Brazen and the Beast (The Bareknuckle Bastards #2)(39)

“Yes.”

“Say it.”

“I am—you’ve made me—”

“Wait.” His groan interrupted her, and suddenly it wasn’t just one finger painting her skin with circles, it was his whole hand, running over her shoulder, down her arm, threading his fingers into hers. Tugging her around to face him.

And when she faced him, she saw the truth that his accent had hinted. He wasn’t calm.

He was wild.

“Finish it,” he growled. “What ’ave I made you?”

“Wet,” she said, and the word seemed to strike him like a blow, setting him to his knees on a long, devastating curse.

He sat back on his ankles and stared up at her, his hands balled into fists on his thighs. He lifted one, running the back over his lips, like a man starved. Dear God, he was stunning. The sight of him there, on his knees, turned her into need. Pure, aching desire.

She shook her head, confused. “Please, Beast—”

“Now, I’m thinkin’ you should lift your skirts.”

And like that, with that single, hinted command, sanity fled. She did it, her hands under his spell as he watched the hem of her dress rise, as though by sheer force of his will. Or perhaps it was her will. Because when the skirts passed her knees, she didn’t stop. She kept going. And he kept swearing, a litany of soft, filthy words in the quiet room.

“More, Hattie. Further. Show it to me. All of it.”

His hands at her thighs, spreading them until he found the open slit of her drawers. The sound of ripping fabric decadent and indecent, and she didn’t care even though she knew she should, and he was leaning forward, lifting one of her legs over his shoulder, and his fingers weren’t on fabric anymore but skin, and words . . . they spilled from him like a rainstorm.

“That’s it, love, such a pretty pussy.”

“You—”

“Mmm?”

“You shouldn’t use that word.”

“Would you like me to use another?” He blew a lazy stream of air against her.

She gasped in surprise and pleasure. “Do you know very many?”

“Mmm. Very, very many. And I shall teach you all of them, but tonight—right now—you are so soft and wet, and I want a taste so badly—let me have a taste?”

She was too eager to be embarrassed. She was wanton and wanting and it didn’t matter that she knew of this particular act only from the songs the sailors used to sing in the rigs when they thought she wasn’t listening. Later, she would marvel at the way her body seemed to know precisely what he would do to her. At the way her fingers found his hair, at the way his breath caught when she fisted them and he released a long, slow curse at the soft skin of her thigh. At the way she spoke up. “Yes, please.”

At the way he responded, his mouth like heaven.

He parted the folds and gave her what she’d asked for, setting his tongue to her, licking slow and steady, his tongue a magnificent gift, exploring every inch of her in long, firm strokes that had her gasping for breath. He growled against her, the vibration bringing her up on her toes with pleasure, her fingers tightening in his hair. “Mmm,” he said against her. “Show me where you like it.”

She shook her head, the hard oak door at her back a comfort in the storm he wrought. “I don’t know,” she whispered, gasping when his tongue found a glorious spot.

He stilled, then said, his voice filled with satisfaction, “I do.”

And he did. He worked at that spot, his tongue flat against her, rubbing softly back and forth, again and again, until she felt as though she might scream from the pleasure. Until she was rocking against him, her grip holding him to her, lewd and lush.

“Please,” she whispered, unable to summon more than that word. “Please.”

And he stopped. The man stopped.

“No!” Her eyes flew open and she looked down at him. “Why?”

He didn’t reply. He was too busy looking at her. “This . . .” he said, softly, setting that wicked, wonderful finger to her. Stroking over her most private part—the part that seemed to no longer be hers, but his instead. The part she would cede to him happily if only he’d finish what he started. “. . . is the prettiest thing I’ve ever seen.”

She closed her eyes at the words. “Beast—”

He leaned forward and licked her, long and lush, lingering at the bud he’d been tempting. Stopped again. “This is what I was thinking about,” he said. “This wet heat. This straining clit—so eager for me, innit?” He did look up to her then, his beautiful eyes full of heat and promise. “Aren’t you?”

Her hips moved in lieu of her answer, undulating into his touch.

That barely-there smile of his flashed. “Mmm. Wild thoughts, indeed.”

And then he resumed his kiss, spreading her wide as she pressed herself to him, and he was licking and sucking, and his wonderful tongue had her nearly—

The wall behind her moved. No. Not wall. Door.

She squeaked, her hand coming down to slap the wood behind her. He was still working at her, and she was still coiling, and there was—

A knock sounded at her ear.

She stiffened. “Stop.”

“No.” He redoubled his efforts.

She gasped at the immense pleasure, plateaued and now rising once more. “Yes,” she whispered. “There.” A delicious growl vibrated through her. Her fingers found his hair again. “Yes. Oh . . . oh, my . . . yes.”