Brazen and the Beast

by Sarah MacLean

  As her hand settled on the handle, he said, “Henrietta.”

  She stilled. “No one calls me that.”

  Silence. Then, “Hmm.” Close. Too close. He’d followed her. And then he touched her, one finger tracing down her spine, sending a thrill through her. No. Not a thrill. She wasn’t thrilled.

  She stiffened, wrapping her arms about herself. Closing herself to the pleasure of his touch. “You needn’t condescend to touch me.”

  “You think I do not wish to touch you?” The words were hot against the back of her neck.

  “I think that men who have an inkling to deflower women—twice—do not send them home—twice—without proper deflowering.” She turned her head. “It would be one thing if you were a Mayfair gentleman. But we both know you’re not that.”

  She hated the words the moment they were out of her mouth. She didn’t care that he’d never set foot in Mayfair. Lord knew most of the aristocratic men she knew weren’t gentlemen in the least. Not when the world wasn’t watching. “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be.”

  “I didn’t mean . . .”

  “I was raised in the gutter.”

  She met his gaze instantly. “That doesn’t mean anything.” When he did not reply, she turned back to the door, embarrassed.

  “I’m no kind of gentleman,” he said at her ear, a dark promise. “I’ve never pretended to be.” He slowly traced her spine back up to her shoulders, lingering on the exposed skin of her neck, and whispered, “And when I deflower you, it will be very far from proper.”

  And, like that, she was aflame. Out of her depth. And still, doubt whispered. “But not tonight.” She sounded petulant. She knew she did. But she had been quite hopeful for the evening, and it was, after all, her birthday, and now she was to go home and who knew when he’d turn up again. Probably never.

  More interminable silence, long enough for her to fidget beneath it. And then, “Hattie?”

  She did not look at him. “What?”

  “Shall I tell you what kind of thoughts I am thinking?”

  She lifted a shoulder. Let it drop. Willed him to think she didn’t care one way or another. Willed him to tell her every word he was thinking.

  “I am thinking that your skin is the softest I’ve ever touched,” he said, that maddening finger moving in perfect circles. “I’m thinking that when I get you alone—fully alone—I’m going to strip you bare and test its softness everywhere.”

  She sucked in a breath as the finger dipped to her shoulder, tracing the skin of her back, along the line of her dress. “I am thinking of how you feel here, soft like silk, and somehow, even softer elsewhere. I am thinking of how your breasts feel,” he said, the slow, languid tenor of his voice making them aching and heavy. “Softer, still, and their tips—” He growled. “I’m thinking of how they feel against my tongue.” She whimpered as the tips in question hardened, straining for him even as he resisted touching her but for that one, wild place where his fingertip stroked her shoulder.

  “Of how they taste, like sugar and sin.” He was at her ear, and she swayed at the words, at the way they threatened her. “Of how you bowed to my touch yesterday. Do you remember?”

  She closed her eyes, wanting it again. Nodding.

  “Say it.”

  “I remember.”

  “Mmm.” Every one of this man’s rumbles was a riot over her skin. Through her body. “And you want it again.”

  Another nod.

  “Aloud.”

  “Yes.” Breath, not sound. She swallowed. Spoke louder. “Yes, please.”

  “Touch them.”

  She jerked at the command. “I—What?”

  “You want them. You want my hands on you. Show me how.”

  She shook her head. “I can’t.”

  “You can. Touch them. They ache for it, for your touch.”

  No, she wanted to cry, they ache for yours.

  And then, as though he’d heard the thought, “Think of your hands as mine. That’s what I am thinking. I’m thinking of holding them, of feeling them spilling out of my palms, of lifting them and taking them in my mouth. Of licking and sucking them until you are weeping and wet.”

  She whimpered at the words, her hands rising to the door, her fingers splaying wide on the wood, holding her upright against the onslaught of his thoughts. How could he say such things? This man who dealt in silence and grunts? How could he stand here, in a place he had declared not private enough, and say such filthy, wonderful things?

  How could she want more of it?

