Daring and the Duke (The Bareknuckle Bastards 3)

“You told me,” she continued. “Tonight is not for the future.”

She watched him, willing him to follow her lead, time stretching out like an eternity. And then he opened his mouth and took the tip of her finger between his lips, sucking gently and setting her on fire. Her jaw slackened as she watched the movement—betraying the lush strokes of his tongue against the sensitive pad of her finger. At her gasp of pleasure, he released her, the scrape of his teeth over her skin making her ache.

“No names,” he agreed, softly. “Then the mask stays, as well?”

She inclined her head at the question. Of course the mask stayed. Her rule did not stop him from reaching for his own mask and pulling it off, tossing it away, into the darkness, as though he had no intention of ever returning to his ball or his house or his life. Or, if he did, he had no intention of returning to those things in hiding.

She drank him in—unable to help herself now that he was finally bare to her—wishing beyond anything that she could see him clearly in the moonlight. To make up for it, she reached for him, her fingers sliding over his high, aristocratic cheekbones, testing the heat of his skin. He reached up and took her hand in his, pressing it to his cheek, as though he were an offering.

“Now I can see you,” she said.

“You could see me before; you only had to ask.” She marveled at the words, so free and without care. What would it be like to never have to hide? Grace was so expert at hiding, at playing a part—myriad parts—that she often forgot her truth.

Not that she could ever show it here.

He ran a hand through his hair, the dark blond hinting of gold in the moonlight. He leveled her with a look. “And so? Do you like it?”

So much. “You’ll do,” she allowed, giving herself up to the moment. “For tonight.”

He smiled, crooked and familiar for its boyish charm, and her chest tightened at the echo of memory that came with it. Not enough to chase her away. Just enough to make her wish never to leave.

He met her eyes. “What else, then, my lady? If I am to be your fantasy, where do I begin?”

Her heart began to pound, but she refused to be swayed. She lifted her chin. “Kiss me again.”

“Where?”

Everywhere. “Wherever you like.”

He growled, low in his throat, and then, “I like all of it.”

She reached for him, whispering in the darkness, “Then kiss all of it.”

They came together like a storm, crashing into each other as he tilted her chin up to the roof of the gazebo, exposing the long column of her neck and setting his lips to it, tracing it with his tongue. She sucked in a deep breath of pleasure, unbearably aware of his hands at her sides, caging her to the low wall of the gazebo, her own hands in his hair, half holding on, half guiding him down her neck and farther, over the skin rising up out of the low cut of the dress. And then one hand was there at her neckline, fisting on it, tightening the fabric before he ripped it, just enough to pull it away and release her breasts to the summer air.

It was mad and wild, and in only minutes reality would return and with it the truth about his actions and her anger and their irreparable past and their impossible future, but right now, there was this . . . mad and wild.

She sucked in a breath and he pulled back at the sound, to take her in. She skimmed her fingers over her collarbone, checking for the sleeves that still covered her shoulders before lowering her arms and letting him look his fill.

He did for long enough moments that she thought he might not touch her after all, and then he swore, dark and wicked, and for a heartbeat his perfect elocution slid into his past—into the Garden. The edge of slang sent heat pooling through her, a straight shot of desire, but she saw him hear his own words—words that dukes did not say with ladies, no matter how far down the garden path they were. The flinch was barely there.

Would he stop?

Surely he wouldn’t. Not now.

Don’t stop.

“This . . .” he whispered, the words low and lush. “This is what I wanted. From the moment you arrived, I wanted to pull this dress off you.” His beautiful eyes, lit by the moonlight, met hers. “Tell me you wanted it, too.”

She straightened, pushing her shoulders back, presenting herself to his hot gaze. Putting herself on display. And then she whispered, “All of it.”

Another magnificent growl in his throat. “As my lady desires.” He set his lips to where she ached for him, lingering strokes with his tongue before taking her gently into his mouth and sucking, slow and rhythmic, until she was moving beneath him, meeting his lush draws with her body, whispering encouragement as he stole her thoughts.

And there, beneath the stars and the roof of that secret gazebo, Grace turned herself over to fantasy and to this man and to his magnificent mouth and hands—hands that were sliding beneath her skirts, over her ankles, and up the length of her leg, higher and higher, bringing the fabric with them, until the summer air was kissing her thighs with the same lush promise as he made to her breasts.

When he released her, she nearly cried her frustration, until he blew a long stream of air over the puckered tip of one breast, and looked to her again, his fingers playing over the soft skin of her inner thigh, painting patterns that robbed her of her sanity. “Where else shall I kiss you, my lady?”

She bit back a curse at the teasing words, even as she spread her thighs a touch wider. She was a woman who dealt in pleasure, and knew that she wished to take her own. Knew that there was only one man she’d ever want that pleasure from—even if she could never admit it. Even if he could never know it. She met his eyes, grateful for the mask—both the fabric one and the one that was more complicated to remove—and replied as Dahlia, who would not hesitate to take what she wanted. “Did you not say all of it?”

He swore softly at the words, leaning in to steal her lips in a kiss once more, before pulling back and saying, “Mmmm. I shan’t let you go until I taste all of it. Every inch of you.”

Without hesitation, he slid to his knees before her, taking her sense with him.

He spread her thighs, and she closed her eyes to his touch, wanting it more than she could say, her fingers tightening in his hair, his name whispering through her—the name she could never use—Ewan. When he pressed a kiss to the soft skin at the inside of her knee, the edge of his teeth scraping there like a promise, she exhaled, long and trembling. His breath was hot perfection, and he whispered, “I feel like Apollo in the woods.”

She opened her eyes at the words, staring up at the stars painted on the gazebo ceiling—another canopy that she’d never see without thinking of him. “A-Apollo?”

“Mmm.” He turned and pressed a lush kiss on the opposite thigh. “Apollo, wandering in the woods, until he stumbled upon the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen.”

Her surprised laugh turned into a gasp of pleasure as his lips moved higher and higher, closer and closer to where she wanted him. She held on to him, pulling tight at his hair, loving the grunt of pleasure-pain he offered even as she hated the way he lingered, close enough for her to feel his breath and too far away for her to feel anything else. “Was she naked in a swimming hole?”

He hummed his amusement, and she heard the distraction in the sound, as though he was too focused on something else. On her. On the place where she, too, was focused. “I shall tell you later.”