Brazen and the Beast

by Sarah MacLean

  He guided her back to earth, as though he were there for nothing more than to keep her safe. And, for a mad moment, Hattie imagined what it would be like for this man to keep her safe, forever. For him to want her, forever. For him to love her, forever.

  Impossible.

  Tears sprang, and he lifted his head, the muscles of his shoulders and arms tensing as worry crossed his brow. “Hattie?” Her name was harsh on his lips. He leaned over her, one hand coming to cradle her face. “What’s wrong?”

  She shook her head. “Nothing.”

  He ran that hand down her body and back up. “Christ. Did I hurt you?”

  She couldn’t help the laugh that came. “No. No,” she said. “No. My God, you made me feel—” The tears again, threatening. “Whit, you made me feel wonderful. So wonderful that . . . I wish—”

  He didn’t seem to believe her. He was too focused on her face, his beautiful eyes tracking hers, seeing everything.

  “I wish—” she tried again.

  “Tell me,” he said softly. “Tell me what you wish.”

  I wish we could have more than tonight.

  She reached for him, kissing him deep, leading the caress in a way she’d never done before. Putting every bit of herself into it—Hattie who resisted the past, Hattie who dreamed of a future, and Hattie who wanted a man like this to love her the way she’d always dreamed, quietly, in the darkness, when no one was looking.

  She kissed him until they couldn’t speak, because she was too afraid to speak—too afraid that she might tell him that she wished for something he could not give her. Too afraid that he would leave her before she had the last taste of him. Before she had all of him. And when they pulled apart, she whispered against his lips, “I wish for the rest.”

  He watched her for a long moment, and her heart stopped as she considered the possibility that he might not give it to her.

  She slid a hand down the front of him, over his bandages, until she reached the waistband of his trousers, left unbuttoned when he’d pulled them on. She hesitated there, at the edge of the dark, tempting opening, knowing that another woman would move with more certainty.

  As Hattie hesitated, so, too, did Whit, freezing above her, his breath stilling. She met his gaze. Asked a silent question.

  “Now,” he said. “Do it.”

  And she did, sliding her hand inside the dark, promising V of the fabric, reveling in his quick inhale when she touched him. “Does that feel—”

  “Yes.”

  She smiled. “I didn’t finish the question.”

  “It feels like heaven, love.”

  She shook her head. “But it can feel better.”

  He closed his eyes. “I don’t think I can bear it feeling better.”

  She leaned up and kissed the sharp line of his jaw. “I think you’ll do fine. Show me.”

  His attention flew to hers. “You’re not a warrior. You’re a fucking goddess. Did you know that?”

  She liked that very much. Unable to keep the smile from her lips, she repeated herself. “Show me.”

  He did, placing his hand on hers, showing her just how he liked to be touched, the firm, smooth heat of him sliding over her palm as she stroked him. “You’re so soft,” she whispered, her eyes on their hands in the V of his trousers. “So hard.”

  He grunted. “Never harder.”

  She met his eyes. “Is that true?”

  “Yes.”

  She wanted to touch him, to learn him, to give him all the pleasure that he gave her. “Show me how. Teach me.” He let her push his trousers aside, revealing him—full, thick, strong, and, “Beautiful.”

  He swore softly and grew impossibly harder at the word, guiding her touch, squeezing her around him, almost too rough, until she stroked him and he growled, the sound like a gift. She smiled, watching their joined hands work him. “You like this.”

  “So much,” he said, the rough words drawing her attention to his face, where the muscles in his jaw clenched and he looked like he was barely hanging on to control.

  She stroked him again. Down. Up. His throat worked at the sensation, and then she paused, rubbing the pad of her thumb across the tip of him, and he closed his eyes, throwing his head back. “Fuck, Hattie.”

  She grinned. She couldn’t stop herself. “You like that very much.” She did it again, and he groaned, pulling her to him for a long kiss, tongue stroking deep as she put her lessons into action. She’d never felt so powerful.

