Wicked and the Wallflower: Bareknuckle Bastards Book 1

by Sarah MacLean

Devil shook his head. “Don’t you dare apologize for that, love. I will die with the sound of that laughter in my ears. The pure pleasure of it. It was glorious.” He kissed her again. “All I want to do is summon it again.”

  She closed her eyes at that, embarrassment and desire warring in her.

  Desire won out. “I want you to summon it again.” She lifted her hips again, enjoying the hissing curse that came from him at the movement. If it was possible, the hard length of him grew harder. Longer. “But you are wearing legions more clothes than I would like.”

  He growled his pleasure at that, rolling off her and coming to his feet to remove his shirt, following it with boots and trousers. The movements lacked any artifice, as though he was immensely comfortable with his body—and how could he not be? He was perfection. She could spend hours watching him.

  When he stood once more, nude, and turned to return to her, she held out a hand. “Wait.”

  He stilled, his gaze hungry and hot. “What is it?”

  She sat up, pulling his coat around her. “I want to look.”

  The words changed him. He dipped his head, running a hand over his tightly shorn hair, the movement at once deeply endearing and a striking display of the perfection of his arms and shoulders. Felicity’s mouth went dry as his hand wrapped around his neck and slid over his chest, rubbing back and forth before dropping to his side. “Look your fill, then, my lady.”

  She waved a hand lazily in the air, like a queen, indicating that he should turn, and like a miracle, he did. A smirk on his lips as he returned to his original position. “Have you decided what to do with me?”

  The memory of the first night, in her bedchamber, teased over her. I’ve never quite understood what one does with exceedingly perfect men.

  She met his eyes. “I’m still not sure what one does, but I find I’m willing to brazen it through.”

  He raised a brow. “I’m very happy to hear that.”

  Dear God. He was splendid—the play of moonlight over his skin, the dusting of hair over his chest. The sculpture of his muscles, ridges at his hips, the delicious curve of his backside, the heavy cords of his thighs. And between them, the straining length of him, hard and beautiful and throbbing. “When I saw you in your bath . . . below . . .” she began, unable to tear her gaze from the hard length of him. “I wanted to look at you . . . It was all I could do not to come to the edge of your bath and see . . .”

  “Fuck, Felicity.” He groaned.

  Her gaze flew to his face at the groaning curse. “What?”

  He looked to the sky, letting out a long, beautiful breath. “Forgive me,” he said, so softly that it occurred to her that he might not wish her to hear it. And then he looked back to her. “You licked your lips, love.”

  Her hand flew to her mouth. “I did?”

  He grinned, his white teeth flashing, and her first look at his wicked smile was enough to steal her breath. “Don’t you dare be ashamed of it. I just—Christ—I just want this to be perfect for you, and when you look at me like that—like you want it . . .” He trailed off as her gaze lowered again, to the straining length of him, and then—dear God—his hand moved, and he was taking himself in hand, caressing that magnificent length, and her mouth was watering and there was only so much a woman in her position could manage.

  She stared at his hand, at his slow, languid movements, and swallowed. He was so perfect. “I do want it.”

  The sound he made—low and dark—sent desire coursing through her, pooling deep in places she had only just discovered. And when he moved, coming toward her, her heart began to pound. “I’m going to make you say that a thousand times before we are through,” he growled, coming to his knees beside her, reaching for the coat she’d wrapped around her nudity.

  She clutched it tighter.

  He tilted his head. “Felicity?”

  Her gaze flickered over him again, taking in his raw beauty. “I’m—” She stopped.

  Devil waited with infinite patience.

  She tried again. “I’m—not like you.”

  He sat back on his heels, as though he were entirely comfortable. As though he could live his whole life without clothing and never think twice. His gaze softened. “I know that, love. That’s a large part of why I’d like to remove this coat.”

  “I mean—” She swallowed. “I’ve never been nude before. With a man.”

  He offered her a little smile, crooked and gorgeous. “I know that, too.”

