Brazen and the Beast (The Bareknuckle Bastards #2)(14)

“First that,” he said.

Someone else must have replied, because surely it was not Hattie who slid her fingers into his curling black hair, pulled him toward her, and said, “And now you’ll give me what I want?”

But it was Hattie who received it, his kiss claiming her as one hand lowered to pull her tight against him, to lift her thigh over his hip, to press her against the thick ebony bedpost at her back.

His tongue stroked, entered, and she met him eagerly, matching his movements with her own, learning him. Learning this. She must have done well, because he growled again—the sound of her pure triumph—and he pressed into her, rough and perfect at the juncture of her thighs, drawing her attention to the ache there, an ache she felt certain he could cure. If only he’d— He tore his mouth from hers with a curse—a word that seared through her, making her feel wicked and wonderful and immensely powerful. A word that didn’t make her want to stop what she was doing. And so she didn’t, lifting her hips to his again, increasing the pressure, willing her skirts gone.

His thumb pressed against her chin, lifting it high as he met her thrusts and set his lips to the soft skin there, nipping along the underside of her jaw to her ear, where he whispered, “Here?”

Yes.

He moved down the column of her neck. A glorious slide. A delicious suck. “Mmm. Here?”

Yes.

“More?”

More. She pressed against him. Was that her whine?

“Poor love,” he rumbled. He lifted her higher, her feet coming off the floor. How was he strong enough? She didn’t care. He was at the edge of her dress, the fabric too tight. Too constraining. Too limiting. “This looks uncomfortable.” He ran his tongue over the hot, full rise of her breasts, making them impossibly hotter. Impossibly fuller. She gasped for breath.

Not-Hattie spoke again. “Do it.”

He did not hesitate to obey, setting her to the high edge of the bed, his powerful fingers coming to the edge of the bodice. Her eyes opened and she looked down, his strong hands against the gleaming silk.

Sanity returned. He surely wasn’t strong enough to—

The dress ripped like paper beneath his touch, cold air chasing her shock and then— Fire.

Lips. Tongue.

Pleasure.

And she couldn’t stop watching. She’d never seen anything like it. The most beautiful man she’d ever seen, entirely at her pleasure. The breath left her lungs as she watched, uncertain of what she loved best—the sight of him or the feel of him . . .

The sight of her hands in his hair, holding him to her.

The feel of them guiding him to her pleasure.

The sound of his assent, of his desire.

It was beyond anything she’d ever imagined. This man was beyond anything she’d ever imagined. At the thought, she dragged him up again, her fingers thrusting into his hair, pulling him to her until they kissed again. This time, though, it was she who licked over his full lips. It was he who opened to her. She who plundered. He who submitted.

And it was glorious.

His hands came to her breasts, his thumbs worrying the hard tips of them, stroking, pinching, until she gasped and writhed against him, lost to him.

And she didn’t even know his name.

The thought was ice.

She didn’t even know his name.

“Wait.” She pushed back from him, instantly regretting the decision when he released her without hesitation, his touch disappearing as though it had never been there to begin with. He stepped back.

She pulled her bodice closed over her protesting breasts and crossed her arms, her hunger returning with a great, yawning ache everywhere they’d touched. Her lips began to tingle, his kiss a phantom there. She licked them, and his amber gaze fell to her mouth.

He looked hungry, too, as he watched the words spill from her. “I don’t know your name.”

For once, he didn’t hesitate. “Beast.”

She misheard. Surely. “I beg your pardon?”

“They call me Beast.”

She shook her head. “That’s”—she searched for the word—“ludicrous.”

“Why?”

“Because . . . you’re the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen.” She paused. Then, “You’re the most beautiful man anyone’s ever seen. Empirically.”

His brows rose and he raised a hand, running it through his hair and over the back of his head in something like—was it possible it was embarrassment? “It’s rare that people point it out.”

“That’s because it’s obvious. Like heat. Or rain. But I assume people point it out whenever they call you by that absurd moniker. I imagine it is meant to be ironic.”

“It’s not,” he said, lowering his hand.

She blinked. “I don’t understand.”

“You will.”

The promise sent a thread of unease through her. “I will?”

He reached for her again, cupping her cheek in his palm, making her want to turn into the heat of him. “Those who steal from me. Who threaten what is mine. They see the truth of it.”

Her heart began to pound. He meant Augie.

This was not a man who punished in half measures.

When he came for her brother, he would hold no quarter.

Her brother was a proper imbecile, but she didn’t want him ruined. Or worse. No, whatever Augie had done, whatever he’d stolen, Hattie would return it. And that’s when she realized—the kiss they’d just shared—the offer he’d made her—it hadn’t been because he wished it.