Brazen and the Beast (The Bareknuckle Bastards 2)

She liked this.

She liked him.

She loved him.

He was pulsing against her tongue as she found a rhythm that made them both mad—and then he was making filthy promises, like please, Hattie . . . more, Hattie . . . if you don’t stop, I shall come . . . but she didn’t want to stop, especially not when he lost all words—every word but one.

“Hattie . . .” Again and again, over and over, until she, too, forgot everything else, and then he was giving himself over to pleasure, and to her, and, finally, to release, loud and unbridled and glorious, just them and the ship and the docks and the sky.

And when she released him, she was full of a single thought.

More.

More of this power, this pleasure, this partnership. She was greedy for it.

For him.

She opened her eyes and looked up at him, his eyes riveted to her, unwavering. Her heart pounded. “Untie me.” The words were harsh and nearly broken, and Hattie wondered if she’d gone too far.

Was he angry?

“Now. Untie me.” She scrambled to her feet, reaching for the knot, requiring her to get close to him. Close enough for him to dip his head and suck at the soft skin of her neck and send shivers through her. Close enough for him to scrape his teeth along the curve of her jaw. To sink his teeth into her earlobe before hissing, “I am going to make love to you, finally. Properly.”

The sheer need in his voice had her fingers fumbling at the ropes, her gaze flying to his, gone mad with desire. He thrashed against the bindings, wild, like the Beast for which he’d been named. And then he added, pure cold command in his voice, “Now.”

“Yes,” she said, breathless with want, but her fingers wouldn’t work, and he was growling his frustration, and she was echoing him, and then she remembered . . . She pulled back and met his wild eyes. “You glorious man. You have knives.”

She pulled one from the holster at their feet and in an instant he was free, his arms coming around her, the knife she’d used spinning across the deck—neither of them caring as he lifted her in his arms as though she weighed nothing, upending her balance—her whole world—until her back was against his clothes piled beneath them.

He kissed her lips, then down her neck before he loomed over her, the lantern casting him in golden light, his bare shoulders flexing and his hands working to pull her skirts up, up, up, until he found the slit in her pantaloons and met her eyes. “I like these undergarments less than the ones the other night.”

She nodded.

“No more of them.” And with a wicked rip, they were gone, and—

“Ohh,” she sighed as he growled at her neck.

“So wet.” His fingers sank into her and he met her eyes, watching her as he stroked deep. “I like that.”

She smiled at the echo from earlier. “So do I.”

“Mmm.” He lowered his head to kiss her, long and slow, until desire pooled, setting her body aflame. She lifted her hips, meeting his strokes, and he sat back, watching her for a moment, “Show me how much.” She did, meeting his beautiful amber eyes as they mapped her body, her movements. As they made her believe he wanted her as he’d said. Beyond reason. “You’re so beautiful. I could watch you do that forever.”

She thrust against his fingers, and he set his thumb to the straining bud nestled above them, rubbing once, twice, until she groaned. “Whit!”

He smiled, wolfish. “That’s what it feels like when you touch me.”

She cut him a look. “Do it again. So I can remember.”

He laughed, low and deep, and did, the movement sending fire rolling through her like a tide. “My brazen, greedy beauty.” He stroked deep, over and over, slowly and perfectly, wonderfully steady, until she was writhing against him.

And then he released her, and she gasped her displeasure. “Wait!”

“Mmm.” He licked his fingers and leaned over her, kissing her long and slow. “No. You wait, now.”

He reached for the laces on her dress, untying the ribbons and loosening the bodice, opening it to reveal her chemise and corset, undressing her carefully until she was bare beneath him and he could suckle the tip of one breast, and then the other, until she was hard and aching, and her fingers were tight in his hair. “Please, Whit. Please.”

He kissed her again, lowering himself over her, blocking the cool breeze from the Thames with his impossibly warm body. “Please what, love?”

“You promised to make love to me.” She spread her thighs, knowing she shouldn’t. Knowing ladies didn’t. Not caring. “Finally,” she repeated his earlier words, loving the way he settled into her, the long, smooth length of him sliding through her, the tip of him notching just where she ached to be touched again. He groaned at the sensation, and triumph flooded her. “Properly.”

He laughed, harshly. “I want to, love.” He rocked against her again, and she sighed at the pleasure. “So much. I have never felt anything like the feel of you coming around me.” Another slide. Another notch. Another gasp.

“Do it,” she said, moving on the next slide, until he froze, the tip of him kissing her aching opening.

He cursed, low and thick. “Hattie. God. You are a Siren.”

She lifted her hips, and they both groaned as the head of him slid inside her, just barely, just enough to tempt them both. She slid her fingers into his hair. “Now,” she whispered. “Please, Whit. Now.”

He gave it to her, sliding into her with a single, slow, sure press, no hesitation like there had been the first time, as though he knew she could take whatever he gave her. And she could. At least, she could take the sensation . . . but the pleasure . . . the feeling . . . the knowledge of what was to come . . . she wasn’t sure that wouldn’t make her mad.

“You are so hard,” she said, when he was seated deep inside her, unable to keep the awe from her voice. “So full.”

He bit her shoulder with a little growl. “Hard for you, love. Only for you.”

She smiled. “Mmm.”

He barked a little laugh. “I’ll never get tired of the way you take your pleasure, love. Like you deserve it.”

She met his gaze, bold and brazen. “I do deserve it.”

He nodded. “You do. And all I want to do is give it to you.”

She smiled. “You like it.”

“I like you.”

Her heart skipped. What a magnificent man. What a strong and decent and beautiful, magnificent man. Tears sprang, and he noticed—of course he noticed—and worry marred his brow. “Love, does it hurt? Should I—”

“No,” she said, clutching his arms. “No. Don’t you dare leave me.”

He stilled.

“I . . .” She shook her head, unable to stop herself from whispering, “I love you.”

He bowed his head at that, meeting her forehead with his. “I don’t deserve it.”

What a lie it was. Her hands came to the back of his neck, fingers sliding into his hair. “You do.”

“I don’t,” he whispered. “But I’m taking it.”

He began to move, and Hattie was lost in the long, lovely strokes that stole her breath and her thought, and all she could do was sigh his name. He watched her, reading her pleasure, altering his rhythm until everything fell away—the dock and the ship and the world beyond them. Beyond him.