Daring and the Duke (The Bareknuckle Bastards 3)

Her jaw slackened at the words.

That half smile again. The one she knew so well from their youth. “But, I don’t want the scone.”

He lifted his hand to her face, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear, and heat shot through her at the touch. She sucked in a breath. “What, then?”

“Only what you want, as well.” He changed his grip, and he was tilting her up to him. Then his lips were on hers, the hotly contested scone tumbling to the ground, and she was lost.

It was different from the kisses the other night—when she’d been masked and wigged and kohled beyond recognition. When he’d given her private pleasure for the sake of just that—pleasure. No past, no future, just present.

Of course it was different. Because this kiss was all time. This kiss was promise and threat, history and speculation. And it was the summation of twenty years of wanting him even as she knew that she would never have him.

It was aching and sweet and delicious and awful and it laid her bare there, in the golden light of the setting Covent Garden sun, where she’d never been bare before. Where she’d never been safe enough to be bare.

But now, as his arms came around her, collecting her against him, he was home. And she was safe. At least for as long as they kissed.

Don’t ever stop.

The thought raced through her as she lifted her arms to encircle his neck, to keep him there, against her, pure pleasure.

Please, don’t ever stop.

He didn’t seem interested in stopping. Instead, as she came up on her toes to even their height, his arms wrapped tight around her waist, pulling her into him, pressing her along the hard length of his body, all muscle and strength. She rocked her hips into his, the soft, aching part of her pressing along the straining length of him.

He wanted her. As much as she wanted him.

She sighed at the realization, the sound lost in their kiss even as he growled his pleasure and pulled her tighter, his large, warm hand coasting up her back and into her wild curls. There was nothing gentle about the caress, his fingers tightening . . . fisting around a mass of her hair, holding her still.

Good. She didn’t want gentle.

He deepened the kiss and she opened for him, his tongue sliding over hers as her hands mirrored his own, clenching in the silken strands of his hair as she licked across his lips and met him movement for movement. He couldn’t get enough of her. She couldn’t get enough of him. And then he was turning her, lifting her, walking her back behind a tall stack of crates and barrels.

He set her to the wall, barely out of sight of the washwomen, and planted his hands on either side of her head, caging her in for his kisses—more and more drugging, more and more desperate, threatening to pull her deeper and deeper into whatever it was that had brought him back.

Threatening to make her beg for him—

Don’t ever stop.

And then he fit his strong thigh between hers, the heavy weight of it against her aching flesh pulling a little cry from the back of her throat—only loud enough for him to hear, and still it seemed to set him aflame. She slid her hands down his chest, splaying her fingers wide across the broad expanse of him—so different now than a year earlier, when she’d mapped the lean contours of him.

There was nothing lean about him now. He was all muscle, fresh topography, worthy of a new map.

Her fingers traced over a rib, and he sucked in a breath. Pain. An iron Rookery fist. A broken rib. And still, he’d found time to flirt and tease. He’d found strength to follow her.

I’ll follow you, Gracie. Always.

A promise, echoing over the years.

One of his enormous hands slid inside her coat, clasping her hip to hold her still and tight to him as he pressed that glorious thigh higher, firmer. When she rocked into him, he released his hand, sliding it up over her side to palm her breast.

They were in the middle of the Rookery. Yards from an audience. She should stop him.

But she didn't want to.

The feel of his hands on her was unbearable. Grace was not a stranger to pleasure, but had she ever felt such? Had any man ever touched her with such fire? With such certainty?

The questions were gone before they came.

There were no other men.

As his thumb slipped beneath the edge of her corset and traced a rough circle around the straining nipple there, Grace lowered her own hand, setting it to the wicked, wonderful length of him. He was hard and hot and perfect, and when he offered her a deep, delicious grunt, she returned it with a throaty laugh—his pleasure hissing through her as keenly as her own. The fingers of her free hand fisted again in his hair, and she gave his lower lip a long, delicious suck, reveling in the rich taste of him, in the lush fullness of that lip.

His grunt turned into something else. Something predatory.

But she was not prey any longer.

Today, now, they were equals.

Hunting each other.

How would she ever stop herself.

“Everything all right back there?” The excited question came from a distance. Miles away, it felt, but loud like cannon fire, and followed by a cacophony of devious, delighted laughter.

She pulled away from him, gasping for breath, returning to the Garden. Her gaze tracked over the alleyway, over the stones growing darker by the second, the sun now turning the western sky into an inferno.

She pushed past him, straightening her coat, rounding the stack of crates to face the collection of women, wide-eyed, bold, unapologetic, deeply knowing smiles on their lips.

He spoke from behind her, calm and at ease, as though everything were perfectly normal. “Beg pardon, ladies.”

She stiffened at the words, at the tittering from their audience, and looked at him, resisting the urge to put her fingertips to her lips, to settle the buzz in them, the delicious sting he’d left with his kiss.

No. It wasn’t delicious.

She shouldn’t have kissed him.

It didn’t matter that he’d made it difficult not to, with his newfound swagger, as though Covent Garden brawls were his daily bread.

It didn’t matter that those brawls seemed to suit him.

She didn’t have to touch her lips. His dark, penetrating gaze found them anyway, and in his throat rumbled a little growl that sent heat straight through her, her eyes immediately finding his. Recognizing the want there.

Want?

Need.

It didn’t feel like want in her. It felt like need as he snaked an arm around her waist and pulled her in tight, leaning down and kissing her again, lazy and lingering, as though they had a week for it, and weren’t being watched.

Before she could protest—she would have protested—he released her again, lowered his lips to her ear and whispered, “Grace.” Her name, like a benediction. Again. “Grace.” And then, “Christ, I’ve wanted that for so long.”

So had she.

“Take ’im home and give ’im a nice wash, Dahlia!” Jenny called out, and the rest of the women hooted and cheered from where they had unstuck themselves, their chores and their voyeurism finally finished, lifting baskets to hips and preparing to head home.

For a moment, Grace imagined it. Taking him home. Calling for a bath. Washing the day and the dirt from him, until he was clean and the sun was gone and they were cloaked in darkness and the permission it gave people to take what they wanted.

For a moment, she reveled in that fantasy.