  “I’m not—I don’t—”

  He let go of the fabric. Waited.

  “You are perfect,” she said. “But I—I am all flaws.”

  He watched her for a long time. An eternity. Seconds stretched between them like miles. And then, just when she thought it was all over, he said, quiet and certain, “Here is something true, Felicity Faircloth, wallflower, lockpick, and wonder; there isn’t a single thing about you that is flawed.”

  She blushed. And somehow, for a fleeting moment, she believed him.

  “Please, love. Let me show you.”

  As though such an offer could be denied. She dropped the coat. Revealed herself.

  He studied her like she was a master’s painting, eventually coming to her side and bringing her down so that they lay together, hands and mouths exploring, his hands on her skin, her fingers raking through the dark hair on his chest. His lips seeking out the dimples in her round belly as her legs parted in a slow slide along his straining length.

  “Tell me again,” he whispered to her stomach, one hand sliding along the soft skin of her inner thigh.

  She understood instantly. “I want you.” She explored the curves of his muscles, the hills and valleys of his body.

  He rewarded the words with another kiss. A suck. A lick. A slide.

  And all the time, his hands moved closer to his goal.

  Hers, too.

  “Where do you want me?”

  She squirmed against him, embarrassed by the question, and he nipped at her skin again, a little sting, enough to make her gasp and want him even more. How did he know that? That a delicate bite could seduce as well as a kiss? Before she could ask, he parted the folds beneath her thighs and said, low and delicious, “Here?”

  Another gasp. “Yes.”

  He stroked against her pulsing flesh, soft, then firm, swirling and stroking. “Tell me again. I’ll give you everything you want—all you have to do is ask for it.”

  “I want it,” she panted. She rocked against him, aching for more of his touch. “Please. I want—”

  His thumb worked a tight circle, setting her ablaze. “Shall I give you the words, love?”

  “Yes,” she said. “I want every word. All the wicked ones.”

  He exhaled on another curse. “You are going to destroy me, Felicity Faircloth.”

  “Not before you give me the words.” She sighed, loving that he was as moved as she was.

  “You want to come,” he said. “You want me to make you come.”

  Another press, another stroke. And another, and another. “Yes.”

  “You want my fingers here.” He moved, and she cried out as he began to fill her, magnificently, her hands coming to his head, pushing him lower and lower. He growled again. “And wicked girl, you want my mouth, too.”

  “Yes,” she said again. “Yes, I want it.”

  He gave it to her, setting his tongue to her soft heat, savoring the taste of her as his fingers continued their movement, making love to her with slow, savoring strokes, his free hand lifting one of her legs over his shoulder, opening her to him. She could not stop herself from pressing her hips to him, and did not wish to—crying out that single word again and again, her only purchase her hands in his hair, holding him to her until she found her orgasm, shouting his name to all the world as he worked her with hands and mouth and tongue until all she knew was pleasure.

  As she came down from her pleasure, his tongue gentling, his fingers stilling as she pulsed against him, she pulled him up to her
, his name hoarse on her lips, eager for more.

  Eager for all of it.

  He followed her touch, climbing over her, stealing her lips in a long, sweet kiss that stoked fire once more before she pulled back and set her hands to his torso, sliding them down over the ridges and planes of his body to find the part of him that had transfixed her.

  When her fingers touched his straining length, he jerked his hips away from her. “Wait, love.”

  She opened her eyes. “Please,” she whispered. “Please, let me touch you.”

  He growled and kissed her again. “I don’t think I can have that, sweet,” he said at her lips. “I don’t think I can bear it. I don’t want it to be over.”

  She stilled. It couldn’t be over. She wanted the rest.

  She wanted all of it.

  Every touch, every kiss, every movement that would tie them together.

  She nodded, refusing to relinquish his gaze, and smiled.

  His eyes flickered to her lips, then back again. “That’s a wicked smile, my lady.”

  “I am your lady,” she said softly, her hand moving slightly, just enough to encircle him. To tentatively explore.

