Wicked and the Wallflower (The Bareknuckle Bastards 1)

Need.

“Then let us live in the present,” she whispered.

And she kissed him.

Chapter Twenty-Three

For the rest of her life, Felicity would remember his warmth. His warmth, and the way he slid a hand into her hair when she kissed him. His warmth, and the way he scattered her hairpins across the roof and pulled her into his lap to afford them both better access to each other and to the caress.

She slid her hands inside his open coat, loving the dark, luxurious heat she found there, the breadth of his chest, the rise and curve of the muscles of his sides and back, the way he allowed her access to him, a low growl of pleasure rolling through him, vibrating against her as he opened his delicious lips and reseated them on her own.

His kiss was slow and deep, as though they had the rest of time to explore. And it seemed, in that long, drugging caress, as though they did—as though that rooftop in Covent Garden, under the moon and stars, was for them alone, as private and perfect as the kiss itself. When he released her lips, she opened her eyes and found his, watching her, seeing her pleasure, taking his own in it. And then, he said, “You never had to be taught to be the flame, Felicity.”

And she reached up to pull him down to her again.

“It was always in you,” he whispered against her lips, and she sighed her pleasure, letting him capture the sound for a long moment before he added, “You are the most remarkable woman I’ve ever known, and if I have only this moment—this present—with you, then I wish to make you burn until you’ve made the stars jealous of your heat.”

The words were fire through her, fast and furious, making her head light and her breath shallow as he brushed his lips across her cheek, leaning down to her ear. “Would you do that? Would you burn for me? Tonight?”

“Yes,” she replied, a shiver of pleasure sighing through her as he worried the lobe of her ear. “Yes, please.”

“So polite,” he said, low and delicious. “Shall we go inside? I have barely slept in my bed for the memory of you upon it.”

She pulled back and met his eyes, unable to keep surprise and delight from her tone. “Really?”

He gave her a little smile. “Really. Your hands on my counterpane, your pretty pink slippers dangling from your toes. I imagine—”

“Tell me,” she said when he stopped himself.

“I shouldn’t.”

“Please.”

He leaned in with a little groan, stealing a kiss. A lingering lick. “I cannot deny you.”

“You deny me all the time.”

He shook his head. “Not this. Never this, love.” He kissed her again, slow and perfect, and then he put his forehead to hers and said, “I imagine coming to my knees there, at your feet, removing those slippers and exploring my way up your body.” His hand traced the line of her leg beneath her skirts. “I am tired of imagining what is under these pink gowns, my lady. And when I lie in bed and chase sleep, I imagine stripping you of your clothes and basking in you, soft and curved and silk and perfection.”

She let out a long, trembling breath. “I want that.”

“I shall give it to you, my wicked flame. I shall give you whatever you wish.”

He stood, reaching down to her, pulling her up to standing, above him on the roof, just high enough that their lips were even. He kissed her again, then whispered, “I shall always give you whatever you wish.”

It was a lie, of course, and she knew it.

Tell me something true.

He lifted her in his arms to give her what he promised, but she set a hand to his chest. “Wait.”

A gust of wind swirled around them as Devil stilled, whipping his coat behind him and wrapping them both in her skirts. He stilled, unmoving, holding her as though she weighed nothing at all, his eyes on hers as he waited for her to continue. “Anything.”

“I don’t want to go inside.”

He closed his eyes at the words, his grasp tightening around her for a heartbeat before he nodded and said, softly, “I understand. Let’s get you home, my lady.”

Felicity’s heart skipped a beat as he moved to set her down. “No,” she whispered. “You don’t understand. I don’t want to go inside . . .” She ran her fingers over his tightly shorn hair, loving the way it feathered over her skin. “Because I want to stay here.” Her fingers toyed at his ear, and she loved the way he dipped his head toward her touch, as though he couldn’t resist her. Lord knew she could not resist him. “In your world,” she whispered. “In the darkness. Beneath the stars.”

He remained still for another moment, the muscle in his cheek the only evidence that he’d heard her. And then he climbed down from the peak, not releasing her until they reached the flat roof below. He set her down and stepped back, shucking his coat and swirling it away, spreading it wide at his feet.

Once that was done, he extended a long, strong arm to her, palm up. An irresistible invitation.

