Brazen and the Beast

by Sarah MacLean

  And he’d done nothing of the sort.

  But now . . . Hattie’s heart began to race. Impossibly, he wanted her.

  He tossed the garment—stained beyond reason after the events of the night—to the floor and moved to sit in a near high-backed chair and remove his boots.

  She couldn’t stop marveling at him, at the way his body folded into the seat, revealing muscles that she was fairly certain ordinary, everyday humans did not have, flexing and stretching. She bit back a sigh, which would have been more than embarrassing if he’d heard it.

  He bent over to remove a boot, and winced. It was barely there—gone before someone might notice, at least someone who was not riveted to his every movement.

  She stepped forward, not liking him in pain. “May I help?”

  He froze at the question, going so still, Hattie thought perhaps she’d made a terrible mistake. He didn’t look at her when he shook his head and said, impossibly quiet, “No.”

  The boot came off in a rush, and he winced again, ignoring whatever warning his body was providing to immediately tackle the second. She stepped forward again, and he did look up then. Repeated himself, this time louder. “No.”

  When his second boot was discarded, he stood, reaching into his pocket and extracting his watch. Watches.

  Two watches. Always.

  He set them on a small table, next to a basket filled with bandages and thread, presumably because he required mending regularly after fights. Hattie was transfixed by the metal disks. Without looking away from them, she said, “Why do you carry two watches?”

  There was a pause long enough for her to think he might not answer. His hands came to the waistband of his trousers. “I don’t like to be late.”

  She shook her head. “I don’t . . .”

  The words trailed off as he worked the buttons of his trousers. She kept her eyes on his, not wanting to be rude, but she could count the buttons from the rough movements of shoulders as he unfastened them. Three. Four. Five.

  She couldn’t stop herself. She looked. Of course she looked. The dim light in the room made it impossible to see anything but a dark V of shadow, framed by his strong hands, thumbs tucked into the fabric as though he could stand there, under her gaze, forever, if she wished it.

  She wished it.

  And between those thumbs, a hint of something else. Skin. She swallowed, tearing her gaze from it, cheeks blazing. He was watching her, amber eyes gleaming in the firelight, and for a single, wild moment, she wondered what he would do if she went to him and touched him. If she added her hands to his, there, in the shadows.

  As quickly as she thought it, he changed, relaxing into himself, his eyes going hooded, as though he, too, was thinking it. As though he would welcome her touch if she offered it.

  He still owed her a ruination.

  Every other time they’d been together, time or location had impeded the delivery on their arrangement. But now—here—

  He could ruin her, properly.

  She wanted it. And giving in to her own want was a magnificent freedom.

  Not that she would voice it.

  He filled her silence, low and dark, as though the words were scraped through gravel on their way past his lips. “Did you have something to ask?”

  She shook her head, finding words difficult. “No.”

  A knowing smile played over his lips and he turned away, as though this were all perfectly normal, pushing his trousers down his hips as he made for the bath. At the flash of buttocks, Hattie looked away, past him, to the window beyond the bathtub, now a mirror, revealing—

  Oh, my.

  She turned her back on the scene instantly. “Is this how you ordinarily conduct business?”

  Silence met the question. No. Not silence. Too much sound. The sound of him stepping into the bath, the water sloshing as it accepted his weight. His low growl as he settled into its indulgent heat.

  The sound was pure hedonism, and desire pooled deep, spreading heat through her, as though she, too, were in a bath.

  As though she were with him in his.

  What if she were?

  She gave a little laugh at the thought, unable to fathom a scenario in which she would be brave enough to shed her clothing without hesitation. Unable to imagine being the kind of woman who invited herself into a man’s bath.

  Another splash came, and she resisted the urge to turn and look, to see what he’d done to cause it. She focused on the bright light in the room beyond, the edges of the carpets, overlapping.

  Once he was settled, he spoke. “Did you not promise me a fight?”

  She was so surprised by the teasing question that she turned to face him, unprepared for the vision of him, relaxed, his arms resting on the edge of the copper tub, head tilted back, eyes closed, his dark hair wet and slicked back from his beautiful face, the dried blood now gone from his cheek, a small cut all that remained, surrounded by a fast-darkening bruise.

  It should have marred his beauty. It didn’t. Instead, it brought him into reach, down to earth, among the mere mortals. It made Hattie want to touch him. It made her want to claim him. It made her want to—

  “You’ve already had a fight tonight,” she said softly.

  His eyes flew open, instantly finding hers. “And so? What do you offer?”

  “I just want to . . .” She looked to the window, to the tableau reflected in the blackness there. She, in men’s clothing, eyes wide, and he, broad and bronzed in the bathtub. What didn’t she offer? There was so much she wanted from him. Touch. Words. Pleasure. And something else . . . something she didn’t dare name.

  Something she couldn’t have.

  She tore her gaze away from the window. Looked to him. “I want to care for you.” Like that, his relaxation was gone. His jaw set and the muscles in his shoulders tensed. She added quickly, “I shouldn’t want to care for you, of course. We are enemies.”

  “Are we?” He reached for the length of linen draped over the tub, pulling it into the water with more force than necessary.