  How was he so calm? He destroyed her with every word, and somehow, he remained cool, his breathing even as ever, his only movement those small, devastating circles over her shoulder, across the back of her neck. “And you are wet, aren’t you, Hattie?”

  There was nothing he could say that would make her confess that.

  “I’m finkin’ ’bout what it’ll do to me when you say it, Hattie.” Nothing but that low growl, slipping into his Covent Garden accent. Nothing but the idea that even the thought of her desire for him might lay him low.

  She bit her lip and pressed her forehead to the door. Nodded.

  “Fuck.” The curse came on a whisper. “Out loud.”

  “Yes.”

  “Say it.”

  “I am—you’ve made me—”

  “Wait.” His groan interrupted her, and suddenly it wasn’t just one finger painting her skin with circles, it was his whole hand, running over her shoulder, down her arm, threading his fingers into hers. Tugging her around to face him.

  And when she faced him, she saw the truth that his accent had hinted. He wasn’t calm.

  He was wild.

  “Finish it,” he growled. “What ’ave I made you?”

  “Wet,” she said, and the word seemed to strike him like a blow, setting him to his knees on a long, devastating curse.

  He sat back on his ankles and stared up at her, his hands balled into fists on his thighs. He lifted one, running the back over his lips, like a man starved. Dear God, he was stunning. The sight of him there, on his knees, turned her into need. Pure, aching desire.

  She shook her head, confused. “Please, Beast—”

  “Now, I’m thinkin’ you should lift your skirts.”

  And like that, with that single, hinted command, sanity fled. She did it, her hands under his spell as he watched the hem of her dress rise, as though by sheer force of his will. Or perhaps it was her will. Because when the skirts passed her knees, she didn’t stop. She kept going. And he kept swearing, a litany of soft, filthy words in the quiet room.

  “More, Hattie. Further. Show it to me. All of it.”

  His hands at her thighs, spreading them until he found the open slit of her drawers. The sound of ripping fabric decadent and indecent, and she didn’t care even though she knew she should, and he was leaning forward, lifting one of her legs over his shoulder, and his fingers weren’t on fabric anymore but skin, and words . . . they spilled from him like a rainstorm.

  “That’s it, love, such a pretty pussy.”

  “You—”

  “Mmm?”

  “You shouldn’t use that word.”

  “Would you like me to use another?” He blew a lazy stream of air against her.

  She gasped in surprise and pleasure. “Do you know very many?”

  “Mmm. Very, very many. And I shall teach you all of them, but tonight—right now—you are so soft and wet, and I want a taste so badly—let me have a taste?”

  She was too eager to be embarrassed. She was wanton and wanting and it didn’t matter that she knew of this particular act only from the songs the sailors used to sing in the rigs when they thought she wasn’t listening. Later, she would marvel at the way her body seemed to know precisely what he would do to her. At the way her fingers found his hair, at the way his breath caught when she fisted them and he released a long, slow curse at the soft skin of her thigh. At the way she spoke up. “Yes, please.”

&
nbsp; At the way he responded, his mouth like heaven.

  He parted the folds and gave her what she’d asked for, setting his tongue to her, licking slow and steady, his tongue a magnificent gift, exploring every inch of her in long, firm strokes that had her gasping for breath. He growled against her, the vibration bringing her up on her toes with pleasure, her fingers tightening in his hair. “Mmm,” he said against her. “Show me where you like it.”

  She shook her head, the hard oak door at her back a comfort in the storm he wrought. “I don’t know,” she whispered, gasping when his tongue found a glorious spot.

  He stilled, then said, his voice filled with satisfaction, “I do.”

  And he did. He worked at that spot, his tongue flat against her, rubbing softly back and forth, again and again, until she felt as though she might scream from the pleasure. Until she was rocking against him, her grip holding him to her, lewd and lush.

  “Please,” she whispered, unable to summon more than that word. “Please.”

  And he stopped. The man stopped.

  “No!” Her eyes flew open and she looked down at him. “Why?”

