Page 24 of Hawthorne

Rationality seems to be failing me a lot lately.

A million thoughts swirl in my head, but none stick long enough for me to make a proper conclusion about this situation.

“Sit down, Camilla,” he booms, making me jump in place. “Am I not speaking bloody English?”

“Yes, Your Grace.” Finally obeying his orders, I sit down on the tall stool before his hand pushes it closer to him. Too close.

This time, the duke doesn’t move. Instead, he focuses on my face, slowly moving from my creased forehead to my confused eyes and finishing on my tightly closed lips.

“Eat,” he mumbles.

I nod, cutting a little piece and dipping it into the ice cream. As soon as my lips seal around the fork, the banana is no longer hot but still maintains most of its crunchiness. The vanilla ice cream gives it such a soft finish, and I can’t help but moan as soon as the flavour reaches my taste buds.

Just as an explosion of flavours revives my tastebuds, a relieved exhale sounds next to me. Ignoring it, I take another forkful of food, basking in it.

Just then, I feel a cold droplet escape from the corner of my mouth. Immediately, I open my eyes, embarrassed. Everything is only heightened when I find the duke already watching me intently with dark eyes.

Mortifying.

Yet, instead of looking for a napkin, I am trapped in his intense gaze. And with my brain still ‘missing’, I bring my thumb to clean off the ice cream, quickly sucking it clean.

Just as I am about to lower my hand, the duke grabs my wrist tightly. It doesn’t hurt, but it’s strong enough to keep it in place.

“You,” he whispers before pausing his speech just enough to pull my finger out and slowly trail it underneath my lower lip, “missed a little bit.”

And then he sticks it inside my mouth once again.

My skin erupts in goosebumps as I watch him focus on my movements. His pupils dilate, and his hold tightens a little bit more. His skin on mine sends tingles down my arm, and a once-dormant warmth reaches my lower belly.

Never in my life has a man left me aroused from so little.

When I finally let go of my finger, it is like something is triggered in him, suddenly letting go of my wrist to cradle my face in his hand, bringing us closer together.

“Your Grace,” I breathe.

“Call me Vincent,” he pleads with a low, husky voice.

It’s enough to make me squirm, and he takes it as a sign to come even closer to the point our breaths are mingling. His scent, now familiar, fills my nostrils.

Leather, wood, and benzoin.Such a pleasant scent.

Vincent’s thumb grazes my lower lip while his tongue peeks out to lick his own like a starved lion looking at his meal.

Except,I’m the meal.

“Tell me to stop,” he whispers while moving even closer.

Not enough that we’re touching but enough for me to feel the warmth radiating off him. My stomach flutters, and my eyes flutter involuntarily.

We shouldn’t.We can’t.

It’s wrong. But why does it feel so right?

Why does his presence affect me every single time? Why do I feel so comfortable in his touch? Why am I not telling him to stop?

Because I don’t want to.

Instead, I nod and our noses bump at the same time his hand lowers from cradling my cheek to my jaw, with his fingers digging into my scalp, right behind my ear, causing me to shiver.

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