“What is?”
“Do you love me?”
“I . . .” She paused. “I hate your father.”
He smiled. “Well, he is dead. So you win on that score.” He reached for her then, pulling her close.
“Was it a very painful death?” She spoke to his shoulder, loving the way his arms wrapped around her. She was desperate for his touch—for the proof that he’d survived the hell of his childhood and stood here, healthy and strong.
He pressed a kiss to her temple. “Agonizing. Tell me you love me.”
She sank into his heat, unable to resist the hard, welcome planes of him. He was so big, and she liked it far too much. She liked him far too much. Loved him more than she should, as he would never reciprocate. “No,” she whispered.
He tilted her chin up to face him. “Please?”
“No.” She shook her head.
He leaned down and kissed her, small and soft and perfect. “Why not?”
Because you don’t love me back. The words he’d spoken in his rooms the other night were etched in her memory. I can’t love you. She wouldn’t say it to him. Not if he couldn’t say it back.
“Because I don’t want to be more of a burden.”
“How would that ever burden me?”
“You’ve spent your whole life protecting people. Feeling responsible for them. Saving them. Giving of yourself, even when you needn’t. And I don’t want to be a part of that. I don’t want to be another person you feel responsible to. I don’t want to be another person you belong to, because you can’t help yourself.” She took a deep breath, wishing for calm. “I don’t want to be a chore.”
He stiffened, the cool breeze whipping around them, and for a moment Hattie thought that he might release her. She supposed that was reasonable. She supposed she should pull away from him, as she’d just made the very important point that she didn’t want to be his burden.
But the truth was, she didn’t want to pull away from him.
She wanted to stay with him.
Forever.
Because she loved him. Because she wanted to keep him safe.
His arms tightened around her, and she inhaled, filling her lungs with him—lemon and bay and his delicious warm spice. She closed her eyes and gave herself up to him, the mast at his back making an already sturdy, strong man even sturdier. Even stronger.
“The Siren,” he said after an age. The words lost in the breeze coming off the river, but there, at her ear. “The ship is called the Siren.”
She nodded. “It’s the largest of the six you bought to punish me.”
“Not to punish you.” He pressed a kiss to her temple. Spoke to her hair. “You must believe I didn’t do it to hurt you.”
She wanted to. But none of it made sense.
Before she could ask, he was talking. “The Siren. Beautiful women who could make a man throw himself into the sea. Temptation incarnate. Singing men’s deepest desires, making the impossible seem possible. They could make you believe your dreams had come true.”
“And poor Odysseus, stumbling across the wicked women,” she quipped. “If only he’d taken the long way round the island.”
He laughed, the low rumble a beautiful temptation. “Ah, but Odysseus didn’t stumble across them. He went looking for them, knowing what he was in for.” He looked down at her, his amber eyes glittering in the lantern light. “Like all the rest of us, he thought he could have a taste and not be lost.”
The story had Hattie thrumming with pleasure, fairly vibrating with desire for him to touch her. A Siren in his own right. And then he said, “It’s an apt name for a ship of yours.”
“Is it?” she asked. “I rather thought it seemed the opposite.” He tilted his head in silent question, and she said, “I am not exactly known for my feminine wiles. I lack the skill of temptation entirely, it seems.”
He gave a little grunt. Acknowledgment? Disagreement? It was impossible to know. “Hattie . . .” he said, her name trailing off into a low growl. “You cannot possibly think that. I’ve never in my life been tempted the way you tempt me.”
“And you have a keen fondness for sweets,” she quipped.
He didn’t laugh. “It’s the truth.”
“That’s very kind.” She smiled, though she didn’t feel it. “But you didn’t cede to it, and so you’ll certainly allow that I could be a better temptress. And I’ve leagues to go before I approach Sirenhood.” She laughed, small and self-deprecating. “No man will ever toss himself into the sea for a shot at good old Hattie.”
“That’s bollocks,” he said, and there was something in his growl that she’d never heard before.