  He didn’t reply. He was too busy looking at her. “This . . .” he said, softly, setting that wicked, wonderful finger to her. Stroking over her most private part—the part that seemed to no longer be hers, but his instead. The part she would cede to him happily if only he’d finish what he started. “. . . is the prettiest thing I’ve ever seen.”

  She closed her eyes at the words. “Beast—”

  He leaned forward and licked her, long and lush, lingering at the bud he’d been tempting. Stopped again. “This is what I was thinking about,” he said. “This wet heat. This straining clit—so eager for me, innit?” He did look up to her then, his beautiful eyes full of heat and promise. “Aren’t you?”

  Her hips moved in lieu of her answer, undulating into his touch.

  That barely-there smile of his flashed. “Mmm. Wild thoughts, indeed.”

  And then he resumed his kiss, spreading her wide as she pressed herself to him, and he was licking and sucking, and his wonderful tongue had her nearly—

  The wall behind her moved. No. Not wall. Door.

  She squeaked, her hand coming down to slap the wood behind her. He was still working at her, and she was still coiling, and there was—

  A knock sounded at her ear.

  She stiffened. “Stop.”

  “No.” He redoubled his efforts.

  She gasped at the immense pleasure, plateaued and now rising once more. “Yes,” she whispered. “There.” A delicious growl vibrated through her. Her fingers found his hair again. “Yes. Oh . . . oh, my . . . yes.”

  “Oy! Beast!” the American was shouting from scant inches away, beyond the door.

  He pulled away from her, growling his impatience before raising his voice to say, “Not now, American.”

  Through the door, the barkeep said, “You’ve rooms of your own not one hundred yards away.”

  His eyes found Hattie’s when he replied, “I was proving a point.”

  And well.

  A pause. Then, amused, “Sounds like there is a both of us after all, Bastard—make it quick—and bring a crate of bourbon when you come.”

  Hattie’s eyes went wide. “He knows what we’re doing.”

  “Mmm.” He leaned in and kissed her again, until she sighed. “Do you care?”

  “Not—entirely.” She rocked against him. “More. There.”

  He growled, his tongue stroking hard, in circles, firmer and tighter until he was working the place where she was desperate for him, and she was on her toes, shaking with a pleasure beyond any she’d ever felt. He was devouring her, eating her alive, and she didn’t care as long as he gave her what she—

  She flew apart, her hands in his hair, her hips grinding against him, and her whispered words as wild as the sounds he made, pure sin at her core. He stayed there, on his knees, against her, gentle and firm, until she released the long breath she’d held at the end, her grip relaxing from his hair, and the strength stealing from her legs.

  He caught her in his arms as he stood, one strong hand capturing her face and tilting her up to him so he could kiss her. She tasted the sweet tang of herself on his lips, and he growled when she opened for him, licking deep until she was whimpering from the pleasure of the kiss.

  When he lifted his mouth from hers, it was to say, “In my wildest thoughts, I didn’t imagine you’d taste like that.”

  She dipped her head, embarrassment stealing through her. And still, she couldn’t stop herself from asking, “Like what?”

  He kissed her again. “Delicious.” It was he who was delicious, she wanted to say, but he was kissing her again, stealing the words and the thought. “Wanton.” She was wanton. What more would he show her?

  So much more, if his next kiss was an indication, deep and lingering—long enough for them both to gasp for air.

  He stared down at her, his chest rising and falling with his harsh breath, one hand tangled in her hair, and said softly, “Fucking dangerous.”

  A thrill shot through her at the words, filling her with pleasure and something far more intoxicating. Was this what people spoke of when they spoke of sexual pleasure? Did it always end with such a heady sense of . . . power?

  She wanted more of it. Immediately.

  But before she could say that, he was reaching down to pick up the shawl that she’d dropped in the excitement. He passed it to her and immediately turned away to collect his knives, sliding out of his coat and slinging it over a nearby cask before pulling on the holster and fastening it with ease, as though he’d done it every day of his life.

