Brazen and the Beast (The Bareknuckle Bastards #2)(107)

“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.

He kissed her neck. The line of her jaw. Her lips. “My Hattie. My beautiful Hattie.”

And she believed it, meeting a long stroke with a tilt of her hips, and sending a jolt of pleasure through them both. Their gazes met. “I liked that,” she said, shy and teasing.

“Mmm. Let’s see if we can find it again.”

They did, the thrum of desire fading into laughter. Was this what it was like for everyone? Was it always so bright? Like the sun had risen and cleared out all the darkness?

“Hattie,” he whispered. Her gaze snapped to his. “Tell me again.”

You shall lose your heart.

He rocked into her. “Please.”

Her heart was already gone. “I love you.”

He thrust into her. “Again.”

“I love you.” She clung to him, and he reached between them, finding the straining bud just above where they were joined. “Yes. Whit.”

“I can’t wait much longer, love. I’m desperate to come in you.”

“Don’t wait,” she said, his touch winding her tighter and tighter, sending her higher and higher. “Please, love. Please, don’t wait.”

“Again,” he whispered. “Just once more.”

“I love you.” She gave him the words a heartbeat before she was lost to the pleasure, flying apart beneath him and the London sky, and she was crying his name and clinging to him as he worked her in a beautiful, undeniable rhythm, carrying her through one release, and then another, before he gave up his own with a low, loud groan, the most delicious sound she’d ever heard.

When they returned to the moment, their breath in harsh symphony, the river tide lapping against the side of the ship, Whit pulled her tight against him, turning to put his back to the deck and cover them with his greatcoat. He pressed a kiss to her temple and exhaled, long and lovely. “Beauty.”

The word sent warmth through her, and she cuddled nearer to him.

He pressed a kiss to her shoulder. “I do not deserve you.”

She smiled at the words. “I think you can agree that I am almost as much trouble as I am delight.”

He did not reply, his broad, rough fingertips painting designs across her bare shoulder, soft and sure and mesmerizing enough to make Hattie forget where they were, and who they were, and all the reasons they could not be together. She tracked those movements, the slow slide of his fingers and the feel of his breath in her hair, slow and even, until her eyes became heavy, and she wondered what might happen if she fell asleep here, in his arms, on the riverfront.

And just as she decided that she didn’t much care what would happen if she did just that, because he didn’t seem to be interested in moving, either, he spoke, the words a soft rumble beneath her ear.

“Marry me.”





Chapter Twenty-Four


Of course he was going to marry her.

He’d been planning to marry her from the moment he stepped onto the damn ship and saw her standing on the raised prow, looking every inch a warrior, waiting to do battle. His warrior, waiting to take him as spoil.

As though he wouldn’t go willingly into her arms. Especially after she’d told him she’d like to murder both his father and his brother. And capped the whole thing off perfectly by telling him she loved him.

She loved him.

If Whit never heard it again, he would remember that moment forever. When he took his last breath, it would be with Hattie’s indignant fury in his memories, and the man I love in his ears.

She loved him, and that changed everything; it made her his, unquestionably.

And then she’d tied him to the mast and made him hers, after making him wild with desire and filling him with pleasure and satisfaction and calm certainty. For the first time in his life, Whit hadn’t doubted. He’d known.