Wicked and the Wallflower (The Bareknuckle Bastards 1)

He lowered his hips to hers, notching his hard length against the softest part of her. “Perhaps not. Perhaps you’ll laugh.”

The flush turned to flame. “I didn’t mean to laugh . . .”

Devil shook his head. “Don’t you dare apologize for that, love. I will die with the sound of that laughter in my ears. The pure pleasure of it. It was glorious.” He kissed her again. “All I want to do is summon it again.”

She closed her eyes at that, embarrassment and desire warring in her.

Desire won out. “I want you to summon it again.” She lifted her hips again, enjoying the hissing curse that came from him at the movement. If it was possible, the hard length of him grew harder. Longer. “But you are wearing legions more clothes than I would like.”

He growled his pleasure at that, rolling off her and coming to his feet to remove his shirt, following it with boots and trousers. The movements lacked any artifice, as though he was immensely comfortable with his body—and how could he not be? He was perfection. She could spend hours watching him.

When he stood once more, nude, and turned to return to her, she held out a hand. “Wait.”

He stilled, his gaze hungry and hot. “What is it?”

She sat up, pulling his coat around her. “I want to look.”

The words changed him. He dipped his head, running a hand over his tightly shorn hair, the movement at once deeply endearing and a striking display of the perfection of his arms and shoulders. Felicity’s mouth went dry as his hand wrapped around his neck and slid over his chest, rubbing back and forth before dropping to his side. “Look your fill, then, my lady.”

She waved a hand lazily in the air, like a queen, indicating that he should turn, and like a miracle, he did. A smirk on his lips as he returned to his original position. “Have you decided what to do with me?”

The memory of the first night, in her bedchamber, teased over her. I’ve never quite understood what one does with exceedingly perfect men.

She met his eyes. “I’m still not sure what one does, but I find I’m willing to brazen it through.”

He raised a brow. “I’m very happy to hear that.”

Dear God. He was splendid—the play of moonlight over his skin, the dusting of hair over his chest. The sculpture of his muscles, ridges at his hips, the delicious curve of his backside, the heavy cords of his thighs. And between them, the straining length of him, hard and beautiful and throbbing. “When I saw you in your bath . . . below . . .” she began, unable to tear her gaze from the hard length of him. “I wanted to look at you . . . It was all I could do not to come to the edge of your bath and see . . .”

“Fuck, Felicity.” He groaned.

Her gaze flew to his face at the groaning curse. “What?”

He looked to the sky, letting out a long, beautiful breath. “Forgive me,” he said, so softly that it occurred to her that he might not wish her to hear it. And then he looked back to her. “You licked your lips, love.”

Her hand flew to her mouth. “I did?”

He grinned, his white teeth flashing, and her first look at his wicked smile was enough to steal her breath. “Don’t you dare be ashamed of it. I just—Christ—I just want this to be perfect for you, and when you look at me like that—like you want it . . .” He trailed off as her gaze lowered again, to the straining length of him, and then—dear God—his hand moved, and he was taking himself in hand, caressing that magnificent length, and her mouth was watering and there was only so much a woman in her position could manage.

She stared at his hand, at his slow, languid movements, and swallowed. He was so perfect. “I do want it.”

The sound he made—low and dark—sent desire coursing through her, pooling deep in places she had only just discovered. And when he moved, coming toward her, her heart began to pound. “I’m going to make you say that a thousand times before we are through,” he growled, coming to his knees beside her, reaching for the coat she’d wrapped around her nudity.

She clutched it tighter.

He tilted his head. “Felicity?”

Her gaze flickered over him again, taking in his raw beauty. “I’m—” She stopped.

Devil waited with infinite patience.

She tried again. “I’m—not like you.”

He sat back on his heels, as though he were entirely comfortable. As though he could live his whole life without clothing and never think twice. His gaze softened. “I know that, love. That’s a large part of why I’d like to remove this coat.”

“I mean—” She swallowed. “I’ve never been nude before. With a man.”

He offered her a little smile, crooked and gorgeous. “I know that, too.”

