Brazen and the Beast (The Bareknuckle Bastards #2)(80)

“All right.”

“Tell me what you’re thinking,” he said.

“I’m thinking I should like to talk about the deal.”

He leaned forward, the sound of the water in the bath like gunfire in the room. “Say it.”

She swallowed. “The pleasure.”

“You want the ruination still.”

She nodded. “Please.”

He did not hesitate. “Tonight.”

Anticipation rioted through her. She couldn’t remain still any longer, simply waiting for him to finish his bath. She nodded. “Tonight. Or do you intend to renege on that, as well?”

One dark brow arched at the question, and with the bruise on his cheek, he looked like a proper rogue. Had she really said it? She couldn’t believe she’d challenged him. But what was done was done, and excitement coursed through her, threatening to overflow when he let out a long “aaah,” that sounded at once like pain and pleasure. “No, love,” he growled, setting his hands to the edges of the bath again. “I don’t renege.”

He stood, the water sluicing down his torso, running along the ridges and valleys, down the deep-cut V of his abdomen. Her eyes widened at the thick length of him, straight and smooth and—gone. Her eyes flew to his as he wrapped a length of cloth low over his hips, shielding himself from view.

He raised a brow at her, and she heard the dry question in it. Disappointed?

Yes. Yes, she was.

She swallowed as he reached for another towel, drying the rest of himself with sure, leisurely strokes, as though this were all perfectly ordinary. And perhaps it was. Perhaps he spent his evenings bathing for a collection of women, each more eager than the next to watch.

“I suppose you do this often,” she said, regretting the words immediately. Surely such an observation was not appropriate for this situation.

His brows rose. “Do what?”

She shook her head, but still the words came. “Bathe in front of women. Bring them here like a prince in a palace.” The corner of his mouth twitched, and Hattie’s nerves frayed. “Don’t you dare laugh at me,” she said, pointing a finger at him. “You don’t know what it’s like to be the inexperienced one. To be the one who has to know that you’ve done this a hundred times with a hundred other women . . . all very beautiful and very demure and all of whom wore undergarments designed for—”

She stopped, her eyes going wide at her words.

He dropped the towel to the floor, not taking his eyes from her. “Don’t stop now, Hattie. Tell me more about the undergarments.”

He was challenging her, this man whom she would loathe if she did not like him so much. She narrowed her gaze. “I’m sure they’re beautiful. All frill and frippery. Mine are . . . not.”

What was she doing?

“No?” He turned away to fetch a fresh pair of trousers from a low chair nearby.

She looked away as he pulled them on, the words pouring out of her mouth. “Mine serve a different kind of purpose. I mean, when I wear them.”

He looked over his shoulder, that almost-smile playing on his lips again.

She closed her eyes. “You know what I mean.”

“I swear I don’t.”

“I mean, I’m wearing them, but it’s a different sort of thing when one is wearing . . .” She waved a hand over her body.

He tracked the movement and his eyes went hooded for a moment, as though he was considering all the possible undergarments available to Hattie while she was in men’s clothing.

Dear God. Men’s clothing did not exactly recommend her, did it?

She cleared her throat. “At any rate, I’m sure you do this often and with far more qualified people.”

And, like that, he was coming for her, all long strides and perfect muscles, and his trousers not even fully buttoned, stalking her backward across the room, all predatory grace, until she came to her senses and realized she did not want to escape.

She stopped. Wonderfully, he didn’t.

He barely stopped when he reached her, knocking the cap from her head, taking her face in his hands, dipping down to kiss her without hesitation, his lips firm and impossibly soft, stealing her gasp as he tilted her chin up and took her lips, his tongue coming out to stroke along her top lip, coaxing her open with the promise of it until she was on her toes, meeting him, aching for him.

When he knew he had her—how could he not, as she clung to his warm shoulders, her hands sliding over the thick muscle of his arms—he smiled against her lips, offering her a little growl as he hauled her close, realigning their mouths and finally, finally, stroking deep, giving her everything she wanted, again and again, until they were both panting from the caress.

He let them up for air, and Hattie opened her eyes, feeling kiss-drunk, making an effort to focus on him.

“I am happy you brought up qualifications,” he said, his voice soft and low and delicious.

“You are?”

“Mmm.” He stared into her eyes for a long moment, as though he were searching for something. “Because I am afraid I don’t meet yours.”

What?

Before she could ask, he leaned down toward her. When he whispered the next, he was so close, she could feel the words on her lips. “Shall I get the list? I can’t make myself medium height or medium build, love . . . nor can I make myself fair-haired.”