  He hissed his pleasure. “Yes. Fuck. Yes.” And then he reached for that roaming hand and returned it to his chest, a safer place.

  “Someday,” she said, “you’ll let me touch you.”

  He looked away, then back. The movement was barely there. Less than a second. Less than that. And still, it was enough. Felicity knew the truth. There would be no someday. No tomorrow, no next week, no next year. There wouldn’t be another night here, on the roof of his offices, or in his rooms, or in the ice hold at his warehouse. Tonight was it. She’d played her game, and tonight was it.

  Tonight was all they’d have.

  And tomorrow, he would be gone.

  She lifted her hips to him again, loving the way his length stroked through her wet folds, slick and smooth and hot as the sun. Her cry of pleasure was met with his low groan, until he pulled away, lowering himself once again. “You wish to come again, love?”

  Where was he going?

  “Wait,” she said.

  His lips, again on her torso. Felicity tried to sit up. “Wait, Devon.”

  He rubbed the rough shadow of his beard over her skin. “I shall take care of you. Lie back. I intend to taste your pleasure a dozen times tonight. A hundred.”

  But not the way she wished. Not with his whole self.

  “Wait,” she repeated, this time lifting her knee, pressing it against him. Pushing him away as she scrambled to sit up. “No.”

  He stopped instantly at the word, reeling back, his warm hand on her thigh. “What is it?”

  “I don’t want that.”

  His thumb stroked at the warm, soft skin of her thigh, and her breath caught in her chest, followed by a flood of warmth when he said, low and dark, “You don’t?”

  Of course she did. My God, the man was magnificent. “I mean, I don’t want it alone. I want it with you. I want us . . .” She hesitated. And then, into the breach. “Together.”

  He released her, instantly. “No.”

  “Why?”

  “Because if I touch you like—” He stopped and looked away, to the buildings in the distance, dark against the starry sky. And then back to her. “Felicity . . . if I fuck you . . . you’re ruined.”

  The coarse language was meant to scare her. It only made her want him more. “You told me you would give me what I want. I want that. I want tonight. With you. All of it. All of you.”

  “Not that. I shall give you everything but that.” He looked hunted.

  “Why?”

  “Felicity.” He began to rise. “I am not for you.”

  She came up on her knees, following him. “Why not?”

  “Because I was born in God knows where, and was reborn here, in the Covent Garden filth. I am soiled beyond repair. And I am so far beneath you that I have to strain to look at you.”

  “You’re wrong,” she said, reaching for him, not knowing what else to do. He pulled away. “You’re wrong.”

  “I assure you—I am not. The things I have done . . .” He paused, running a hand over his head. “The things I will do . . .” He backed away from her. “No, Felicity. We are through. Get dressed, and I will bring you home.”

  “Devil,” she said, knowing that if she left that rooftop, she’d lose him forever. “Please. I want you. I . . .” Another hesitation. And then, the only words she could find. “I love you.”

  His eyes went wide, and the hand at his side moved. Reaching for her? Please, let it be reaching for her. “Felicity . . .” Her name was ragged on his lips. “No . . .”

  She resisted the tears that threatened. Of course he did not love her back. He was not the kind of man who would love her. And still, she could not stop herself from adding, “You are all I wish for. You. This. Whatever is to come.”

  He shook his head. “You think London will have you back if you tie yourself to me? You think you’ll resume your place in Mayfair ballrooms? Have tea with the queen or whatever it is you people do?”

  “I don’t want to have tea with the queen, you idiot man,” she replied, letting her frustration take hold. “I am tired of having my life chosen for me. My family decides where I go, what I do, whom I should marry. The aristocracy tells me where I belong in a ballroom, what I can hope for as a woman, where the limitations are for my desires.

  “Don’t ask too much, they caution. You are too old, too plain, too strange, too imperfect. I shouldn’t want more than what I should be grateful to receive—the scraps of the rest of the world.”

  He reached for her then, but she was busy with her rage. “I am not too old.”

