Daring and the Duke (The Bareknuckle Bastards #3)(59)

Her fingers traced over a rib, and he sucked in a breath. Pain. An iron Rookery fist. A broken rib. And still, he’d found time to flirt and tease. He’d found strength to follow her.

I’ll follow you, Gracie. Always.

A promise, echoing over the years.

One of his enormous hands slid inside her coat, clasping her hip to hold her still and tight to him as he pressed that glorious thigh higher, firmer. When she rocked into him, he released his hand, sliding it up over her side to palm her breast.

They were in the middle of the Rookery. Yards from an audience. She should stop him.

But she didn't want to.

The feel of his hands on her was unbearable. Grace was not a stranger to pleasure, but had she ever felt such? Had any man ever touched her with such fire? With such certainty?

The questions were gone before they came.

There were no other men.

As his thumb slipped beneath the edge of her corset and traced a rough circle around the straining nipple there, Grace lowered her own hand, setting it to the wicked, wonderful length of him. He was hard and hot and perfect, and when he offered her a deep, delicious grunt, she returned it with a throaty laugh—his pleasure hissing through her as keenly as her own. The fingers of her free hand fisted again in his hair, and she gave his lower lip a long, delicious suck, reveling in the rich taste of him, in the lush fullness of that lip.

His grunt turned into something else. Something predatory.

But she was not prey any longer.

Today, now, they were equals.

Hunting each other.

How would she ever stop herself.

“Everything all right back there?” The excited question came from a distance. Miles away, it felt, but loud like cannon fire, and followed by a cacophony of devious, delighted laughter.

She pulled away from him, gasping for breath, returning to the Garden. Her gaze tracked over the alleyway, over the stones growing darker by the second, the sun now turning the western sky into an inferno.

She pushed past him, straightening her coat, rounding the stack of crates to face the collection of women, wide-eyed, bold, unapologetic, deeply knowing smiles on their lips.

He spoke from behind her, calm and at ease, as though everything were perfectly normal. “Beg pardon, ladies.”

She stiffened at the words, at the tittering from their audience, and looked at him, resisting the urge to put her fingertips to her lips, to settle the buzz in them, the delicious sting he’d left with his kiss.

No. It wasn’t delicious.

She shouldn’t have kissed him.

It didn’t matter that he’d made it difficult not to, with his newfound swagger, as though Covent Garden brawls were his daily bread.

It didn’t matter that those brawls seemed to suit him.

She didn’t have to touch her lips. His dark, penetrating gaze found them anyway, and in his throat rumbled a little growl that sent heat straight through her, her eyes immediately finding his. Recognizing the want there.

Want?

Need.

It didn’t feel like want in her. It felt like need as he snaked an arm around her waist and pulled her in tight, leaning down and kissing her again, lazy and lingering, as though they had a week for it, and weren’t being watched.

Before she could protest—she would have protested—he released her again, lowered his lips to her ear and whispered, “Grace.” Her name, like a benediction. Again. “Grace.” And then, “Christ, I’ve wanted that for so long.”

So had she.

“Take ’im home and give ’im a nice wash, Dahlia!” Jenny called out, and the rest of the women hooted and cheered from where they had unstuck themselves, their chores and their voyeurism finally finished, lifting baskets to hips and preparing to head home.

For a moment, Grace imagined it. Taking him home. Calling for a bath. Washing the day and the dirt from him, until he was clean and the sun was gone and they were cloaked in darkness and the permission it gave people to take what they wanted.

For a moment, she reveled in that fantasy.

For a moment, she forgot that he was not safety.

He was not home.

He was the enemy—hers, and her brothers’ and the whole of Covent Garden’s.

She pushed at his shoulders, and he went more readily than she would have expected. More readily than she wished.

She pushed the realization aside, hating the questions that followed. Hating the answers more. Anger and frustration coursed through her. “That was a mistake.”

He shook his head. “No, it wasn’t.” He said it like it wasn’t a discussion. Like they discussed the time of day. Or the color of the sky.

“Of course it was. This is the game we play,” she said, letting her exhaustion seep into her words. She was tired of running from him. Tired of hiding from him. “We make mistakes.” She paused. “You make them.”

The words struck true, wildness flooding his gaze. A hint at the mad duke Mayfair thought him. “Then tell me how to pay for them.”

How many times had she imagined him saying those exact words to her? She shook her head. “There is no paying for them, Duke. Not with money or power or a lifetime of washing clothes.”

The women behind tittered their interest.

“What, then?” He pressed on. “I take my knocks from the men in your yard. From your brothers. From you.”