Daring and the Duke (The Bareknuckle Bastards #3)(91)

He continued his exploration, painting kisses across her torso, reveling in the strength of her, the ridges of her muscles—honed over the years with fighting and scaling the rooftops of London. He paused on the soft, barely-there swell of her belly, and she giggled as he ran his cheek, rough with an evening’s growth, over the skin there.

Ewan lifted his head at the magnificent sound, simultaneously familiar and foreign. “Covent Garden’s queen is ticklish,” he teased.

She smiled to the ceiling. “Don’t tell anyone.”

“Never,” he vowed, repeating the movement and reveling in her laugh—and the way it quickly turned breathless—and she placed her hands at his head and lifted him to stare up at her, across the beautiful planes of her body. “It’s my secret.”

She smiled. “Keep it well.”

He would—and he realized in that fleeting, magnificent moment that he would spend the rest of his life keeping her secrets.

Just as she had spent so much of her life keeping his.

He pressed another kiss on her sensitive skin and moved again, in a slow slide, until her legs parted and he was between them.

“Tell me another secret.”

She sucked in a breath at the words, spoken to the core of her. Satisfaction thrummed through Ewan at that, and he leaned forward, parting her gently with his thumbs, to look at her.

“Christ,” he whispered, the sensation of words on her hot, wet flesh clearly enough to make her wild. “I’ve never seen anything so pretty as this.”

“Ewan,” she gasped. “Please.”

He let out a long stream of cool air, straight to the core of her, and she shouted her frustrated pleasure at the sensation. “Tell me another secret,” he said.

“I want you,” she whispered, and the words came out so graveled and distant that it felt as though she’d given him a gift.

“Good girl,” he said, pressing a kiss to her thigh, high up, where she was all sensation. She lifted her hips, rocking into the air, searching for purchase, and he thought he might die from the stunning look of her, pink and wet and hot as flame. He moved, setting one finger to the top of her folds, and she sighed, the sound so remarkable, it took all his energy not to spend then and there. “Yes, there,” she said, frustrated. “Do it.”

She was so ready for him. Slick and wet and perfect.

He moved that single finger down the center of her, loving the hitch of her breath, the little cry she bit back as he circled the straining nub at the very top of her folds. He rubbed gently, up one side and down the other, and she finally released the cry. “You like that,” he said, softly, more to himself than to her.

She swore again, the language coarse and powerful and perfect proof that she was coming unraveled. He lingered there, at that spot, stroking and rolling, exploring her until she was doing the work, using his touch to find her pleasure. “That’s it, love,” he whispered, pressing a kiss to the soft skin of her thigh. “Show me what you like. Show me what will make you scream.”

The words set her aflame, and he slid another finger into the hot, wet center of her, up to the first knuckle, just far enough to feel her pulsing around him. She widened her legs and thrust up. “More,” she gasped. “Please.”

“You ache here, don’t you?” he asked. “Poor love. Does it hurt?”

“God, yes. I want . . .”

“Tell me what,” he said. “Tell me what you want.”

I shall give you everything.

“I want . . .”

My mouth, he willed her.

He was going to die if he didn’t have his mouth on her soon.

She didn’t say it. She did one better, threading her fingers into his hair, fisting tight, and putting him precisely where she wanted him. “That,” she panted, as he settled his lips to her, holding her wide and licking her in long, thick strokes. “Oh, yes.” She sighed. “This.”

She tasted like sweet and sin, and he feasted on her, reveling in the taste of her, in the way she rocked against him, taking her pleasure, unashamed of it, her hands in his hair, holding him tight to her as she moved. And all the while, she spoke, his filthy love, telling him all the ways he was doing right. “Yes,” she gasped. “Right there.” She gave direction and he took it, eager for it, for all the ways he could drive her wild.

Slow circles became gradually faster, his tongue working in time to the rhythm of her hips, and then she called out his name, and he could hear she was nearly there. He continued on his course, reveling in the taste of her as he gave them both pleasure beyond anything he’d ever experienced.

And then, just as she reached the point of frenzy, she looked down at him like a fucking goddess and said, “Shall I tell you another secret?” His eyes met hers across the length of her body, and he nodded, not wanting to leave her for a moment.

“I want you to touch yourself while I come.”

A pure thrill rocketed through him, something like gratitude as well as want.

And need. That, too.

He took himself in hand, never so hard. Never so hot. Never so fucking needy. And he stroked himself in time to her movements, the pleasure of her taste on his lips, the vision of her moving against him, and his own hand making the experience unbearably good.

Her fingers tightened in his hair.