Brazen and the Beast

by Sarah MacLean

  He spread her coat wide, shucking it off her, reveling in the way her body moved as she helped him, twisting and stretching, revealing the curves she’d been teasing him with all night. No. Not all of them. He slid one hand from her curving hip up her side, until he felt the ridges of fabric beneath her shirtsleeves.

  Like lightning, he fisted his hand in the fabric at her back, pulling it from the waist of her trousers. “Hattie . . .”

  Her eyes went wide as he repeated the motion in front, tugging, revealing bare torso. She immediately caught the hem of the shirt and tugged it down. “No.”

  The word stung. “No?”

  She shook her head. “It’s very—bright.”

  He smiled. “I know.”

  She shook her head, her gaze flickering to the doorway to the next room. “Do you not have a bed somewhere? Somewhere dark?”

  He did. But that wasn’t what she was saying. “Hattie. Let me see.”

  She closed her eyes. “I’d rather you not.”

  He leaned back against the loveseat, refusing to remove his hands from her, letting his fingers slide over her thighs and play at the tops of her leather boots. “Shall I tell you what I wish to do?”

  Her eyes flew open and he almost laughed—he had her attention. His curious girl wouldn’t be able to resist his telling her precisely what he wished to do to her. In full detail. “I wish to remove this shirt that is too plain for you,” he said softly, his fingers sliding back up to the lawn hem, not stopping until they were underneath the fabric, on her warm skin.

  He teased along the soft strip just above her trousers, and whispered, “I need to remove it, you see, because I can’t taste you until I have.” Her lips fell open on a little intake of air. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you? Me tasting you?”

  “I . . .” She hesitated.

  “I’d like to run my tongue over you here,” he said, his hand splaying wide over the soft curve of her stomach, his cock growing harder with every new inch of her. Had anything ever felt as good as the silk of her skin? The curve of her body?

  He sat up, burying his nose in the curve of her neck as he wrapped his arms around her. “Let me,” he whispered at her ear before capturing the lobe between his teeth. “Let me taste you.”

  She exhaled her “yes,” as though it was the only word she could find.

  He pressed a wet kiss just beneath her ear and released her, his hands returning to the hem of her shirt and pulling it over her head, sending it sailing across the room, forgotten before it hit the ground, because he was too focused on what he’d discovered.

  The vision of those bindings, the way they disappeared her beautiful breasts—they made him want to do damage. He set a finger to the uppermost edge of the bandages, where her skin was straining white against the binds. “You know, my lady, when you spoke of undergarments, I did not expect—”

  She gave a little breathless laugh, and he was grateful for it . . . for the way it pulled her from whatever doubt she had been having. “I don’t imagine you did.”

  “Mmm,” he grunted before leaning forward and tracing the pale line just above the too-tight bandages with his tongue.

  “Oh, my,” she whispered, her hands coming to his head, threading into his hair. “That feels—”

  It was nothing compared to what he was going to make her feel. He found the end of the linen and untucked it, pulling it free before beginning the work of unbinding her.

  She reached to help him.

  “No,” he said, as he worked to lay her body bare. “This is for me. You, on my lap, wrapped like a parcel. It’s like Christmas.”

  She flushed at the words. “Is it?”

  He slowed, holding her gaze for a long moment before he answered, “How could you not know?” The strips fell away and her eyes went hooded with the pleasure of their loss—so keen that Whit felt it like a blow, his mind going blank but for the single goal of making her feel a pleasure to rival it again and again, forever.

  She returned to her senses too soon—almost immediately—and instantly moved to cover herself, an impossible task as the beautiful globes overflowed her hands. The vision was the most erotic thing Whit had ever seen, and he could not contain the growl that came from low in his throat as he leaned forward and pressed a kiss to the straining flesh above each hand, licking slowly over the red, worried skin there.

  “Poor love,” he whispered. “You must take better care.”