  “I plan to give you quite a fight for my business.”

  “And I shall meet you toe-to-toe,” he said. “Tomorrow.”

  A thrill shot through her at the word. At the way it freed her. Freed them both. Tomorrow was not tonight.

  “I shan’t like you tomorrow,” she said, feeling it was important to say so.

  He nodded. “I will not blame you.”

  Except she would like him, she feared. Even though she had absolutely no reason to like him. Even though he’d lied to her. And hurt her. But now—he did not seem like that man. He seemed . . .

  Good.

  His movements beneath the water were quick and perfunctory, and Hattie worried that he might aggravate his bruises. She stepped forward, holding a hand out as though she could stop him. He snapped his attention to her, and the focus in his eyes was enough to set her back on her heels.

  “Tomorrow, then,” she said, suddenly breathless.

  The only sound in the room was the smooth movement of the water as he finished bathing. Until he asked, quietly enough that at first, she almost did not believe he’d said it out loud. “How would you care for me tonight, warrior?”

  She blushed. “I told you.”

  “Did you?”

  “I would bandage you.”

  “And when that is done?”

  She swallowed. “I—I don’t know. Thank you, I suppose. For protecting me.”

  He shook his head. “I don’t deserve your gratitude. I don’t want one thing that happens tonight to be because of your gratitude. I want it to be because you want it.”

  She wanted it.

  “All right.”

  “Tell me what you’re thinking,” he said.

  “I’m thinking I should like to talk about the deal.”

  He leaned forward, the sound of the water in the bath like gunfire in the room. “Say it.”

  She swallowed. “The pleasure.”

  “You want th
e ruination still.”

  She nodded. “Please.”

  He did not hesitate. “Tonight.”

  Anticipation rioted through her. She couldn’t remain still any longer, simply waiting for him to finish his bath. She nodded. “Tonight. Or do you intend to renege on that, as well?”

  One dark brow arched at the question, and with the bruise on his cheek, he looked like a proper rogue. Had she really said it? She couldn’t believe she’d challenged him. But what was done was done, and excitement coursed through her, threatening to overflow when he let out a long “aaah,” that sounded at once like pain and pleasure. “No, love,” he growled, setting his hands to the edges of the bath again. “I don’t renege.”

  He stood, the water sluicing down his torso, running along the ridges and valleys, down the deep-cut V of his abdomen. Her eyes widened at the thick length of him, straight and smooth and—gone. Her eyes flew to his as he wrapped a length of cloth low over his hips, shielding himself from view.

  He raised a brow at her, and she heard the dry question in it. Disappointed?

  Yes. Yes, she was.

  She swallowed as he reached for another towel, drying the rest of himself with sure, leisurely strokes, as though this were all perfectly ordinary. And perhaps it was. Perhaps he spent his evenings bathing for a collection of women, each more eager than the next to watch.

  “I suppose you do this often,” she said, regretting the words immediately. Surely such an observation was not appropriate for this situation.

  His brows rose. “Do what?”

  She shook her head, but still the words came. “Bathe in front of women. Bring them here like a prince in a palace.” The corner of his mouth twitched, and Hattie’s nerves frayed. “Don’t you dare laugh at me,” she said, pointing a finger at him. “You don’t know what it’s like to be the inexperienced one. To be the one who has to know that you’ve done this a hundred times with a hundred other women . . . all very beautiful and very demure and all of whom wore undergarments designed for—”

  She stopped, her eyes going wide at her words.

  He dropped the towel to the floor, not taking his eyes from her. “Don’t stop now, Hattie. Tell me more about the undergarments.”

  He was challenging her, this man whom she would loathe if she did not like him so much. She narrowed her gaze. “I’m sure they’re beautiful. All frill and frippery. Mine are . . . not.”

  What was she doing?

  “No?” He turned away to fetch a fresh pair of trousers from a low chair nearby.

  She looked away as he pulled them on, the words pouring out of her mouth. “Mine serve a different kind of purpose. I mean, when I wear them.”

  He looked over his shoulder, that almost-smile playing on his lips again.

  She closed her eyes. “You know what I mean.”

  “I swear I don’t.”

  “I mean, I’m wearing them, but it’s a different sort of thing when one is wearing . . .” She waved a hand over her body.

  He tracked the movement and his eyes went hooded for a moment, as though he was considering all the possible undergarments available to Hattie while she was in men’s clothing.

  Dear God. Men’s clothing did not exactly recommend her, did it?

  She cleared her throat. “At any rate, I’m sure you do this often and with far more qualified people.”

  And, like that, he was coming for her, all long strides and perfect muscles, and his trousers not even fully buttoned, stalking her backward across the room, all predatory grace, until she came to her senses and realized she did not want to escape.

  She stopped. Wonderfully, he didn’t.

  He barely stopped when he reached her, knocking the cap from her head, taking her face in his hands, dipping down to kiss her without hesitation, his lips firm and impossibly soft, stealing her gasp as he tilted her chin up and took her lips, his tongue coming out to stroke along her top lip, coaxing her open with the promise of it until she was on her toes, meeting him, aching for him.

