Wicked and the Wallflower (The Bareknuckle Bastards 1)

She pulled him to her. Took his lips. “Yes.”

“Greedy girl. You may have it any time you ask.”

The words sent a flood of liquid fire through her. “I want it now.”

He laughed at the words, low and rough. “I want to give it to you.” He stroked, and she gasped. “You like that?” She nodded, lifting her hips toward his touch. “Here?” A long, lingering touch. “Or here?” A slow circle, firm and gentle. She gasped. “Ah . . .” he said. “There.”

Another circle, and her spine went straight, her fingers tightening on his shoulder, her eyes closing, her mouth dropping open. “Yes. There. Please.”

“Hmm.” The circular strokes continued, lazy and perfect, and thought scrambled. She reached down to grasp his hand, her fingers circling his wrist. “Do you wish me to stop?”

“No!” She gasped. “Yes. I don’t . . .” He did, and she hated him a little for it. Her eyes opened. “Don’t stop.”

He leaned in and kissed her again, then said, “I think I should show you something else.”

“But I liked that!” she protested.

“You shall like this more,” he whispered.

She arched toward him as his fingers retreated. “Devil, please.”

“Devon.”

She met his gaze, clear and beautiful and full of something she did not quite recognize. “What?”

“Call me Devon.”

Her heart threatened to pound from her chest, her hand sliding up over his cheek. “Devon.”

In response, he lowered his head to her thigh, as though in worship. Which was mad, of course. He was the one who deserved worship. She stroked his hair, her fingers trembling with need for him. For his kiss, yes. His touch, yes. But him. “Devon,” she whispered again.

The name unlocked him, and he pressed a soft kiss to her thigh, and another, and another, chasing the soft skin to her sex, her hands still stroking his smooth, short hair. He parted her folds, opening her to his gaze, and, for a moment, she struggled, embarrassed by his actions.

Until he spoke, his breath hot and devastating against her. “So beautiful.” He pressed a kiss directly above her sex, inhaling deeply, as though summoning strength. “I shouldn’t have told you. Now you own me.”

If only it were true. And still. . . . “Devon.”

He looked up at her then, his eyes all she could see. “Show me what you like.”

She shook her head. “I don’t know . . .”

“You will.” And then he was kissing her, and she was lost, gasping her pleasure as he pressed his tongue into her softness and made love to her with those slow, languid circles he’d discovered she liked so much. Felicity was undone, her hands at his head as his tongue stroked over the swollen, aching center of her, sending wave after wave of pleasure through her.

Her fingers tightened, holding him against her. She moved against him, and Devil—Devon—groaned, letting her use him, savoring her, impossibly, like she was all he’d ever desired. At the sound, Felicity released him, embarrassed, and he lifted his head instantly, ending her pleasure. No! She shook her head, raising her hands. “I’m sorry—I didn’t—”

He reached for one of them, pressing a kiss to the center of her palm as he returned it to his head. “Don’t ever apologize for taking what you want, love. For showing me how to give you pleasure.”

She closed her eyes, horrified by the words, certain that women did not do such a thing.

Devil returned to his task, his tongue flickering just barely at the core of her. Too lightly. Barely there. She opened her eyes. “Devon.” The name came on a whine. His eyes met hers over the long expanse of her torso, and she saw the mischief in them. “Please,” she said. “More.”

“Show me,” he said, continuing his teasing. She knew what he wanted from her. Could she do it?

He leaned back and blew a long, slow stream of air over her. Gentle. Useless. Dammit. She lifted her hips. He rewarded the movement with a little suck to her straining flesh. She gasped.

And then, the monster, he returned to his barely-there touch. “Do it!”

He lifted his head, and gave her a look of pure challenge. “You do it.”

God help her, she did, guiding him to her, lifting her hips, taking her pleasure. In response, he wrapped his arms around her hips, pulling her closer, holding her tight and firm, feasting at her as she sighed his name again and again, writhing against him. He moved one hand to add to her pleasure, sliding it inside her, finding a spot that made her see stars. “Devon!”