  After too short a time, he pulled her away from him. “Stop.”

  “But . . .” She paused. “I was enjoying that.”

  He huffed a little laugh. “As was I. But you asked for the rest, did you not?”

  The honest words had excitement coursing through her. “You promised me the rest.”

  He stilled, his fingers tracing over her temple, pushing her hair back from her face as he searched her eyes, suddenly serious beyond words. “Be certain. Be certain that you choose this. That you choose me.” His thumb traced over her cheek and his voice lowered to a whisper. “Be certain that you are willing to give this up to me, because I will take it and I will keep it and you can never have it back.”

  And in that moment, as the words settled between them in that remarkable, decadent room, filled with silks and sin, Hattie knew the truth—that she would never want this back. She would treasure this night and this moment forever. Because she would never want another the way she wanted him.

  Even though she knew, without question, that she would never have more of him.

  She closed her eyes at the realization, taking a deep breath before she spoke. “In my life, I’ve been a daughter and a sister and a friend. I’ve had love and respect, and lived a happier life than many . . . than most.” She paused. “But I have never been an equal. Even as I fought for all the things I wanted, I never had a choice. Not really. I always had a father or a brother or friends to tell me what I should choose. What I could have. Who I am.”

  She met his eyes, their amber fire unwavering on her. “And then I met you. And from the very start, you offered me choice. You never told me what I should want. What I could and could not have. You made me your equal.” She smiled.

  His brows snapped together. “And then I took it from you.”

  She nodded. “And tomorrow, we shall be rivals. But here is the truth; I could not be your rival if I were not your equal. If I were not your . . . match.”

  Her hand settled to his chest, and she felt the strong, sure beat of his heart beneath her palm. And she wondered, madly, what it would be like if she were his match in all things.

  It didn’t matter. “I have never been more certain of anything.” She leaned in for his kiss, and he met her halfway. “Ruin me.”

  He didn’t speak, instead giving her the kiss for which she asked, moving over her, kissing down her neck and over her breasts, lingering at the tight buds there until her fingers were in his hair and tugging him back up for more lingering kisses, slow and languid and setting her aflame.

  She opened her thighs and he settled between them. They both gasped at the sensation, the smooth head of him cradled against the warmth of her, and he held himself up over her, not touching her anywhere else, his weight on his massive arms. “I have never done this,” he whispered.

  She smiled. “I don’t believe you.”

  He shook his head. “Not like this. Not so important. Not with such a goal.” He rocked into her, the hard length of him pressed perfectly at her heat, and she sighed. “I want you to remember it.”

  “I will,” she said, her hands coming to his hips. “How could I not?”

  How would she ever forget the look of him? His beautiful face and his eyes like flame and the chiseled warmth of his body?

  “Well, love,” he said. “I want you to remember it well.”

  She reached up to him, sliding her hands into his hair, holding his eyes. “I shall. How could I forget this? The way you look at me? Like I’m . . .”

&nbs
p; Beautiful.

  Perfect.

  “. . . Like I’m precious.”

  He swore and kissed her, his tongue stroking against hers, slow and deep before he pulled back and pressed his forehead to hers. “You are precious, Hattie. More precious than you know.”

  Don’t say it. Not like that. Don’t make me want more than I can have.

  As though she wasn’t impossibly far gone on that front.

  As though she hadn’t made the terrible mistake of falling in love with this man who was too much for her.

  “I don’t want to be precious,” she said softly. Precious things weren’t beloved. They were protected. She wanted to be the thing he couldn’t bear to part with. She wanted to be loved. She wanted to be threadbare.

  “What, then?”

  She swallowed back the words. “I want to be wanted.” She pressed up against him, and they both groaned as he slid over her, once. Twice.

  He was staring into her eyes, the truth laid bare in them, stealing her breath. “I’ve never wanted anything the way I want you.”

