Daring and the Duke (The Bareknuckle Bastards #3)(68)

She pressed one at the center of his chest, his heart pounding beneath her kiss.

Another, a few inches lower.

He cursed, low and dark, the filthy word sending desire pooling through her. “I’ve waited for this for so long,” he whispered as she followed the line of his bandages with soft, full caresses that set them both aflame.

“Tell me,” she repeated his words to his skin as her fingers worked the buttons of his trousers, spreading the fabric wide, revealing the stunning length of him.

Even here, he was perfect.

Especially here.

She sat back, not touching, but staring, long and smooth and hard like stone, rising up from a shadowed thatch of dark brown hair.

“Fuck,” he whispered, and it wasn’t a curse. It was a prayer.

With difficulty, she drew her attention away from him and met his eyes. “More.”

One of his brows rose at the word, and he released his grip on the arm of the chair to reach for her, to cup her face and hold her gaze, the fire in his own impossible to deny. “You like it.”

She returned her attention to her prize. “I do.”

“I can see it. I can see you want it.” He paused, his hips shifting, barely moving. “Christ, Grace . . .”

“Ask for it,” she whispered. “Tell me what you like.”

“Your touch,” he said. “Let me feel—” His hips jerked the moment she gave him what he wanted, her fingers on his hot skin, and he swore again, the wicked words like gunshot in the quiet room. “Yes. Fuck. Yes. I’ve waited forever for you to touch me like this.”

“Like this?” she asked, growing bolder.

He lifted his hips toward her, his fingers sliding deeper into her hair. “God, yes. Like that.”

“But not just this,” she said, moving, gripping him. Sliding her hand from the thick base of him to the beautiful head, topped with a single drop of liquid. She repeated the movement, and he groaned. “This, too.”

“All of it,” he said, his voice like sex.

“Show me,” she whispered.

His hand was on hers, instantly, and the image—his big, rough hand surrounding hers as he taught her to give him pleasure—was pure need. He tightened their grip. Moved his hips.

Another drop of liquid.

“Don’t be gentle,” he said, the words coming like gravel on stone. “I don’t want it. I want you to—” He bit back the end of the sentence, and she would have done anything to hear it.

“What?” she prompted, her mouth watering at the heat of him. At the portrait they made. “What do you want?”

“I want you to take from me,” he said. “I want you to know that whatever you want, whatever you need, I can provide it. I will provide it.”

The words were almost too much to bear, and Grace leaned forward, her lips coming to their hands, pressing kisses along his bruised knuckles, and he froze at the caress, refusing to move, his breath coming ragged. She lifted her lips and looked at him, the want in his eyes impossible to ignore. “Will you provide me this?”

He closed his eyes, his jaw clenching as his free hand came to her hair. He whispered her name low and dark and wonderful. “Are you—”

She was sure. “I am your queen,” she whispered to the back of his hand, giving herself up to the fantasy. Willing him to do the same. “Let me have this.”

He released her hand.

Free, she stroked him again, reveling in the smooth size of him—hers to do with as she wished. She worked him, spreading his trousers wide and reaching inside to find the heavy sac within, taking it in hand with a gentle firmness that had him thrusting up off the chair. Another wicked curse. Another droplet.

Too much to resist. She whispered his name and licked over the tip of him, her tongue barely there, just enough to taste the salty sweetness of him. His hands shot to her hair, but landed like feathers, cradling her with care—even as she felt his whole body straining to keep him from taking her. From pressing into her mouth and taking the pleasure she offered.

The pleasure she wanted.

The pleasure he had turned over into her keeping. She reveled in it, and in the power he had given her, and a small part of her wanted to test him—to see how far she could push him until he lost control.

But the other part of her wanted to lose control with him.

“Look at me,” he whispered. She did, instantly, and one of his thumbs came to her lower lip, stroking over it. “You don’t have to—”

She stopped the words. “Does it ache?”

He exhaled a heavy breath. “More than you can imagine. Or maybe you can imagine it. You ache, too, don’t you, love?”

She did, and she did not deny it. “I do.”

“Let me take care of you,” he said, low and lush like a promise. “Let me strip you bare and spread your legs and lick you until you scream. Let me taste you again. Christ, I’ve been thinking about the taste of you for days.” His thumb stroked again, setting her lip on fire. “Let me ease that ache, where you are hot and wet for me.”

The filthy words rioted through her, hot temptation as he pulsed in her hand. She was all those things—hot and wet and aching. She pressed her thighs together to ease the sensation and only served to enhance it.

“You want it, too,” he whispered, as though he had sensed what she’d done. “You want me there, between your legs. At your hot core.”