Brazen and the Beast (The Bareknuckle Bastards 2)

His hands at her thighs, spreading them until he found the open slit of her drawers. The sound of ripping fabric decadent and indecent, and she didn’t care even though she knew she should, and he was leaning forward, lifting one of her legs over his shoulder, and his fingers weren’t on fabric anymore but skin, and words . . . they spilled from him like a rainstorm.

“That’s it, love, such a pretty pussy.”

“You—”

“Mmm?”

“You shouldn’t use that word.”

“Would you like me to use another?” He blew a lazy stream of air against her.

She gasped in surprise and pleasure. “Do you know very many?”

“Mmm. Very, very many. And I shall teach you all of them, but tonight—right now—you are so soft and wet, and I want a taste so badly—let me have a taste?”

She was too eager to be embarrassed. She was wanton and wanting and it didn’t matter that she knew of this particular act only from the songs the sailors used to sing in the rigs when they thought she wasn’t listening. Later, she would marvel at the way her body seemed to know precisely what he would do to her. At the way her fingers found his hair, at the way his breath caught when she fisted them and he released a long, slow curse at the soft skin of her thigh. At the way she spoke up. “Yes, please.”

At the way he responded, his mouth like heaven.

He parted the folds and gave her what she’d asked for, setting his tongue to her, licking slow and steady, his tongue a magnificent gift, exploring every inch of her in long, firm strokes that had her gasping for breath. He growled against her, the vibration bringing her up on her toes with pleasure, her fingers tightening in his hair. “Mmm,” he said against her. “Show me where you like it.”

She shook her head, the hard oak door at her back a comfort in the storm he wrought. “I don’t know,” she whispered, gasping when his tongue found a glorious spot.

He stilled, then said, his voice filled with satisfaction, “I do.”

And he did. He worked at that spot, his tongue flat against her, rubbing softly back and forth, again and again, until she felt as though she might scream from the pleasure. Until she was rocking against him, her grip holding him to her, lewd and lush.

“Please,” she whispered, unable to summon more than that word. “Please.”

And he stopped. The man stopped.

“No!” Her eyes flew open and she looked down at him. “Why?”

He didn’t reply. He was too busy looking at her. “This . . .” he said, softly, setting that wicked, wonderful finger to her. Stroking over her most private part—the part that seemed to no longer be hers, but his instead. The part she would cede to him happily if only he’d finish what he started. “. . . is the prettiest thing I’ve ever seen.”

She closed her eyes at the words. “Beast—”

He leaned forward and licked her, long and lush, lingering at the bud he’d been tempting. Stopped again. “This is what I was thinking about,” he said. “This wet heat. This straining clit—so eager for me, innit?” He did look up to her then, his beautiful eyes full of heat and promise. “Aren’t you?”

Her hips moved in lieu of her answer, undulating into his touch.

That barely-there smile of his flashed. “Mmm. Wild thoughts, indeed.”

And then he resumed his kiss, spreading her wide as she pressed herself to him, and he was licking and sucking, and his wonderful tongue had her nearly—

The wall behind her moved. No. Not wall. Door.

She squeaked, her hand coming down to slap the wood behind her. He was still working at her, and she was still coiling, and there was—

A knock sounded at her ear.

She stiffened. “Stop.”

“No.” He redoubled his efforts.

She gasped at the immense pleasure, plateaued and now rising once more. “Yes,” she whispered. “There.” A delicious growl vibrated through her. Her fingers found his hair again. “Yes. Oh . . . oh, my . . . yes.”

“Oy! Beast!” the American was shouting from scant inches away, beyond the door.

He pulled away from her, growling his impatience before raising his voice to say, “Not now, American.”

Through the door, the barkeep said, “You’ve rooms of your own not one hundred yards away.”

His eyes found Hattie’s when he replied, “I was proving a point.”

And well.

A pause. Then, amused, “Sounds like there is a both of us after all, Bastard—make it quick—and bring a crate of bourbon when you come.”

Hattie’s eyes went wide. “He knows what we’re doing.”

“Mmm.” He leaned in and kissed her again, until she sighed. “Do you care?”

“Not—entirely.” She rocked against him. “More. There.”

He growled, his tongue stroking hard, in circles, firmer and tighter until he was working the place where she was desperate for him, and she was on her toes, shaking with a pleasure beyond any she’d ever felt. He was devouring her, eating her alive, and she didn’t care as long as he gave her what she—

She flew apart, her hands in his hair, her hips grinding against him, and her whispered words as wild as the sounds he made, pure sin at her core. He stayed there, on his knees, against her, gentle and firm, until she released the long breath she’d held at the end, her grip relaxing from his hair, and the strength stealing from her legs.

He caught her in his arms as he stood, one strong hand capturing her face and tilting her up to him so he could kiss her. She tasted the sweet tang of herself on his lips, and he growled when she opened for him, licking deep until she was whimpering from the pleasure of the kiss.

When he lifted his mouth from hers, it was to say, “In my wildest thoughts, I didn’t imagine you’d taste like that.”

She dipped her head, embarrassment stealing through her. And still, she couldn’t stop herself from asking, “Like what?”

He kissed her again. “Delicious.” It was he who was delicious, she wanted to say, but he was kissing her again, stealing the words and the thought. “Wanton.” She was wanton. What more would he show her?

So much more, if his next kiss was an indication, deep and lingering—long enough for them both to gasp for air.

He stared down at her, his chest rising and falling with his harsh breath, one hand tangled in her hair, and said softly, “Fucking dangerous.”

A thrill shot through her at the words, filling her with pleasure and something far more intoxicating. Was this what people spoke of when they spoke of sexual pleasure? Did it always end with such a heady sense of . . . power?

She wanted more of it. Immediately.

But before she could say that, he was reaching down to pick up the shawl that she’d dropped in the excitement. He passed it to her and immediately turned away to collect his knives, sliding out of his coat and slinging it over a nearby cask before pulling on the holster and fastening it with ease, as though he’d done it every day of his life.

Which he likely did. Why? What kind of danger had a man wearing eight matching throwing knives like they were boots or breeches? How often had he used them? How often had they failed to protect him?