  She stroked a hand down his side, reveling in his smooth skin. “Prove it.”

  And he did, easing into her gently, just barely pushing inside, filling her with the broad, hot tip of him, stretching her in the strangest, most delicious way. Her eyes went wide at the sensation and she wriggled beneath him. “Is this—this is—”

  She moved again, and he growled. “Fuck. That’s good. You’re so soft. So wet.” One of his hands came to her hip, his fingers curving into the flesh there, lifting her thigh to ease his movement, but he did not move. His beautiful eyes were on her face, filled with concern. “How does it feel?”

  She smiled at him. “I thought it was supposed to hurt?”

  He gave a little laugh. “It’s not supposed to hurt.” He leaned down and kissed her again. “It’s never supposed to hurt, do you understand? It’s supposed to feel glorious.” She wiggled again, and he added, through his teeth, “Christ. Like that.”

  Hattie grinned. “Is there more?”

  Concern gave way to surprise. “I—what?”

  “I’m told there’s more. Is there?”

  Surprise gave way to understanding. Then a laugh. “Yes, my lady. There is more.”

  She lifted her brows. “And would you be so kind as to show me?”

  For a moment, Hattie thought that she might have gone too far. After all, coitus was supposed to be a serious affair, she’d always thought. But this didn’t seem like it should be serious. This seemed like it should be entertaining. This seemed like it should be enjoyed.

  Did he agree?

  One side of his full mouth lifted up in a winning smile. “More,” he said, and sank into her, slow and smooth, until he was seated to the hilt and breathing as though he’d just come out of a fight.

  Hattie hissed in a breath at the sensation—tight and full, and not entirely comfortable, but not entirely uncomfortable, either.

  “Hattie,” he panted, searching her face. “Talk to me, love.”

  “I . . .” She hesitated, considering. And then, “What if I—” She lifted her hips, sliding just a touch higher on him, then back. “Ohhh.”

  “Mmm,” he grumbled. “My thought exactly.”

  She did it again, a tiny little thrust. “That is—” And again—this time, with him helping her. “Oh.”

  He cursed. “You liked that.”

  She smiled. “How did you know?”

  He met her gaze, his eyes full of sin. “There are no secrets in this. I can feel it.” He rocked his hips into her, leaning down to lick the skin of her neck until she sighed. “The lady likes short strokes.”

  She did. Very much. “And the gentleman?”

  He stole her lips for a lingering kiss. “I like what you like.”

  What a delicious thing for him to say.

  Before she could tell him so, he was speaking. That was the best part—the sensations were wonderful, but she might never get over the pleasure of having him talk to her.

  Especially when the things he said were so scandalous. “I like how tight you are around me—impossibly tight,” he said, the last almost to himself. “I like how your eyes go hooded when I do this—” He thrust, just barely, just enough to sear her nerves. “I like how your lips soften for my kisses, and your fingers tighten on my body.” Another thrust, and another and another, and her sighs turned to cries, and she never wanted it to end.

  And it didn’t, not as he moved with surer strokes, deeper and deeper, until she was clinging to him, a sheen of sweat on both their bodies as they discovered each other’s pleasure.

  “But the thing I like the most . . .” He paused, holding himself on one arm as he reached between them, low, then lower, until he found the aching bud at her core. “. . . is making you come.” He rubbed a slow, languid circle over her, timing it with his smooth, short thrusts, and she began to writhe beneath him.

  “You like it, too,” he growled.

  “So much,” she admitted, loving the way the admission shook him. He stole her lips, and moved, pulling out nearly until he’d left her, until she thought she would weep from the loss of him, and then joining her again, slow and steady. Her eyes went wide at the magnificent feeling. “Again.” His thumb worked her. “Again.”

  “My greedy girl.”

  Greedy for you, she wanted to say. For all of you. For every part of you. For everything we might be together. But she held her tongue, and instead, she said, “I am greedy. You’ve made me greedy.”