  He covered her hands with his own, threading their fingers together as he tracked the red lines that crisscrossed her breasts. Another kiss, and another, and another, soothing her sensitive skin with soft, gentle kisses and lingering licks and tiny sucks at the impossibly soft outermost edge of one breast. Then the other.

  He worshipped her until she was rocking against him once more, until she forgot her embarrassment. Until she forgot her nerves. Until she moved her hands—and his—and revealed herself to him.

  Stealing his breath.

  Her skin was red and mottled by the bindings, but her nipples, pink and perfect, strained in the cool air in the room, and he took one stunning peak in his mouth and licking over it with his tongue before sucking gently, again and again, until she was panting with pleasure, her hands fisted in his hair.

  Whit reveled in the sting of her hold, even as he turned his attention to the other breast, repeating his actions. He scraped his teeth across the peak, then soothed it with tongue and lips. She cried out, and for a wild moment, Whit thought he might come in his trousers like a boy.

  He released her, needing to collect himself—to tamp down the riot of emotion he felt with this woman in his arms—eventually dragging his attention to her eyes once more, reading the desire there, and the uncertainty. He wanted to destroy one and flame the other, and so he did the only thing he could think to do; he lifted her in his arms and carried her to the pillows strewn before the fireplace.

  He followed her down, loving the way her body turned itself over to him, relaxing into his. One of his hands stroked down her now naked torso, toying at the waist of her trousers. “More wrapping,” he said quietly, his fingers at the fastening.

  “I wish I were wearing something more exciting,” she replied.

  “I don’t,” he said, leaning over her to nip at the line of her jaw before reaching to pull off her boots in quick succession. “These trousers have been teasing me all night, tracing every inch of you. Making promises that I very much hope you intend to keep.” He grasped the waistband and tugged, and magnificently, she let him strip them from her.

  He lost his breath at the vision of her, bare and beautiful, the peaks and valleys of her body, her soft curves made stunning in the flickering firelight, and there, at the apex of her beautiful thighs, a thatch of curls that had his mouth watering. “Christ, Hattie. You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”

  She smiled, shy and sweet, her hands coming to cover herself. “You make me nearly believe that.”

  He slid his hands up her legs, leaning over, unable to stop himself from pressing a lingering kiss to the back of her hand where it blocked his view, the sweet scent of her turning his words into a growl, as he continued up her body. “I’m not letting you up until you believe it, entirely.”

  “That might take some time,” she said softly, almost too soft for him to hear.

  “I have a lifetime.”

  Her head was turned toward the fire, staring at the flame. Somewhere along the way she’d lost her hairpins, and her beautiful blond mane spread out on the pillows like silk thread. Whit wanted to bury himself in it, in her. “You have tonight.”

  He hated the words, not liking the truth of them and the knowledge that, after tonight, nothing would be the same. Instead, he pressed a kiss to the soft swell of her rounded stomach, then licked up to the curve of her breast, reveling in the taste of her.

  A night would not be enough time to explore. “Then I shall have to make it feel like a lifetime.”

  He sucked a nippl
e between his lips, loving the way it hardened against his tongue, the way she gasped at the sensation, her hips rocking back into the silken cushions. “Whit,” she whispered, one hand coming to his hair, the tremor of it echoed in her voice when she added, “Please.”

  Anything. He’d give her anything she asked.

  His cock throbbed against the buttons of his trousers, desperate to be released. Desperate for her.

  Slow, he thought. It was her first time.

  Christ, it was her first time.

  Another man, a gentleman, would pack her up and send her home at this point. A better man. A stronger one. He didn’t have any business being a part of this. Of ruining her. She deserved better than a boy from Holborn who’d lived on scraps and fought for everything he had.

  He knew it . . . but he wasn’t sending her home.

  He wasn’t called Beast for nothing.

  Chapter Twenty

  In all the time she’d prepared for this moment and all the times she’d imagined what it might be like, Hattie had never imagined how much she would feel.

  She wasn’t a fool, of course—she knew there was a certain amount of sensation to be expected. She knew the basics of the act, and had heard that there would be possibly pleasure and likely some pain, but she hadn’t expected the way her whole being would vibrate with awareness.

