Daring and the Duke (The Bareknuckle Bastards #3)(36)

And there, beneath the stars and the roof of that secret gazebo, Grace turned herself over to fantasy and to this man and to his magnificent mouth and hands—hands that were sliding beneath her skirts, over her ankles, and up the length of her leg, higher and higher, bringing the fabric with them, until the summer air was kissing her thighs with the same lush promise as he made to her breasts.

When he released her, she nearly cried her frustration, until he blew a long stream of air over the puckered tip of one breast, and looked to her again, his fingers playing over the soft skin of her inner thigh, painting patterns that robbed her of her sanity. “Where else shall I kiss you, my lady?”

She bit back a curse at the teasing words, even as she spread her thighs a touch wider. She was a woman who dealt in pleasure, and knew that she wished to take her own. Knew that there was only one man she’d ever want that pleasure from—even if she could never admit it. Even if he could never know it. She met his eyes, grateful for the mask—both the fabric one and the one that was more complicated to remove—and replied as Dahlia, who would not hesitate to take what she wanted. “Did you not say all of it?”

He swore softly at the words, leaning in to steal her lips in a kiss once more, before pulling back and saying, “Mmmm. I shan’t let you go until I taste all of it. Every inch of you.”

Without hesitation, he slid to his knees before her, taking her sense with him.

He spread her thighs, and she closed her eyes to his touch, wanting it more than she could say, her fingers tightening in his hair, his name whispering through her—the name she could never use—Ewan. When he pressed a kiss to the soft skin at the inside of her knee, the edge of his teeth scraping there like a promise, she exhaled, long and trembling. His breath was hot perfection, and he whispered, “I feel like Apollo in the woods.”

She opened her eyes at the words, staring up at the stars painted on the gazebo ceiling—another canopy that she’d never see without thinking of him. “A-Apollo?”

“Mmm.” He turned and pressed a lush kiss on the opposite thigh. “Apollo, wandering in the woods, until he stumbled upon the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen.”

Her surprised laugh turned into a gasp of pleasure as his lips moved higher and higher, closer and closer to where she wanted him. She held on to him, pulling tight at his hair, loving the grunt of pleasure-pain he offered even as she hated the way he lingered, close enough for her to feel his breath and too far away for her to feel anything else. “Was she naked in a swimming hole?”

He hummed his amusement, and she heard the distraction in the sound, as though he was too focused on something else. On her. On the place where she, too, was focused. “I shall tell you later.”

He set his lips to the hot, straining core of her, and she cried out at the sensation—unable to stop herself from staring down at him. She was pure desire. Unleashed need.

And Ewan, controlling it, as he always had.

He licked long and firm over her, setting her on fire before lifting his mouth and moving back, pushing her skirts higher, tilting her hips forward to give himself a view. “You’re so wet,” he growled, dipping a single finger inside her.

She sighed, rocking toward him, eager for more of him—touch, words, gaze, whatever he would spare. Later she would hate herself for wanting him so much. But now, she gave herself up to him.

“You shine like gold here. The moonlight loves you.”

Her fingers tugged at his hair again. “I’m more interested in you loving me, right now.”

A pause, and Grace bit her tongue. He would understand she meant—

“As my lady wishes.”

He understood.

Her fingers slid into his hair, clutching him close, pressing him to the open, aching center of her, using him as he tasted her again and again, losing himself in her. He licked and sucked and stroked with tongue and fingers until she rocked against him, her breath coming faster and faster, her hips working to find the rhythm that would give her release.

“Yes.” He growled against her as she tightened her fist, pulling his hair tight. “Show me.”

She did, taking her pleasure without shame. Knowing he took his, too. Knowing that this night would be all they ever had.

Knowing it was a mistake.

His tongue found a glorious spot, and she cried out, the sound giving him all the information he needed. He worked at that spot in rough, rhythmic circles, his tongue like a promise, over and over, her grip guiding him as she moved against him, seeking her pleasure.

He pulled back to stare up at her, his gaze hot on her, framed by the torn fabric of her bodice. She groaned her frustration, her hips tilting toward him, and he rewarded the movement with a slow, delicious suck where she wanted him. “You are a queen,” he whispered.

She closed her eyes at the words. At the impossible promise in them.

And then he added, “Tonight, I am your throne.” The words crashed through her, leaving a trail of desire. Her eyes opened, and her gaze crashed into his as he said, “What do you need?”

This was what she needed.

He was what she needed.

Tonight.

Not forever.

Just tonight.

Perhaps it would be enough.

She tightened her fist in his hair and pressed herself to him, loving the way his eyes closed with pleasure, loving the feel of him there, stroking . . .