  He grunted his approval. “I’ll give you everything you want.”

  Yes. “All of it?”

  “Every bit.” He was moving harder now, deeper, and his fingers still stroked where she ached for them and nothing felt strange any longer. Now it felt perfect. He felt perfect. “There’s nothing more beautiful than you in ecstasy, love, nothing feels softer, nothing tastes sweeter . . . nothing is more . . .”

  He lost the word to sensation, but she heard it anyway.

  Perfect.

  “More,” she said, the only word that would come.

  “All of it,” he replied, and it was perfect. They were perfect together. And then it was there, that knife’s point of tension, coiled tight, tighter, tightest, and Hattie closed her eyes, her back bowing to him, as he worked her, making good on his promise, giving her everything she wanted. A vision flashed in Hattie’s mind, a keen memory of dancing at the ball, when he’d collected her into his arms and his grace had become hers.

  And now, she felt it again, the slow, wonderful thrust of him, the smooth press of his hips, the way he drove her higher and higher until she could no longer feel the pull of the earth beneath them.

  “Please,” she cried, desperate for the release she knew only he could give her.

  And then he growled, “Come for me, love,” and thrust deep into her, in one long, stunning stroke, rocking his thumb over her once, twice, and then . . . “Now.”

  She was lost to his touch. To his movements. To him. Pleasure rioted through her, so hard that it came with an edge of fear, and she clung to him. He caught her up in his arms and held her while she came apart, his low voice in her ear: “Take it. It’s for you. It’s all for you.”

  She did, bearing down on him, convulsing around him, milking the hard length of him over and over, until she had finished and he held her in his strong arms, protecting her. When reason returned, she sighed, magnificently sated, like she’d never been before.

  He pressed a kiss to her temple and moved to her side, pulling her to him; she lay against him, listening to his heart pound, fully, wonderfully satisfied. If this was ruination, she absolutely didn’t understand why anyone would choose to live a proper life.

  Perhaps she could convince him to do it again before tomorrow. Before they went back to being rivals. And on the heels of that thought came another—perhaps they didn’t have to be rivals. Perhaps everything she thought she could not have was in play once more.

  After
all, surely what had just occurred between them was uncommon. If it were common, why would people ever leave their bedchambers?

  Perhaps they could love each other.

  She smiled at the thought, curving into him, rubbing one leg over his. She froze, realization crashing through her.

  He hadn’t finished.

  A cold uncertainty flooded her as she reached for him, still hard and hot against her. “Whit—”

  He caught her hand before she could get close. “Don’t.”

  “But you—”

  He lifted her hand to his lips, pressing a kiss to her fingers. “It was for you. Not for me.”

  She stilled, the relaxed delight that had infused her moments earlier now gone, replaced with confusion and a hint of something far more dangerous. “But why didn’t you—”

  “I’m for body, Hattie,” he said. “Not future.”

  She shook her head. “Future?”

  Body. Business. Home. Fortune. Future.

  He grunted.

  “No grunts. Not now,” she said, irritation growing. “Why didn’t you—”

  Oh, God. Had he not enjoyed it?

  Her eyes went wide.

  Had she pushed him to do something he had not wished to do?

  Doubt slammed through her, followed by panic and horror, and Hattie sat up, desperate to cover herself. How had she misread this situation, thinking he was enjoying himself?

  Thinking he’d been enjoying himself because she’d been so thoroughly enjoying herself.

  Because she’d been so lost in love with him.

  No. Not with.

  He didn’t want her.

  She closed her eyes against the thought, and the mortification that came with it. “I have to leave.”

  He sat up, as well. “Hattie.”

  She shook her head, tears threatening. Oh, no. She couldn’t let him see her cry. She snatched her trousers in one hand and went around the edge of the loveseat to find her shirt, blessedly long enough to cover all the essential bits while she fetched her boots. She pulled on her trousers. “Thank you very much for your . . . service.”