  She hadn’t expected to be bombarded with it—with the soft silk of the cushions at her back, the heat of the fire on one side of her, and him, hot like the sun on the other. She hadn’t expected his hands—the rough stroke of them over all the curves and swells that she’d spent a lifetime trying to hide and diminish. And she hadn’t expected his lips, following those magnificent hands, tracking them as though she was what he’d said. As though she was beautiful.

  That’s what he’d called her.

  She didn’t believe him—Hattie had eyes in the head on her shoulders, and she knew what beautiful women looked like. She knew she wasn’t what they were. But still . . . now, as he stroked one large, warm hand over her skin, she came alive. “Whit,” she whispered, summoning his stunning amber gaze to hers, loving the way it sharpened, reading her thoughts.

  “Tell me what you feel,” he said, low and dark and filled with promise.

  One of her hands dropped to his, riding the long strokes he passed up and down her body, in sure, firm exploration. “I feel . . .” She trailed off, searching for an answer. “I feel alive. No one has ever touched me like this.”

  A low grunt. “Good.”

  She smiled. “That’s very primitive of you, considering we met in a brothel.”

  “I cannot help it. I want to be the first to touch you. Here.” He stroked over her stomach, up to her breasts. “Here.” He cupped her breast, ran a thumb over her straining nipple once, twice, until she arched her back and pressed herself more firmly into his hand. He released her almost instantly, and she sighed her frustration as he reversed his path, moving lower until he slid his fingers beneath hers where they covered her most private place. “Here.”

  She didn’t stop him. Why would she ever stop him? Everything he did set her aflame with pleasure. Instead, she lifted her own hand and gave herself to his touch, barely anything, really. He simply cradled her with one strong hand, his eyes raking over her body. “I want to be the first to know everything you like,” he said, lowering his lips to the curve of her shoulder. “I want to be the first to watch your body flush with pleasure.” He kissed down the slope of her breast, suckled on its tip. “I want to be the first you command to give it to you.”

  His fingers flexed against her core, and she lifted her hips to him. “I’m not sure I could command you.”

  “No?” Another suck. Another little flex, hinting at more.

  She closed her eyes and shook her head. “I wouldn’t know what to ask.”

  He was barely moving at the heat of her. She rocked against the cushions. “No? You’ve nothing to ask?”

  She bit her lip. “No,” she lied.

  A lick along the curve of her breast. Another gentle stroke of his hand—not enough. Not near enough. She let her legs fall open.

  The pleasure in his low, rumbled “Hmm,” was enough to send desire pooling deep in her, where that maddening hand now rubbed in unhurried circles, as though he hadn’t considered the possibility of ever moving faster.

  She ran a hand down his arm, to that hand. Added pressure.

  The man laughed at her ear. “Seems like there’s something you’d like to ask.” He was doing it on purpose. And though she should be frustrated, she wasn’t. She was delighted.

  Perhaps a little frustrated.

  “Whit,” she said, lifting her hips to meet their combined touch.

  “Hattie?” he asked at her ear, letting one finger slide, just barely, nearly close enough to what she wanted.

  Her eyes flew open and she met his gaze. “You know.”

  “I want you to say it.”

  Another woman would have missed the hitch in his voice, the desire in it. The proof that he was not unmoved. But Hattie—perhaps because she’d never heard such a sound before—did not miss it. And she found she rather liked it. With her free hand, she reached for him, pulling his lips to hers, kissing him like the wanton she’d become with him. And when she pulled back from the caress, their breathing harsh, she became that woman. “You wish me to command you?”

  He didn’t look away. Wouldn’t let her. His fingers, wicked and wonderful, kept stroking over her. “I do.”

  This time, when she applied pressure, he did the same. Her gasp was punctuated by his long curse, scandalous and delicious. He leaned down and kissed her neck, scraping his teeth over her skin as he growled, “Christ, that’s perfect.” She rocked her hips at the words, and he bit her gently, the sting a perfect complement to the soft pleasure below. “Use me.”

