Wicked and the Wallflower (The Bareknuckle Bastards 1)

He considered it. She watched the battle wage on his beautiful face, his scar gone stark white on his cheek as he fixed his gaze over her shoulder on a faraway rooftop. She took the opportunity to lean in and press a soft kiss to his cheek.

“Devil,” she whispered at his ear, loving the shudder that went through him at the word. “By the details of our arrangement, you still owe me a boon.”

His hands settled on her. His arm encircled her. Pulled her close. “Yes.”

“That’s a marvelous word.”

He laughed at her ear, low and graveled and without humor, his hands. “Indeed, it is.”

“My boon, then?”

Pleasure washed over her as he stroked the bare skin of her back. “Ask.”

She put her lips to his ear. “I want tonight.”

Before the words had disappeared, Devil was turning her, laying her down again, looming over her, cradling her face in his strong hands and ravishing her with his kiss—long and lush, making her body sing—her breasts, her thighs, that soft place between them that he’d loved so well and still ached for him.

Felicity lifted her thighs and rocked against him, and he tore his mouth from hers with a hiss, throwing his head back to reveal the long cords of his neck. When he looked down at her again, his beautiful amber eyes were filled with desire and something close to pain. “One night,” he said. “One night and then you leave me. One night and you take your place in the world where you belong.”

As though one night would ever be enough. “Yes,” she lied.

“I shall make it right,” he whispered. “I shall keep you safe.”

She nodded. “That’s what you do.” This beautiful man, who had spent a lifetime as a protector.

He met her gaze. “You’ll have it all.”

Not you, though.

She pushed the thought from her head, reaching for him. “Please.” She lifted her hips to him. “Don’t stop.”

He exhaled on a breathless laugh, leaning down to suck on the tip of one breast until it was hard and straining. “I have no intention of stopping, my greedy girl.” His fingers found their way to her core, stroking and lingering, stretching and petting, her breath coming faster and faster, pleasure coursing through her. She strained to keep his hand against her, even as his touch gentled.

“More,” she said. “I want it all.”

“I do, too,” he whispered, putting his forehead to hers and kissing her once again. “God, I am going to love being inside you when you come.”

“Yes.” She kissed him. “Please.”

“So greedy.”

She nodded. “Wanton.”

He huffed a little, strained laugh. “You shouldn’t know that word.”

“You have taught me worse,” she said.

“That’s true,” he replied, the words sounding strangled as he rocked against her.

“You can’t have them back,” she said, spreading her thighs wide to accommodate him as the tip of him settled at the opening of her, hot and smooth and, “Oh . . .”

“Mmm,” he said harshly. “Oh . . .”

And then he was sliding into her with perfect control, slow and smooth, and it occurred to her that the sensation might make her mad. He was so hard, and so full, stretching her beyond anything she could have imagined, not pain or pleasure but some unbearable, glorious combination of the two. No. Pleasure. So much pleasure. She gasped.

He froze. “Felicity? Talk to me.”

She shook her head.

“Love . . .” He kissed her gently. “Sweetheart, say something.”

Her eyes flew to his. “Oh . . .”

“Something more than oh, love. I don’t want to hurt you.”

She flexed against the full shape of him, and he sank deeper into her channel. He groaned, his eyes sliding closed.

“Oh, my . . .” she said.

He laughed again, hoarse and perfect. “Sweetheart, if you don’t say something other than some variation on oh, I’m going to stop.”

Her eyes flew open. “Don’t you dare.”

His brows rose. “Well. That’s something other than oh.”

She reached for his shoulders, smoothing her hands over his muscles, each one more tense than the last. “You wish more words?”

“I need them,” he said softly. “I need to know it’s good for you.”

She smiled at that, and then leaned up and stole his mouth for a lingering kiss. When it was over, she curled her hand behind his neck, looked into his eyes, and said, “I want it all.”

And he began—blessedly—to move. Long, slow strokes sent pleasure curling through her, again and again,

“Tell me how it feels, love.”

She wanted to, but it was impossible—she’d lost her words again. He’d stolen them with his kiss and his touch and the delicious length of him, stroking, guiding, pleasuring her. His movements were slow and delicious, enough to chase away the last hints of pain that had lingered, leaving only sighs and gasps and a perfect rhythm—one she was happy to match.

And when she did, he opened his eyes, meeting her gaze, and she lost her words again at the pure, unadulterated desire in them. She reached for him, running her fingers along his jaw, where his scar ran jagged and white. “You want it all, too.”

“Yes . . .” He hissed his pleasure. “Fuck, yes, I want it all.”

And then his hips rolled beautifully and she cried out as he knocked against a magnificent place. He stilled, raising a brow. “There?” He repeated the movement.

She clasped his shoulders. “Yes.”

Again.

“Please.”

Again.

“Devil,” she gasped.

“Tell me again,” he growled, driving her higher and higher. “Give me the words again.”

Her eyes flew open to find his on hers. “I love you,” she whispered as he thrust into her.

“Yes.”

“I love you.” She clung to him, the words a prayer. A litany. “I love you.”

“Yes.” He held her gaze through it all, whispering that single, beautiful word, again and again, as he gave her everything she’d ever wanted. Everything she’d ever dreamed. As she whispered her love and they careened toward pleasure, hard and fast and perfect, like truth. And when pleasure coursed through her like a wave, he captured first her cries and then her laugh with his kiss. And only then, the sound of her riotous pleasure in his ears, did he find his own release, deep and powerful, her name on his lips.

Minutes later, hours, perhaps, they lay in silence beneath the stars in the stunning wake of what they’d done. Devil had reversed their position, draping Felicity across his chest, where her head lay and her fingers danced circles on his skin.

He held her tight against him, his arms and coat keeping her warm, his fingers sifting through her hair in a delicious, rhythmic caress, and for that brief eternity, she imagined that the night had changed him as much as it had changed her.

She closed her eyes, the steady beat of his heart against her thoughts—the quiet, domestic fantasy that ended with his taking her hand in his and pledging himself to her, forever. She inhaled, overcome with the scent of him, tobacco flower and juniper and sin, and she imagined that, forever, any hint of it would summon the false memories she wove in his arms.

A Covent Garden wedding, a raucous celebration filled with wine and song, and a night to follow on this very roof—a repeat of tonight, but better, because it would not end with him leaving her.

It would end with a life together. A marriage. A partnership. A line of children with beautiful amber eyes and strong shoulders and long, straight noses. Children who would learn that the world was wide and good, and the aristocracy was nothing compared to the hardworking men and women who built the city in which they lived and made it better every day.

Men like their father. Women like the one she hoped to become by his side.

She closed her eyes and imagined those children. Wanted them. Loved them, already.

Just as she loved their father.

“Felicity.” He said her name, low and perfect, and she lifted her head to meet his gaze. “Dawn approaches.”

Dawn, ready to burn away the dark and with it, those precious, unmade memories.

Don’t send me back. Keep me here. I belong here.

She didn’t say the words, but he seemed to hear them anyway. He exhaled, the sound broken. “You deserved more than this,” he said. “You deserved a wedding night. With a man ten times what I am. With a man who can give you ton and title, name and fortune, a Mayfair townhouse and a country estate that’s been in the family for generations.”

Anger flared. “You’re wrong.”

“I’m not.”

“I don’t want those things.”