  He shook his head. “You are not.”

  “I am not too plain.”

  “You are nothing close to plain.”

  “And we are all imperfect.”

  “Not you.”

  Then why won’t you have me?

  She hugged her knees to her chest and confessed her sin. “I don’t want to save them.”

  “Your family.”

  She nodded. “I am their last hope. And I should want to sacrifice everything for them. For their future. But I don’t. I resent it.”

  “You should resent it,” he said.

  “They care nothing about me,” she whispered to her knees. “They love me, I suppose, and they tolerate me, and they would miss me if I were gone, but I’m not sure they would notice for quite a while, honestly—my mother hasn’t noticed I’ve taken to spending my evenings in Covent Garden, and Arthur’s so worried about his own marriage, he hasn’t time to think for a second about mine. And my father . . .” She trailed off. “He’s barely a character in this play. He’s deus ex machina, popping in at the end to sign the papers and take the money.”

  She looked up at Devil. “I don’t want that.”

  “I know.”

  “I never wanted to win the duke. Not really.”

  “You wanted more than that.”

  “Yes,” she whispered.

  “You wanted the marriage, the man, the love, the passion, the life, the wide world.”

  She considered the words—perfectly encapsulating what she wanted. But not Mayfair. No longer Mayfair. Here. Now. Covent Garden. With its king.

  More than she could have. Always more.

  “Shall I tell you something true?”

  He exhaled on a long, harsh breath, her name in it like a prayer. “No.”

  “Well, I’m going to, considering I’ve already told you the worst of it,” she said, unable to stop the words from coming. “I hate tea. I want to drink bourbon. The kind you won’t admit to smuggling in from America with all that ice. I want to make love to you in your ice hold and bathe in your enormous bathtub. While you watch. I want to wear trousers like Nik and learn every inch of Covent Garden. I want to stand by your side here on the roof and there in the street below, and I want you to teach me to wield a cane sword as wel
l as I wield a lockpick.” She paused, enjoying the dumbfounded look on his face nearly as much as she hated it. “But more than all that . . . I want you.”

  “This world is all sin, Felicity, and I am the worst of it.”

  She shook her head. “No. This world is locked away. You are locked away. Like something precious.” She met his gaze. Held it. “And I want in. Tonight.” Always.

  “There is no way this ends without your ruin.”

  “I am already ruined.”

  He shook his head. “Not in any way that matters.”

  She thought that was rather a semantic argument. And then, like a promise, memory surged. Wild and mad, just as she was when she grasped it. “I’ll never win the duke, you know. The banns are posted, yes, but even if I were to marry him, I wouldn’t win him. I don’t want him. And he doesn’t want me. Not with passion. Not with purpose.”

  “It’s not important to him,” Devil said. “He doesn’t know about passion.”

  “But you do,” she replied.

  He cursed in the darkness. “Yes, dammit. Yes, I know about passion. It’s consuming me here, tonight, naked on a roof in Covent Garden where anyone could stumble upon us.”

  She smiled at the words, pride and love rioting through her. This magnificent man. She reached for him, and he let her, let her touch his thigh, let her come closer, even when she softened her words and said, “And if someone were to stumble upon us?”

  “I’d have to kill them for seeing you naked.”

  She nodded. Dear Lord. She would never love anything the way she loved him. “Devil . . .” she whispered, her hand sliding up his bare chest, flirting with the skin there.

  He caught it in his own. “Felicity . . .” She hated the resignation in his tone.

  “We made a deal all those nights ago,” she said, leaning in, pressing a kiss to the corner of his full, beautiful lips. “I was promised slavering.”

  He saw where she was going. Shook his head. “Felicity—”

  “No. That was the deal. You wouldn’t renege, would you?”

  He considered it. She watched the battle wage on his beautiful face, his scar gone stark white on his cheek as he fixed his gaze over her shoulder on a faraway rooftop. She took the opportunity to lean in and press a soft kiss to his cheek.