“Odysseus had to have himself tied to his mast to avoid the temptation of the Sirens. Tighter and tighter, until he was bleeding from the ropes and screaming for his men to release him, so he could get to them. They tempted him to death.” She stepped back, out of his arms, away from him, knowing she wouldn’t be able to do battle with him again. Not now that she knew him. Not now that she wanted him so much. Not now that she loved him so much.
She would lose her boats, and she would lose her business.
But that seemed minuscule compared to losing him. And she’d never even had him.
She met his eyes and said, to herself as much as to him, “I couldn’t even tempt you to pleasure.”
She turned to leave, to find her way off this boat, away from him. But he came for her, her name on his lips, his fingers capturing hers and spinning her back as he caught her face in his hands and kissed her, long and lush and frantic, as though he was afraid that if he didn’t, she might disappear forever.
Hattie gasped at the sensation, and he pulled her tighter, stealing the sound, licking over her lips and claiming her mouth in long, slow, lovely sweeps until her knees were weak and she was loose in his arms and drunk with him. Only then did he release her lips—without releasing her—trailing kisses over her cheek to her ear, where he said, hot and devastating, “You tempted me. You have tempted me every second since I woke in your carriage, tied in knots.” He bit her earlobe hard enough to sting, then sucked on it until she clung to him. “You’ve tempted me to pleasure a thousand times. I’ve wanted to strip you of your clothes a thousand times. To lay you naked under the sun and the moon and the stars and worship you until we’ve both forgotten our names.”
She was wild with the words. With the way they set her aflame. “I thought you didn’t want me. I thought you didn’t care . . .”
He bit her neck this time, a sharp punishment chased with the pleasure of his slow tongue. “Lack of want does not leave a man hard for days.”
“Were you?” She swallowed, simultaneously embarrassed and thrilled. “Hard for days?” It wasn’t possible.
“I’ve been hard since the first time I heard your voice.” One hand roamed down her side, pulling her to him by the waist. “Since the first time I touched your body.”
She pulled back to look into his dark, promising eyes. “Really?”
He raised a brow. “Are you happy to hear of the affliction?”
“Yes.”
He laughed at her instant reply. “Well then, yes, Hattie. I was hard with the thought of you, with being inside you, with coming inside you, with staying inside you forever. And I wanted you back so I could tell you just how much I wanted you, and just how little of a chore making love to you would be.”
She smirked. “That sounds quite excellent.”
“I am happy to have had a chance to delight you, my lady.” He pulled her close for another kiss. “But you should know, Odysseus was a hero. And I am not.” And another. “He wanted to resist. I don’t. I want it all. I want every inch of you. It’s all I’ve thought of since the moment you left. Since before.” He pressed his forehead to hers. “Christ, Hattie. I want all of it. I would happily be tied to a mast if it meant I could have a taste of my deepest fantasies. Which all feature you.”
She went hot at the words, at the vision they heralded, o
f this magnificent man, tied to the mast not three feet away. Her gaze flickered to it, and when she looked back at him, he groaned his pleasure. “Fuck, Hattie. You’re imagining it. I can see it in your eyes.”
She looked to him, knowing she should deny it. Instead, she said, “I am quite good with knots.”
He exhaled a long “Ahhhh . . .” And then, impossibly, flashed her a dark grin. “Prove it.”
Her eyes went wide. “You cannot mean . . .”
He pulled her close. “The other night, it was for you. But tonight. This . . . what if I told you it was for me?” The words became a low rumble. “Tie me to the mast, Siren; let me hear you sing.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
It wasn’t forever, she knew. She kept telling herself that as he backed away from her, without taking his eyes off her.
She followed without hesitation. It wasn’t forever, she reminded herself, again and again, because this man—this magnificent man—was making her feel like forever might be possible. Like their past and her family’s actions and the fact that he was in the way of all of her dreams didn’t matter in the least, because he was about to let her take her pleasure in ways she’d never imagined.
