Brazen and the Beast (The Bareknuckle Bastards #2)(81)

Heat raged on her cheeks at the reference to the list she’d provided the brothel what seemed like an age ago, but she refused to let embarrassment stop her from taking this moment. She lifted a hand to settle on his shoulder, bare and smooth and hot like the sun. They both sucked in air at the touch. “You’re far too handsome, as well. But I suppose I shall have to make do.”

He grunted, one hand coming to her cheek, his thumb stroking over the flush there. “I’m not charming, either. Or affable.”

She didn’t care. She tilted her face to his, and he pulled back, refusing her the kiss she desperately wanted. “But you don’t want any of that, do you?”

“No,” she said softly, aching for him to kiss her.

His fingers tightened in her hair. “What do you want?”

She went up on her toes and whispered against his lips, braver than she’d ever been, “I want you.”

“And I want you,” he said, meeting her kiss with his own, long and lush, his thumb tracing over the soft skin of her cheek as he licked at her mouth, stroking slow and lingering, a delicious taste of what might come. And then, at her lips, “Shall I tell you what I can promise?”

“Please.”

“I shall be very thorough.”

She smiled at the words, pleasure thrumming through her. “Exceedingly, even?”

He growled his assent and kissed her again, his tongue sweet and tart as it stroked over her own.

Hattie’s fingers traced down his torso, the flat of her palm sliding over the magnificent ridges of his body, reveling in the heat of him until she reached the bruises on his side and he sucked in a breath of his own. She instantly released him. He reached for her, pulling her back to his heat. “Don’t think about it.”

She pressed her hands flat to his chest. “Don’t think about the fact that you are bruised?” She resisted. “You took a boot to the side, dammit. Not to mention my blade. You’ll let me have a look.”

He smiled at her insistence. “I did not know you were a medical professional.”

She cut him an irritated look. “I find I do not like it when you are talkative.”

He gave a little bark of laughter and stole a small, delicious kiss. “You cannot blame me for having less interest in my bruises than in your body, Hattie.”

She went soft at the words. “Really?”

“It’s your own fault . . . now I’m curious about your undergarments.”

She resisted the excitement and amusement that came at the words, instead affecting her most serious look. “But I am interested in your bruises.”

A pause, and then a barely-there grunt of acceptance. “If I let you tend to my wounds, will you let me ruin you?”

There it was again, the temptation of freedom. The answer that she did not have to hesitate over.

She met his eyes, loving the fire in them. “Yes.”





Chapter Nineteen


Contrary to Hattie’s belief, Whit had never had a woman in his rooms.

The house had a massive ground floor receiving area and an office for Whit and Devil, so there’d never been reason to have Annika or any of the other women from the warehouse in his rooms. Grace had been in them a half-dozen times, but only long enough to mock his extravagant decor and leave.

As for other women—Whit never brought them here. He didn’t want to answer questions about the space. Didn’t want to defend the odd-shaped garret filled with the things he loved most in the world. And he certainly didn’t want to give another person such access to his private pleasures.

But he had not hesitated to bring Hattie inside, even though the act of welcoming her into the space she called his lair had left him far more exposed than he’d felt when he’d bathed in front of her.

Bathing in front of her had only made him want to pull her into the bathtub with him, strip her out of her ridiculous disguise, and wash her until they were both panting with desire and he had no choice but to make her come until she screamed.

Whit thought he’d been immensely measured in not doing just that, honestly.

And then the woman had started talking about undergarments. He should be fucking sainted for stopping the sinful kiss they’d shared, full of heat and exploration and promise, and letting her tend to him with bandages and ointments when what he needed was her lips and hands.

He thought he showed immense restraint, when all he wished to do was prove that there was nothing at all impeding about the bruises, and he was quite capable of tossing her over his shoulder and taking her to bed.

But he didn’t. Instead, he sat and watched as she selected a wide strip of bandage and a pot of ointment, coming to sit beside him. “Turn toward the light,” she said, staring at his naked torso, as perfunctory as any doctor.

He did, and she reached out, slowly and tentatively. “I’m going to . . .”

“Touch me,” he growled. He didn’t think he could go much longer without her soft fingers on him.

She did as he asked, and they both sucked in a breath. Her gaze flew to his, and she lifted her hand as though she’d been burned. “I’m sorry.”

“No,” he said, catching her fingers and returning them to his skin. “Don’t stop.”

Don’t ever stop.

She didn’t, smoothing over the mottled skin there. “This is a wicked bruise.”