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Fire whirled in his guts.
She had shyly bitten her lip, and he hadn't known where to look. Should he stare at the imperfect dollop of cream at the corner of her mouth, or admire the way her perfect teeth pressed down on soft flesh?
He remembered that night in the kitchen very well. He remembered how she had looked even better. It made his stomach hurt just to think about that, but he still closed his eyes and feasted on the memory.
Her lips were glossy, candied apples glazed not with sugar only, but also honey. They had to taste so sweet too, right? Sweeter than anything he'd ever had...
Dazed as he was, he couldn't quite think back then. He had felt like he was going mad. How could he not have?
His body had burned, burned, burned. The world was melting off from the heat, like soft serve. Pots and pans were melding together while spoons and forks trickled in threads of shiny metal.
And it was crazy, the way his provoked heart had hammered. His broad chest was heaving. The air felt hot in his flapping lungs. None of his shallow breaths were enough.
Oh, but what about the urges that had ravaged him? They were chomping generous helpings out of his brain. Would his brothers have commented on how that predicament might have made him a true meathead?
Still, he was painfully aware of how his violet gaze wandered like a pantry-lost ant—but he couldn't stop looking at her. Stubborn eyeballs had went round and round and back to her the minute he forced them to lock on the burnt caramel floor.
Had it even been possible to resist?
She was a dessert straight out of his dreams or heaven's oven, covered in cream drops from head to toe.
...a dessert he couldn't sink his teeth into, though.
The solid muscles of his blazing abdomen tensed. Cobalt blue fabric cracked into an unironed mess, crumpling in his big hand.
Trouble was really, truly cooking. Really.
His face was on fire and his body was on fire and his entire existence was on fire, and he couldn't even keep his eyes off her.
He couldn't take her into his arms and steal the tiniest bite even though at that moment—with ravenous desires gripping him and all—he felt like the incarnate of gluttony more than he ever had before. The sin boiled his blood and seared his veins.
He was hungry, hungry, hungry. Starving. Famished. He was all those things, and this was too cruel, too cruel, too cruel. Much too cruel.
How was he expected to polish off those cravings—deliciously carnal as they were—and stand his ground in the face of the only woman he had ever loved, when all he wanted was to swallow her whole?
How was that fair, when whipped cream lolled on her figure and made her beauty even more delectable?
All he wanted was a nibble. He would promise to try not to be insatiable. He really would. So, please...pretty please, with a cherry on top.
Just a crumb.
Her cheeks were strawberry-red, but she had summoned some strength. "Can you get it off for me?"
The delicate finger had pointed at a corner. Oh no, oh no, oh no. She was actually gesturing at that corner. The edge of her lips.
That was when his heart began to pound as it had then—so fast it could render him dead—albeit how he was currently laying in bed.
At the moment, his legs were under the quilt, not moving towards her alone as if they had grown a mind of their very own.
His mouth wasn't on hers, tongue smearing sugary cream into her parted lips.
His lip wasn't between her teeth.
So...why did he suddenly taste something just as sweet?