  When he knew he had her—how could he not, as she clung to his warm shoulders, her hands sliding over the thick muscle of his arms—he smiled against her lips, offering her a little growl as he hauled her close, realigning their mouths and finally, finally, stroking deep, giving her everything she wanted, again and again, until they were both panting from the caress.

  He let them up for air, and Hattie opened her eyes, feeling kiss-drunk, making an effort to focus on him.

  “I am happy you brought up qualifications,” he said, his voice soft and low and delicious.

  “You are?”

  “Mmm.” He stared into her eyes for a long moment, as though he were searching for something. “Because I am afraid I don’t meet yours.”

  What?

  Before she could ask, he leaned down toward her. When he whispered the next, he was so close, she could feel the words on her lips. “Shall I get the list? I can’t make myself medium height or medium build, love . . . nor can I make myself fair-haired.”

  Heat raged on her cheeks at the reference to the list she’d provided the brothel what seemed like an age ago, but she refused to let embarrassment stop her from taking this moment. She lifted a hand to settle on his shoulder, bare and smooth and hot like the sun. They both sucked in air at the touch. “You’re far too handsome, as well. But I suppose I shall have to make do.”

  He grunted, one hand coming to her cheek, his thumb stroking over the flush there. “I’m not charming, either. Or affable.”

  She didn’t care. She tilted her face to his, and he pulled back, refusing her the kiss she desperately wanted. “But you don’t want any of that, do you?”

  “No,” she said softly, aching for him to kiss her.

  His fingers tightened in her hair. “What do you want?”

  She went up on her toes and whispered against his lips, braver than she’d ever been, “I want you.”

  “And I want you,” he said, meeting her kiss with his own, long and lush, his thumb tracing over the soft skin of her cheek as he licked at her mouth, stroking slow and lingering, a delicious taste of what might come. And then, at her lips, “Shall I tell you what I can promise?”

  “Please.”

  “I shall be very thorough.”

  She smiled at the words, pleasure thrumming through her. “Exceedingly, even?”

  He growled his assent and kissed her again, his tongue sweet and tart as it stroked over her own.

  Hattie’s fingers traced down his torso, the flat of her palm sliding over the magnificent ridges of his body, reveling in the heat of him until she reached the bruises on his side and he sucked in a breath of his own. She instantly released him. He reached for her, pulling her back to his heat. “Don’t think about it.”

  She pressed her hands flat to his chest. “Don’t think about the fact that you are bruised?” She resisted. “You took a boot to the side, dammit. Not to mention my blade. You’ll let me have a look.”

  He smiled at her insistence. “I did not know you were a medical professional.”

  She cut him an irritated look. “I find I do not like it when you are talkative.”

  He gave a little bark of laughter and stole a small, delicious kiss. “You cannot blame me for having less interest in my bruises than in your body, Hattie.”

  She went soft at the words. “Really?”

  “It’s your own fault . . . now I’m curious about your undergarments.”

  She resisted the excitement and amusement that came at the words, instead affecting her most serious look. “But I am interested in your bruises.”

  A pause, and then a barely-there grunt of acceptance. “If I let you tend to my wounds, will you let me ruin you?”

  There it was again, the temptation of freedom. The answer that she did not have to hesitate over.

  She met his eyes, loving the fire in them. “Yes.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Contrary to Hattie’s belief, Whit had never had a woman in his
rooms.

  The house had a massive ground floor receiving area and an office for Whit and Devil, so there’d never been reason to have Annika or any of the other women from the warehouse in his rooms. Grace had been in them a half-dozen times, but only long enough to mock his extravagant decor and leave.

  As for other women—Whit never brought them here. He didn’t want to answer questions about the space. Didn’t want to defend the odd-shaped garret filled with the things he loved most in the world. And he certainly didn’t want to give another person such access to his private pleasures.

  But he had not hesitated to bring Hattie inside, even though the act of welcoming her into the space she called his lair had left him far more exposed than he’d felt when he’d bathed in front of her.

  Bathing in front of her had only made him want to pull her into the bathtub with him, strip her out of her ridiculous disguise, and wash her until they were both panting with desire and he had no choice but to make her come until she screamed.

  Whit thought he’d been immensely measured in not doing just that, honestly.

  And then the woman had started talking about undergarments. He should be fucking sainted for stopping the sinful kiss they’d shared, full of heat and exploration and promise, and letting her tend to him with bandages and ointments when what he needed was her lips and hands.

  He thought he showed immense restraint, when all he wished to do was prove that there was nothing at all impeding about the bruises, and he was quite capable of tossing her over his shoulder and taking her to bed.

  But he didn’t. Instead, he sat and watched as she selected a wide strip of bandage and a pot of ointment, coming to sit beside him. “Turn toward the light,” she said, staring at his naked torso, as perfunctory as any doctor.

  He did, and she reached out, slowly and tentatively. “I’m going to . . .”

  “Touch me,” he growled. He didn’t think he could go much longer without her soft fingers on him.

  She did as he asked, and they both sucked in a breath. Her gaze flew to his, and she lifted her hand as though she’d been burned. “I’m sorry.”