“I’m not—I don’t—”

He let go of the fabric. Waited.

“You are perfect,” she said. “But I—I am all flaws.”

He watched her for a long time. An eternity. Seconds stretched between them like miles. And then, just when she thought it was all over, he said, quiet and certain, “Here is something true, Felicity Faircloth, wallflower, lockpick, and wonder; there isn’t a single thing about you that is flawed.”

She blushed. And somehow, for a fleeting moment, she believed him.

“Please, love. Let me show you.”

As though such an offer could be denied. She dropped the coat. Revealed herself.

He studied her like she was a master’s painting, eventually coming to her side and bringing her down so that they lay together, hands and mouths exploring, his hands on her skin, her fingers raking through the dark hair on his chest. His lips seeking out the dimples in her round belly as her legs parted in a slow slide along his straining length.

“Tell me again,” he whispered to her stomach, one hand sliding along the soft skin of her inner thigh.

She understood instantly. “I want you.” She explored the curves of his muscles, the hills and valleys of his body.

He rewarded the words with another kiss. A suck. A lick. A slide.

And all the time, his hands moved closer to his goal.

Hers, too.

“Where do you want me?”

She squirmed against him, embarrassed by the question, and he nipped at her skin again, a little sting, enough to make her gasp and want him even more. How did he know that? That a delicate bite could seduce as well as a kiss? Before she could ask, he parted the folds beneath her thighs and said, low and delicious, “Here?”

Another gasp. “Yes.”

He stroked against her pulsing flesh, soft, then firm, swirling and stroking. “Tell me again. I’ll give you everything you want—all you have to do is ask for it.”

“I want it,” she panted. She rocked against him, aching for more of his touch. “Please. I want—”

His thumb worked a tight circle, setting her ablaze. “Shall I give you the words, love?”

“Yes,” she said. “I want every word. All the wicked ones.”

He exhaled on another curse. “You are going to destroy me, Felicity Faircloth.”

“Not before you give me the words.” She sighed, loving that he was as moved as she was.

“You want to come,” he said. “You want me to make you come.”

Another press, another stroke. And another, and another. “Yes.”

“You want my fingers here.” He moved, and she cried out as he began to fill her, magnificently, her hands coming to his head, pushing him lower and lower. He growled again. “And wicked girl, you want my mouth, too.”

“Yes,” she said again. “Yes, I want it.”

He gave it to her, setting his tongue to her soft heat, savoring the taste of her as his fingers continued their movement, making love to her with slow, savoring strokes, his free hand lifting one of her legs over his shoulder, opening her to him. She could not stop herself from pressing her hips to him, and did not wish to—crying out that single word again and again, her only purchase her hands in his hair, holding him to her until she found her orgasm, shouting his name to all the worl

d as he worked her with hands and mouth and tongue until all she knew was pleasure.

As she came down from her pleasure, his tongue gentling, his fingers stilling as she pulsed against him, she pulled him up to her, his name hoarse on her lips, eager for more.

Eager for all of it.

He followed her touch, climbing over her, stealing her lips in a long, sweet kiss that stoked fire once more before she pulled back and set her hands to his torso, sliding them down over the ridges and planes of his body to find the part of him that had transfixed her.

When her fingers touched his straining length, he jerked his hips away from her. “Wait, love.”

She opened her eyes. “Please,” she whispered. “Please, let me touch you.”

He growled and kissed her again. “I don’t think I can have that, sweet,” he said at her lips. “I don’t think I can bear it. I don’t want it to be over.”

She stilled. It couldn’t be over. She wanted the rest.

She wanted all of it.

Every touch, every kiss, every movement that would tie them together.

She nodded, refusing to relinquish his gaze, and smiled.

His eyes flickered to her lips, then back again. “That’s a wicked smile, my lady.”

“I am your lady,” she said softly, her hand moving slightly, just enough to encircle him. To tentatively explore.

He hissed his pleasure. “Yes. Fuck. Yes.” And then he reached for that roaming hand and returned it to his chest, a safer place.

“Someday,” she said, “you’ll let me touch you.”