Brazen and the Beast (The Bareknuckle Bastards #2)(79)

She wished it.

And between those thumbs, a hint of something else. Skin. She swallowed, tearing her gaze from it, cheeks blazing. He was watching her, amber eyes gleaming in the firelight, and for a single, wild moment, she wondered what he would do if she went to him and touched him. If she added her hands to his, there, in the shadows.

As quickly as she thought it, he changed, relaxing into himself, his eyes going hooded, as though he, too, was thinking it. As though he would welcome her touch if she offered it.

He still owed her a ruination.

Every other time they’d been together, time or location had impeded the delivery on their arrangement. But now—here—

He could ruin her, properly.

She wanted it. And giving in to her own want was a magnificent freedom.

Not that she would voice it.

He filled her silence, low and dark, as though the words were scraped through gravel on their way past his lips. “Did you have something to ask?”

She shook her head, finding words difficult. “No.”

A knowing smile played over his lips and he turned away, as though this were all perfectly normal, pushing his trousers down his hips as he made for the bath. At the flash of buttocks, Hattie looked away, past him, to the window beyond the bathtub, now a mirror, revealing—

Oh, my.

She turned her back on the scene instantly. “Is this how you ordinarily conduct business?”

Silence met the question. No. Not silence. Too much sound. The sound of him stepping into the bath, the water sloshing as it accepted his weight. His low growl as he settled into its indulgent heat.

The sound was pure hedonism, and desire pooled deep, spreading heat through her, as though she, too, were in a bath.

As though she were with him in his.

What if she were?

She gave a little laugh at the thought, unable to fathom a scenario in which she would be brave enough to shed her clothing without hesitation. Unable to imagine being the kind of woman who invited herself into a man’s bath.

Another splash came, and she resisted the urge to turn and look, to see what he’d done to cause it. She focused on the bright light in the room beyond, the edges of the carpets, overlapping.

Once he was settled, he spoke. “Did you not promise me a fight?”

She was so surprised by the teasing question that she turned to face him, unprepared for the vision of him, relaxed, his arms resting on the edge of the copper tub, head tilted back, eyes closed, his dark hair wet and slicked back from his beautiful face, the dried blood now gone from his cheek, a small cut all that remained, surrounded by a fast-darkening bruise.

It should have marred his beauty. It didn’t. Instead, it brought him into reach, down to earth, among the mere mortals. It made Hattie want to touch him. It made her want to claim him. It made her want to—

“You’ve already had a fight tonight,” she said softly.

His eyes flew open, instantly finding hers. “And so? What do you offer?”

“I just want to . . .” She looked to the window, to the tableau reflected in the blackness there. She, in men’s clothing, eyes wide, and he, broad and bronzed in the bathtub. What didn’t she offer? There was so much she wanted from him. Touch. Words. Pleasure. And something else . . . something she didn’t dare name.

Something she couldn’t have.

She tore her gaze away from the window. Looked to him. “I want to care for you.” Like that, his relaxation was gone. His jaw set and the muscles in his shoulders tensed. She added quickly, “I shouldn’t want to care for you, of course. We are enemies.”

“Are we?” He reached for the length of linen draped over the tub, pulling it into the water with more force than necessary.

“I plan to give you quite a fight for my business.”

“And I shall meet you toe-to-toe,” he said. “Tomorrow.”

A thrill shot through her at the word. At the way it freed her. Freed them both. Tomorrow was not tonight.

“I shan’t like you tomorrow,” she said, feeling it was important to say so.

He nodded. “I will not blame you.”

Except she would like him, she feared. Even though she had absolutely no reason to like him. Even though he’d lied to her. And hurt her. But now—he did not seem like that man. He seemed . . .

Good.

His movements beneath the water were quick and perfunctory, and Hattie worried that he might aggravate his bruises. She stepped forward, holding a hand out as though she could stop him. He snapped his attention to her, and the focus in his eyes was enough to set her back on her heels.

“Tomorrow, then,” she said, suddenly breathless.

The only sound in the room was the smooth movement of the water as he finished bathing. Until he asked, quietly enough that at first, she almost did not believe he’d said it out loud. “How would you care for me tonight, warrior?”

She blushed. “I told you.”

“Did you?”

“I would bandage you.”

“And when that is done?”

She swallowed. “I—I don’t know. Thank you, I suppose. For protecting me.”

He shook his head. “I don’t deserve your gratitude. I don’t want one thing that happens tonight to be because of your gratitude. I want it to be because you want it.”

She wanted it.