His response was a growl, the vibration adding to the immense pleasure he wrung from her, the command in it making her grasp tighten, her hips rise, her pleasure crest. And Felicity was lost, unable to do anything but give herself up to this magnificent man and his magnificent touch, pulsing against him, crying out his name as the world tilted and everything she knew changed.

And somehow, as she flew apart, she began to laugh.

It was uncontrollable—an exclamation of deep, nearly unbearable euphoria, rolling through her as he summoned pleasure from her, as she moved against him and let herself go. She laughed and laughed and reveled in this man, his kiss, his touch, her fingers scraping through his tightly shorn hair.

Soon, his mouth softened, his fingers stilling as she quieted. He turned his head, setting his lips to her thigh once more, softly. She caressed his head and face, the back of his neck and his beautiful wide shoulders, not wanting to let him go. “Was that—”

He looked up at her, and she could read the desire in his eyes, dark and sinful. “It was glorious.”

She blushed. “I didn’t expect . . . I didn’t mean to laugh.”

“I know.”

Was it normal to laugh? She couldn’t ask him. So instead she said, “I’ve never felt that way.”

Something flashed across his face, there and then gone before she could read it, replaced by a sly smile, one side of his beautiful mouth tilting up. “I know, love. I was there. I felt you against me. Tight around my fingers. Pulsing against my tongue. And that laugh . . . it was the most erotic thing I’ve ever heard. For the rest of time, I shall hear that laugh in my dreams.”

And then he stood, stroking the palms of his hands down his thighs, the last rays of sun turning the sky bloodred behind him.

He was gone. Still there, but gone from her, as though he’d never been there to begin with. She came forward on the bench. “Devon?”

He shook his head, barely glancing at her. “I shouldn’t have told you that.”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s not for you.”

The words stung like a blow. She stiffened.

He swore, low and dark, running his hands over his perfectly formed head. She hated that she noticed that perfection. Hated that she noticed everything about him—the dark slash of his brows, low over his eyes, the furrow between them. The strai

ght line of his nose and the barely-there indentation at the tip of it. The shadow of beard on his cheeks, as though he could not shave enough to keep its darkness at bay. And that scar, wicked and beautiful because it was his.

Not for you.

Never to be hers.

He was the lock she would never pick.

It didn’t matter that he seemed to know a dozen ways to open her.

“You asked me for something true,” he said, gruff edge in his voice. “Earlier.”

She stood, wanting to be free of the bench that would never be hers again, because it would always be his. “Yes. And you lied.”

“I didn’t,” he said. “I told you I wanted you.”

For a moment, not forever. She didn’t say it, and she was proud of herself.

“And I didn’t lie when I told you that my name wasn’t for you, either.”

He didn’t have to say it twice. It didn’t have to sting twice. “Yes, Devil. I am not addlebrained. I understand your birth name is too precious to share with me.”

He looked away again. Cursed again. “For Christ’s sake, Felicity. When I say it isn’t for you, it’s because it’s not precious at all. Because it defiles you to speak it.”

She shook her head. “I don’t—”

“It’s not my birth name; I don’t have a birth name. I was found, days old, wrapped in swaddling clothes and screaming on the banks of the River Culm, a note pinned to me, with instructions that I was to be sent to my father.”

Dear God.

Her chest tightened at the words. At the vision of him, a child. A babe. Left. “Who would do such a thing?”

“My mother,” he said without emotion. “Before she filled her pockets and walked into the water, thinking me better off without her.” Felicity felt ill. What must that poor woman have been facing? What fear must she have carried? What sadness?

And then he added, “She thought he would accept me.”

Of course she’d thought that. Who wouldn’t accept him, this pillar of a man, proud and strong and brilliant and bold? How could any man not love such a son?

How could anyone not love such a man?