Page 66 of The Duchess Curse

His glamour was dissolving in the darkness, and Braxton put his hand near the side of his coat, but Bran pulled a knife from a holster nestled against his ribs. The blade glinted even in the darkness. “I have ways.”

“Good.” It was an immovable word, stronger than she felt. It was sheer bravado, a mask for the tender, bruised heart of her. All she’d done was help their wives, women who felt neglected and ignored, some who were battered in body and soul. She’d only wanted more love in the world.

“Guin.” Bran’s voice was a low, heated growl. “I must confess something.” A pause, then: “I found a bottle of love potion in my pocket. I drank it.”

“Why would you⁠—”

He was on her, around her, everywhere in the blink of an eye—his hand spanning the small of her back, his other at her nape, his lips settled against her pulse as he whispered, “Please.”

She rested her hands on his chest, ready to push, but he said it again.

“Please.”

The fight went out of her, and her head found its way to his chest. She rested her forehead there as he loosed a string of pleases right into her ear.

“Please, Guin, let me kiss you tonight. Let me touch you. I’m lust mad for you, and if I leave this room without some release, I have no idea what I’ll do out there. Rip off the head of the next man who touches you.”

His gruff brogue stoked her to life, and she fisted her hand in the V of his waistcoat.

“Please.”

“Yes.” The word was more of a moan that rolled her body against his.

He startled then lifted his head slowly, and his eyes glowed like little golden suns as if he’d gathered every sliver of light about the room to use to peer into her face. His throat bobbed. He was nervous, and the tip of his tongue darted out to wet his lips. “Yes?”

“Just kiss me already, Br⁠—”

Then he was kissing her more thoroughly than she’d ever been kissed in her life. The boy she’d loved who’d died—Tommy—had been enthusiastic, but he’d lacked Bran’s singular devotion to the task. Her first husband had never kissed her more than a peck on the cheek.

Her husband, Braxton, had kissed her like a precious thing as he’d carried her to his bed on their wedding night. She’d never forgotten the devotion of his embrace, how his kisses were like prayers, and she was the goddess he prayed to.

Bran was right. Had he kissed her as her guard, before the fire, she would have found him out. She felt precious beneath his kiss, breathless and divine.

Her back hit the wall, and his body pressed against hers. He was hard everywhere, and she was growing hotter. He parted her legs with his knee and lifted against her center. She gasped, tearing away from the kiss, not that it stopped. He continued without her, scattering kisses in a scalding line down her throat, all the way to her cleavage where he dipped his tongue between her breasts.

Why was so little of his skin open to her perusal? Everywhere she stroked, covered with silk or linen—shoulders, biceps, ribs, and abdomen. The long, hard line of back and the taut muscle of his rear. She smoothed her hands down his legs, his thighs like marble and something… tugged at the back of her mind.

What mind?

His thighs were marble, and what if kissing was vengeance? Fascinating idea, that.

His lips found hers again, and she almost lost every thought, just like she lost every breath, but then she remembered.

“You always put the potion bottle in your pocket.”

He kissed her cheek, her nose, the corner of her lip.

“Bran.” She pushed him a little to gain his attention. “Where is the potion bottle? You pocket it to slip into my pocket, and there is nothing in your pockets. Those breeches are as tight on you as a second skin.”

He cursed.

And she understood. “There was no potion, was there?”

“I don’t need a potion to beg for a kiss, Guin.” His hand smoothed up her bare shoulder, up her neck to her jaw. He tilted her head back, and his eyes, oh they were still glittering suns, hotter than before. “I don’t need a potion to be damn near mad with lust for you.” He bent and pressed his lips hot against her ear. “To part a man from his head for you.”

Words like that were potent potions and could make even the hardest hearts unfurl like spring blooms, new and tender.

“You lied,” she breathed. “Again.”