  Which he likely did. Why? What kind of danger had a man wearing eight matching throwing knives like they were boots or breeches? How often had he used them? How often had they failed to protect him?

  She didn’t like the idea that he might be hurt.

  She didn’t like the idea that he might be hurt, and she’d never know.

  She didn’t say it, though. Not as he flexed beneath the leather straps, welcoming them like skin. Not as he pulled his greatcoat on over them, the heavy weight of the fabric hiding them from view and somehow doing absolutely nothing to make him look less dangerous.

  Fucking dangerous.

  The memory of the words on his beautiful, kiss-stung lips whispered through her. He was dangerous. More dangerous than she’d ever imagined.

  She wondered if the danger made him feel powerful, too.

  But she didn’t ask that, either.

  Not as he lifted a nearby crate—the one with the flag—with one arm, as though it were made of goose down, and pushed past her to open the door to the tavern beyond. He stood back to let her exit ahead of him, the only indication that he even remembered she was there.

  The man he’d been—the one who’d devastated her with pleasure—was gone. Returned was the silent Beast.

  Beast.

  “I still don’t know your name,” she said softly.

  He didn’t seem to hear the words. At least, she assumed he didn’t for how he herded her from the room. He barely stopped to place the crate on the bar with a nod for the American as they exited the tavern, already full of people and merriment, the noise inside making the curving street beyond cacophonously quiet.

  The silence from both street and man made Hattie want to scream.

  But she didn’t as he hailed a hack and opened the door, not touching her—not even to hand her up into the conveyance.

  He didn’t touch her, and he didn’t speak.

  That is, until the door was nearly closed. And then he said a single word, one she thought perhaps she’d misheard for the way it came on graveled disuse, as though he was saying it for the first time.

  “Whit.”

  Chapter Eleven

  A low, surprised whistle sounded behind Whit as he stood in dark gardens of Berkeley Square, watching Warnick House, considering the bright lights pouring through the
windows of the town home.

  Whit reached into his pocket and extracted his watches. Half past nine. He returned them to their place as his unwelcome visitor approached.

  “I heard you were here, but I had to see it to believe it.”

  Whit did not reply to the dry words, but that didn’t stop his brother from continuing. “Sarita told me you were wearing formalwear—poor girl had stars in her eyes.” Devil sent his voice into a high register, mimicking one of their rooftop network. “‘You won’t believe it! Beast is wearing a cravat!’”

  The already irritating accessory seemed to tighten around Whit’s neck, and he resisted the urge to tug at the elaborate folds.

  Devil whistled again. “I didn’t believe it, and yet, here you are. My God. When was the last time you tied a cravat?”

  Beast narrowed his gaze on the house across the street, watching as a stream of nobs made their way to the ball within. “I wore a cravat to your wedding. To a woman whom you do not deserve, I might point out.”

  “God knows that’s true,” Devil replied happily, twirling his walking stick, its silver lion’s head handle gleaming in the light from the lamps around the square. “Who helped you with it? It’s so . . . elaborate.”

  “No one helped me. I remember the lessons.”

  It had been twenty years, and still, he remembered the lessons. Devil did, too, he imagined. Their bastard of a father had drilled them into his sons, insisting that they be prepared for entry into the aristocracy just as soon as he decided which of the three bastards—born to different women on the same day—would be the one who took up his name and assumed life as his heir. And the others?

  Cravat tying hadn’t come in handy on London streets. Waltzes hadn’t put food in their bellies. Knowing the proper fork for the fish hadn’t made for straw under their heads. And still, Whit remembered the lessons.

  And he remembered how much he’d wanted the life their father had dangled in front of them, forcing them to do battle for a chance at it. How much he’d wanted the control it offered. The safety and security it could have provided the people he loved.

  But the contest had never been for Whit. The prize had never been for him, the smallest and quietest of the three brothers. Devil had been sharp-tongued and Ewan full of cunning and rage, and their father had liked those traits more than those of Whit, full of nothing but a desire to protect the people he loved.