  She did, guiding him until the pressure was perfect, letting her thighs fall open as he learned her pleasure, the weight of it, the speed of it, the way it wound her tighter and tighter.

  She gasped his name. “Please.”

  He lifted his head, finding her eyes as he found a spot she’d never discovered on her own. “Ahh,” he said. “Right there, isn’t it?” One of his long fingers slid deep inside her, his thumb swirling at the point where every bit of her pleasure had distilled. “So pretty and wet, my gorgeous girl,” he whispered, and she was lost to his low, lush words, pouring from him as she moved against him.

  Her fingers wrapped tightly around his wrist. “Don’t stop.”

  “Not for anything, love.” He leaned down and whispered in her ear, “I’ve never seen anything like you taking your pleasure. Like you riding my touch until you own it. It’s enough to put a man to his knees.”

  She closed her eyes at the words, at the way they rioted through her, winding the spring tighter. “Please,” she panted.

  “Once you’ve found it, I’m going to give it to you again.”

  She clung to him. “Harder.”

  He pressed more firmly, swirled in a tighter circle. “With my mouth . . .”

  “Faster.”

  Faster.

  “More.”

  More.

  “And after my mouth . . . I’m going to make you come on my cock.”

  “Oh, God,” she gasped. Pleasure slammed through her, nearly impossible to believe, and she was clinging to him, desperate for it to go on forever even as she begged for it to stop. He somehow knew what to do—stopping but not leaving her, pressing the heel of his palm tightly to the center of her pleasure as she went boneless beneath him.

  He kissed her, long and slow as she returned to the moment, ending the caress in a delicious suck that had her sighing. “That was the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen,” he said, leaning down to suck one aching nipple.

  She turned toward him, her fingers coming to play in his hair. “Thank you.”

  He laughed against her skin, the breath of the sound sending a delicious shiver through her. �
�Don’t thank me, love. It was a fucking gift.”

  She didn’t have time to blush at the foul language, as he began to move down her body, pressing kisses over her skin as he settled between her thighs. Hattie’s eyes opened. “You can’t—”

  “Mmm,” he said, ignoring the words as he parted her folds, meeting her gaze over her body. “You cannot believe I would see you here, laid out for me like a banquet, and not want to feast. You cannot believe I would not feast for days.”

  She caught her breath, the memory of the pleasure she’d experienced at his mouth impossible to ignore. “Yes,” she said, her hand sliding over his head.

  His eyes went heavy with desire as she fisted her fingers in his hair.

  She smiled. “You like that.”

  He didn’t respond, instead setting his mouth to her, pressing his tongue into her softness in a long, lingering lick that had her serving herself to him. He groaned, settling in, savoring her taste, making love to her with slow, nearly unbearable strokes.

  “Whit,” she whispered, writhing beneath him, pulling him tight to her, unable to stop herself as he found the aching point of her with long, slow, gentle licks that set her on fire. “More.”

  She was greedy for him, for his touch, for his kiss as he grasped her bottom, lifting her up to his mouth. Her eyes opened, and she met his gaze over her body, the view of him, worshipping her, threatening to send her over the edge instantly. She started to close her eyes, and he shook his head, growling his insistence that she remain with him. And she did, forgetting what ladies were supposed to be, what virgins were supposed to be. Forgetting everything but him, here, with her.

  She was writhing against him, unable to stop herself from moving, and he placed one hand, large and brown from the sun, against her belly, holding her still as he worked her—stealing her breath and her thought with his stunning kisses, over and over, again and again, faster and faster until—

  She flew apart beneath him, unable to keep her eyes open, letting them slide shut as he growled his displeasure—but he didn’t stop. Glorious, magnificent man . . . he didn’t stop. Instead, he held her through the wild orgasm—like nothing she’d ever experienced. He’d somehow taken pure pleasure and distilled it further. Pleasure incarnate.