She moved instantly, coming down the tiled roof into his waiting arms, and the next time he lifted her, it was to lie her down on the soft wool of his coat, which enveloped her with his warmth and his scent before he lowered himself down atop her, set his lips to hers, and began to slowly strip her of her sanity. And her clothes.

“That first night, on the balcony at the Marwick ball . . .” He stripped her of her pelisse. “It was too dark to see the color of your gown . . .” He pressed a kiss to the soft skin at her jaw. “And I imagined you were cloaked in moonlight.”

Her hands were stroking over his head. “You make me feel like that’s possible.”

“Anything is possible,” he promised, stealing her lips again.

Between long, languid kisses, he untied the ribbons at the front of her bodice, separating fabric to reveal her corset, her breasts rising above it. He released her lips, his tongue tracing the cords of her neck to nip at her shoulder. She gasped her surprise and pleasure to the stars.

“You like that?” he said softly to her skin.

“Yes,” she said, her fingers curling at the back of his head, holding him there.

And then he’d worked magic at her corset, and her breasts spilled into the night, the cool air rushing across her imprisoned skin. Another gasp, this one drawing a little laugh against her shoulder as he moved, stroking and circling the straining tips before he lifted his head, his searing gaze finding hers for an instant before flickering lower. His lips softened as he took her in, and she arched toward him, asking for more of his attention. More of his touch.

More of him.

He gave it, lowering his head, circling one peaked nipple before his lips closed around it and he sucked gently, working the hardened tip until she cried out, her fingers flexing against the perfection of his head, holding him there, as though she might never let him go.

She might not have let him go, not if he hadn’t growled through his long, rhythmic sucks. Not if he hadn’t slid his hand higher beneath her skirts. Not if she hadn’t lifted her hips to meet his touch, rocking against him. Not if the movement hadn’t shaken him from his task, caused him to release her from his kiss, panting wildly. “Christ, Felicity. You taste like sin.” His hips rocked against her, and an ache pooled in her core—an ache made worse and better by his nearness.

“Devon.” She sighed. “I need . . .”

“I know, love.” He lifted his weight from her and made quick work of her dress and his waistcoat before returning to her, his hands sliding over her bare skin. “Are you cold?”

She laughed. She couldn’t help it. The idea of being cold with him—“No,” she said. “I’m burning.”

His lips found hers again. “God knows that’s true.”

She caught his hand in hers, sliding her fingers over his, pulling away when she found the cool metal there. Running a thumb

gently over each of the cool silver bands, she said, “Where did these come from?”

He followed her gaze down, surprise on his face, as though he hadn’t thought about the rings in years. He smiled. “There was a man in the Garden, used to make them. No one had the money for gold—but silver, a man could buy that. All the fighters wore these rings . . . a show of their might. Of their success in the ring.” He pointed to the one on his thumb. “That one is from the first time I broke a nose.” To the second on his ring finger. “That one is from the first time I knocked a bloke out.” And he pointed to the third, on his forefinger. “That one is from the last bout I ever fought because I had to.”

He flexed his hand once, twice, curling his fingers into a heavy fist. “I don’t even think about them any longer.”

She lifted her hand to her lips, pressing a kiss on each of the silver rings. “Proof of your mettle.”

He growled, pulling her to him for a proper kiss then, and she took the opportunity to trace her own hands over his shirt, tugging it from the waistband of his trousers, itching for him. She slid her hands beneath the hem, finding his warm, smooth skin, desperate to be closer to him. Immediately. “Devil.”

“I know,” he repeated. And he did. He knew her body better than she could dream. He knew the places that ached for his touch, the skin that wanted his kiss. His fingers plucked at the hard tip of one breast as he licked at her neck, once, twice, sending thick arcs of pleasure through her.

She cried into the night, frustrated and eager and desperate for him.

He stilled at the noise, and she opened her eyes. He watched her, something magnificent in his beautiful amber gaze. “The roof was an excellent choice.”

Her brow furrowed. “Why?”

He leaned down and sucked the tip of her breast into his mouth, hot and warm and wonderful. And when she was crying her pleasure, he released her, pressing his forehead to hers as he replied, “Because when you scream your pleasure to the night, you can be as loud as you like.”

She flushed at the words. “I shan’t scream.”