Page 45 of Her Beast of a Duke
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.
Chapter Ten
“Iam sorry, but your mother saidwhat?”
Isabella sighed, tightening her hold on Mary’s arm as they walked through a small park near Mary’s townhouse.
She had taken a carriage there the next day, unable to face her husband, and the shame that came with her bold actions—and the rejection that had followed.
“That I ought to have begged Lord Stanton to take me back,” Isabella ground out, annoyed all over again at her mother’s words.
The visit had been somewhat overshadowed by her moment with Oscar, but thinking of the day in its entirety now sent a wave of humiliation through her.
She swallowed it back.
“That is the most nonsensical thing I have ever heard,” Mary hissed. “Hewas the one who left you! What did he call your impending wedding? A mistake?”
