Brazen and the Beast (The Bareknuckle Bastards #2)(40)

“Oy! Beast!” the American was shouting from scant inches away, beyond the door.

He pulled away from her, growling his impatience before raising his voice to say, “Not now, American.”

Through the door, the barkeep said, “You’ve rooms of your own not one hundred yards away.”

His eyes found Hattie’s when he replied, “I was proving a point.”

And well.

A pause. Then, amused, “Sounds like there is a both of us after all, Bastard—make it quick—and bring a crate of bourbon when you come.”

Hattie’s eyes went wide. “He knows what we’re doing.”

“Mmm.” He leaned in and kissed her again, until she sighed. “Do you care?”

“Not—entirely.” She rocked against him. “More. There.”

He growled, his tongue stroking hard, in circles, firmer and tighter until he was working the place where she was desperate for him, and she was on her toes, shaking with a pleasure beyond any she’d ever felt. He was devouring her, eating her alive, and she didn’t care as long as he gave her what she—

She flew apart, her hands in his hair, her hips grinding against him, and her whispered words as wild as the sounds he made, pure sin at her core. He stayed there, on his knees, against her, gentle and firm, until she released the long breath she’d held at the end, her grip relaxing from his hair, and the strength stealing from her legs.

He caught her in his arms as he stood, one strong hand capturing her face and tilting her up to him so he could kiss her. She tasted the sweet tang of herself on his lips, and he growled when she opened for him, licking deep until she was whimpering from the pleasure of the kiss.

When he lifted his mouth from hers, it was to say, “In my wildest thoughts, I didn’t imagine you’d taste like that.”

She dipped her head, embarrassment stealing through her. And still, she couldn’t stop herself from asking, “Like what?”

He kissed her again. “Delicious.” It was he who was delicious, she wanted to say, but he was kissing her again, stealing the words and the thought. “Wanton.” She was wanton. What more would he show her?

So much more, if his next kiss was an indication, deep and lingering—long enough for them both to gasp for air.

He stared down at her, his chest rising and falling with his harsh breath, one hand tangled in her hair, and said softly, “Fucking dangerous.”

A thrill shot through her at the words, filling her with pleasure and something far more intoxicating. Was this what people spoke of when they spoke of sexual pleasure? Did it always end with such a heady sense of . . . power?

She wanted more of it. Immediately.

But before she could say that, he was reaching down to pick up the shawl that she’d dropped in the excitement. He passed it to her and immediately turned away to collect his knives, sliding out of his coat and slinging it over a nearby cask before pulling on the holster and fastening it with ease, as though he’d done it every day of his life.

Which he likely did. Why? What kind of danger had a man wearing eight matching throwing knives like they were boots or breeches? How often had he used them? How often had they failed to protect him?

She didn’t like the idea that he might be hurt.

She didn’t like the idea that he might be hurt, and she’d never know.

She didn’t say it, though. Not as he flexed beneath the leather straps, welcoming them like skin. Not as he pulled his greatcoat on over them, the heavy weight of the fabric hiding them from view and somehow doing absolutely nothing to make him look less dangerous.

Fucking dangerous.

The memory of the words on his beautiful, kiss-stung lips whispered through her. He was dangerous. More dangerous than she’d ever imagined.

She wondered if the danger made him feel powerful, too.

But she didn’t ask that, either.

Not as he lifted a nearby crate—the one with the flag—with one arm, as though it were made of goose down, and pushed past her to open the door to the tavern beyond. He stood back to let her exit ahead of him, the only indication that he even remembered she was there.

The man he’d been—the one who’d devastated her with pleasure—was gone. Returned was the silent Beast.

Beast.

“I still don’t know your name,” she said softly.

He didn’t seem to hear the words. At least, she assumed he didn’t for how he herded her from the room. He barely stopped to place the crate on the bar with a nod for the American as they exited the tavern, already full of people and merriment, the noise inside making the curving street beyond cacophonously quiet.

The silence from both street and man made Hattie want to scream.

But she didn’t as he hailed a hack and opened the door, not touching her—not even to hand her up into the conveyance.

He didn’t touch her, and he didn’t speak.

That is, until the door was nearly closed. And then he said a single word, one she thought perhaps she’d misheard for the way it came on graveled disuse, as though he was saying it for the first time.

“Whit.”





Chapter Eleven


A low, surprised whistle sounded behind Whit as he stood in dark gardens of Berkeley Square, watching Warnick House, considering the bright lights pouring through the windows of the town home.