking for access.
She granted it, and another muffled noise escaped her.
Heavens, his whole body was responding to her.
His fingers curled into the fabric of her dress, trying to resist the urge to take more than he was granted, and he was already growing stiff between his legs.
His desire was a tidal wave, but his sense of propriety was the dam. He had to keep resisting, or else it would drown them both entirely.
Every taste of her lips was intoxicating, better than the sweetest brandy, more dangerous than opium.
He kissed her harder, hungrier, as though he might carve thoughts of any other man from her memory by sheer force.
He wanted her, yet he could not even invite her for dinner.
Yet Isabella encompassed him. Every scent he caught from her after her bath, every flick of her hair, every kind smile she gave to a maid who made a mistake.
Even on the day he had shouted at Thomas, she had remained patient with the boy and insistent on berating Oscar.
She was addictive, and he knew she did not even know it, but he was slowly losing himself to the kiss, to the way he wanted her so primally.
His mouth danced with hers fiercely, and he hungered for her, a snarl caught between his mouth and hers. His tongue slid along hers, the sugar he had eaten moments before mingling between them.
He groaned, pulling her ever closer, and he dared to lift his hips up against her. The inside of her thighs pressed right over his length, and she gave a sharp gasp of surprise.
The sound she made—startled, breathless—shot through him like a lightning strike.
Oscar froze, his entire body rigid.
He broke the kiss sharply, staring down at her, his chest heaving, lips swollen, pulse pounding like war drums in his ears. Her cheeks were flushed, her lips kiss-bruised, her breath unsteady.
She was exquisite. She was temptation incarnate.
And he was a monster.
God above, what was he doing? What sort of villain all but took his wife on a drawing room settee, when he had promised her a marriage of convenience, when he had vowed she need not endure the ruin of a husband who woke screaming in the night?
His hand fell from her face as though burned. His grip loosened on her waist, and he forced himself back a step, then another, though every muscle screamed to hold her tighter, to claim more.
“You do not know what you invite, Isabella.” His voice was low, torn, guttural, more growl than words.
Her eyes widened, lips parting to speak, but he would not let her.
Oscar pivoted sharply, jaw locked, shoulders braced like armor. With a sharp whistle, he summoned Morris, the dog scrambling after him, nails clicking on the floorboards.
He did not look back as he strode from the room.
Distance. He needed distance before he drowned her in his darkness.
For she deserved light—and he was nothing but shadow.