He looked down at her.
She was standing in a dusty, dimly-lit shed, a place that smelled of oil and leather, and she was wrapped in his arms, her body soft and pliant against his. Her head was tilted back, her eyes were shining with a terrifying, innocent hunger, and she had just asked him to kiss her.
Carcel felt a muscle in his jaw clench. He was a man on a rack, being torn in two. Every base, primal, male part of him—the part that had been at war, the part that had been without a woman for too long, the part that had been awake since their last encounter —was screaming at him to lower his head. To taste her. To finish what they had started on that damned library desk.
But the other part of him, the part that was a Duke, the part that was a man of honor, and the part, larger than all the others, that was Rowan's best friend, was at war.
