Brazen and the Beast (The Bareknuckle Bastards 2)

“Mmm,” he grumbled. “My thought exactly.”

She did it again, a tiny little thrust. “That is—” And again—this time, with him helping her. “Oh.”

He cursed. “You liked that.”

She smiled. “How did you know?”

He met her gaze, his eyes full of sin. “There are no secrets in this. I can feel it.” He rocked his hips into her, leaning down to lick the skin of her neck until she sighed. “The lady likes short strokes.”

She did. Very much. “And the gentleman?”

He stole her lips for a lingering kiss. “I like what you like.”

What a delicious thing for him to say.

Before she could tell him so, he was speaking. That was the best part—the sensations were wonderful, but she might never get over the pleasure of having him talk to her.

Especially when the things he said were so scandalous. “I like how tight you are around me—impossibly tight,” he said, the last almost to himself. “I like how your eyes go hooded when I do this—” He thrust, just barely, just enough to sear her nerves. “I like how your lips soften for my kisses, and your fingers tighten on my body.” Another thrust, and another and another, and her sighs turned to cries, and she never wanted it to end.

And it didn’t, not as he moved with surer strokes, deeper and deeper, until she was clinging to him, a sheen of sweat on both their bodies as they discovered each other’s pleasure.

“But the thing I like the most . . .” He paused, holding himself on one arm as he reached between them, low, then lower, until he found the aching bud at her core. “. . . is making you come.” He rubbed a slow, languid circle over her, timing it with his smooth, short thrusts, and she began to writhe beneath him.

“You like it, too,” he growled.

“So much,” she admitted, loving the way the admission shook him. He stole her lips, and moved, pulling out nearly until he’d left her, until she thought she would weep from the loss of him, and then joining her again, slow and steady. Her eyes went wide at the magnificent feeling. “Again.” His thumb worked her. “Again.”

“My greedy girl.”

Greedy for you, she wanted to say. For all of you. For every part of you. For everything we might be together. But she held her tongue, and instead, she said, “I am greedy. You’ve made me greedy.”

He grunted his approval. “I’ll give you everything you want.”

Yes. “All of it?”

“Every bit.” He was moving harder now, deeper, and his fingers still stroked where she ached for them and nothing felt strange any longer. Now it felt perfect. He felt perfect. “There’s nothing more beautiful than you in ecstasy, love, nothing feels softer, nothing tastes sweeter . . . nothing is more . . .”

He lost the word to sensation, but she heard it anyway.

Perfect.

“More,” she said, the only word that would come.

“All of it,” he replied, and it was perfect. They were perfect together. And then it was there, that knife’s point of tension, coiled tight, tighter, tightest, and Hattie closed her eyes, her back bowing to him, as he worked her, making good on his promise, giving her everything she wanted. A vision flashed in Hattie’s mind, a keen memory of dancing at the ball, when he’d collected her into his arms and his grace had become hers.

And now, she felt it again, the slow, wonderful thrust of him, the smooth press of his hips, the way he drove her higher and higher until she could no longer feel the pull of the earth beneath them.

“Please,” she cried, desperate for the release she knew only he could give her.

And then he growled, “Come for me, love,” and thrust deep into her, in one long, stunning stroke, rocking his thumb over her once, twice, and then . . . “Now.”

She was lost to his touch. To his movements. To him. Pleasure rioted through her, so hard that it came with an edge of fear, and she clung to him. He caught her up in his arms and held her while she came apart, his low voice in her ear: “Take it. It’s for you. It’s all for you.”

She did, bearing down on him, convulsing around him, milking the hard length of him over and over, until she had finished and he held her in his strong arms, protecting her. When reason returned, she sighed, magnificently sated, like she’d never been before.

He pressed a kiss to her temple and moved to her side, pulling her to him; she lay against him, listening to his heart pound, fully, wonderfully satisfied. If this was ruination, she absolutely didn’t understand why anyone would choose to live a proper life.

Perhaps she could convince him to do it again before tomorrow. Before they went back to being rivals. And on the heels of that thought came another—perhaps they didn’t have to be rivals. Perhaps everything she thought she could not have was in play once more.

After all, surely what had just occurred between them was uncommon. If it were common, why would people ever leave their bedchambers?

Perhaps they could love each other.

She smiled at the thought, curving into him, rubbing one leg over his. She froze, realization crashing through her.

He hadn’t finished.

A cold uncertainty flooded her as she reached for him, still hard and hot against her. “Whit—”

He caught her hand before she could get close. “Don’t.”

“But you—”

He lifted her hand to his lips, pressing a kiss to her fingers. “It was for you. Not for me.”

She stilled, the relaxed delight that had infused her moments earlier now gone, replaced with confusion and a hint of something far more dangerous. “But why didn’t you—”

“I’m for body, Hattie,” he said. “Not future.”

She shook her head. “Future?”

Body. Business. Home. Fortune. Future.

He grunted.

“No grunts. Not now,” she said, irritation growing. “Why didn’t you—”

Oh, God. Had he not enjoyed it?

Her eyes went wide.

Had she pushed him to do something he had not wished to do?

Doubt slammed through her, followed by panic and horror, and Hattie sat up, desperate to cover herself. How had she misread this situation, thinking he was enjoying himself?

Thinking he’d been enjoying himself because she’d been so thoroughly enjoying herself.

Because she’d been so lost in love with him.

No. Not with.

He didn’t want her.

She closed her eyes against the thought, and the mortification that came with it. “I have to leave.”

He sat up, as well. “Hattie.”

She shook her head, tears threatening. Oh, no. She couldn’t let him see her cry. She snatched her trousers in one hand and went around the edge of the loveseat to find her shirt, blessedly long enough to cover all the essential bits while she fetched her boots. She pulled on her trousers. “Thank you very much for your . . . service.”

“My what?” he asked, coming instantly to his feet.

Hattie increased the speed of her dressing. “That’s what it was, wasn’t it? I mean, you didn’t even . . .” She waved a hand at his erection, still evident.

“Hattie—” He started toward her, then stopped. Collected himself. “I didn’t want you pregnant.”