Daring and the Duke (The Bareknuckle Bastards #3)(70)

“You may always use me, love,” he rumbled in her ear, his finger sliding against the spot where all her desire seemed to have pooled. “But when you use me, I wish you to use me well.”

Pleasure rioted through her and she rocked her hips against him, working herself, loving the way he stroked and pressed and moved against her. “Show me,” he whispered, dark and lush. “Show me what you ache for.”

And then her fingers tangled with his, and she was rocking there, against him, learning the rhythm of her pleasure, teaching it to him, and ultimately ceding it to him, rising up over him, her hands on his shoulders as she panted her need and worked herself against him, knowing she shouldn’t, and not caring as he watched her and moved against her, and guided her into a flood of pleasure, until she was crying out in the quiet room, and he was saying the most sinful things, like harder and faster and take it and yes, love and you’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.

As she lowered herself back to his lap, he pressed a kiss to her cheekbone, and another to her temple, and he held her in place as she trembled with the aftershocks of her orgasm—giving her his body and his time and making her wish they would never leave this place.

When she returned to thought, she stiffened, instantly lifting her weight from him. “Your bandages.”

“You think I feel pain right now?” He pulled her back into his lap and pressed another kiss to her hair, the caress so natural that it warmed Grace in places she had never been warm.

She smiled. “I only wish you to feel pleasure.”

His hand slid down her arm, the touch sending a shiver through her as it changed from lazy to purposeful. “Then we must do that often.”

Her smile disappeared.

It couldn’t happen, of course. There was no often between them.

There was no future between them, because all the space had been filled with the past.

This had been a mistake.

She moved to leave his lap, and he grasped her hand. She froze, expecting him to hold her there. He didn’t. But he did hold her, the warmth of his hand in hers a lure and a promise and a temptation that she did not need. She pulled away, hating the feel of her hand sliding from his.

He didn’t resist. He didn’t pull her back.

Frustration flared, and Grace knew it was irrational. “I must go.”

He did not move, watching as she pulled on her trousers, then picked up the items that had dropped to the floor, leaving him the salve and the ice box, and the cloth. Setting the basket of bandages carefully on his table.

She looked down at him. “I must go.”

He nodded. Was he not going to stop her?

She didn’t want him to, did she?

This made it easier, did it not?

It did. But it didn’t make it better.

Swallowing around the knot in her throat, Grace turned away to collect her coat from where she’d tossed it to the floor, interested only in the pleasure he offered, every part of her wanting to stay. Wanting him to ask her to stay.

And then he did. “How did you get past the servants?”

Knowing she asked for trouble, Grace turned her head, giving him her profile as she said, “I do, in fact, always travel by rooftop.”

He stood at that, slow and deliberate, and her heart began to pound. “I wanted to follow you today. Up that wall.”

She turned to face him. “It’s not as easy as it looks.”

He gave her a half smile. “I believe that.”

She watched him for a moment and then said, “Instead you left me.”

“And you came to see me.”

The echo of his words from earlier. Come see me. She was supposed to have come to see him to tell him what she needed and instead she’d simply come to see him, this man she did not know, so different from all the other hims he’d been. So different, and so much more dangerous.

“Show me,” he said, interrupting her thoughts.

She shouldn’t. It was a mistake to spend any more time with him than this. To spend any more time learning him than this.

She shouldn’t. But she wanted to. She wanted to bring him to the roof and give him a taste of the freedom she had claimed for herself.

To make a new memory.

An idea teased through her.

She crossed the room to his wardrobe in silence, opening it to pull a fine white shirt from inside. Holding it to her chest, she turned back to find him buttoning his trousers, his amber gaze glittering in the candlelight.

Shamelessly, she watched him work the fastenings, and immediately she missed the ridges and shadows before the buttons were even seated. There were members of 72 Shelton who requested their consorts in full, elaborate dress simply to watch them take the clothes off and put them back on, and though Grace rarely questioned the desires of her clientele, she had never quite understood the pleasure of watching one’s lover disrobe.

But right now, as his strong arms worked and the muscles of his forearms flexed, her mouth dried, and she found she was coming to see its merits. She could watch him work at his trouser buttons for hours.

He finished. “Are you going to dress me now?”

She tossed him the shirt, admiring the speed with which he snatched it from the air before pulling it over his head in a smooth movement that belied what she knew were the protesting aches and twinges in his muscles. There was an intimacy to it, the idea that she’d just held the soft linen that was now sliding over his skin like a caress.