Never imagined, because she’d never even known such a man, such a moment, was possible. But they were possible. They were possible right now, as he stripped his greatcoat away with a lack of care, letting it fall to the deck.
She cast a look about the ship, grateful for the lowered center deck and the darkness of the docks, emptied of people that night. And still, she said, “We could be seen.”
“Unlikely, as someone has cleared the docks for this particular temptation.” He dropped his topcoat at his feet, revealing his knives, the leather holster crisscrossing his vest and the lawn shirt beneath. Unable to stop herself, Hattie reached for him; he froze as her fingers traced the leather straps.
“You’re missing one.” He stiffened, and she wondered where he’d left it. Why. But there would be time for that later. Now, there was only time for this. She met his gaze. “Let me?”
He sucked in a breath as she stroked along the wide band crossing his torso to work at the brass buckle there with a firm, sure touch, as though she’d done it a hundred times before. She’d certainly dreamed of doing it a hundred times before. When it was done, she slid the straps from his broad shoulders and down his strong arms, and settled the weapons carefully at their feet.
She stepped back, assessing him, and he swore in the darkness. “Hattie, you look like you’ve plans for me.”
She lifted her eyes to his. “In fact, I do.”
He exhaled harshly. “Make haste, love.”
She came forward and pulled his shirt from his trousers, loving the way he moved with her, helping, his muscles flexing with pleasure at every brush of her fingers. He took it from her hands, pulling it over his head and dropping it to the deck, and reached for her, pulling her in for another kiss. She gave herself up to it, her hands roaming down over his chest, her palm sliding flat along his skin until his stomach muscles tightened beneath her touch and he hissed his desire.
She nipped at his full bottom lip and pulled back. “Aren’t you cold?”
“I’m hot as the fucking sun,” he said, hauling her in for another kiss. “Now, about those plans . . .”
She laughed and slid her fingers through his own, lifting them over their heads, to a hook on the mast, where the trailing ends of the ropes that worked the mainsails were neatly coiled. She didn’t have to tell him to clasp that hook. Didn’t have to tell him to keep his hands there. Not even when she backed away from him.
“Where are you going?” he growled, not liking the way she pulled away from him.
Hattie smiled, circling the mast until she found what she was looking for, a length of rope that had come unmoored since the ship had been docked. Returning to face him, close enough to feel his heat, she leaned up and wrapped the rope around his wrists, carefully, so it did not chafe even as she tied a perfect knot.
He grunted as she stepped away and he tested the bindings, his eyes coming to hers. “You like this.”
“Very, very much.” There was nothing not to like. He was the most beautiful thing she’d ever seen, all long limbs and thick muscles, the image of him making her mouth water—and the desire in his eyes making her ache to touch him again.
“Stop looking, Siren.” She lifted her eyes to his. “It’s time for you to take what you want.”
She approached. “What do you want?”
“All of it.” The response was instant. “I want everything you want.”
She shook her head. “That’s not enough. This is for you.”
“Pleasing you is for me.” He’d said it before, in his rooms. And she hadn’t believed him. But tonight, she nearly did.
She stepped closer, no longer able to be apart from him. “What would the Sirens sing to you, Beast?” Her hand slid over his chest, her thumb stroking over the flat disk of his nipple. He sucked in a breath. She caught his gaze. Stroked again. Saw the flex of his jaw. She leaned in and pressed a kiss there, lingering, stroking, until he let out a harsh “Ahhh.”
She smiled against his skin. “I like that.”
“As do I.”
Her hands stroked up his arms, then down, down over his chest and torso, over his smooth skin, brushed with soft hair, lower and lower, to his waist, where that hair disappeared beneath his trousers. She worked the first button there, then the second and third. “When I saw you the other night?” she said quietly. “I thought you might touch yourself here. For me.”
A low rumble sounded in his chest.
She pressed a soft kiss to his broad chest as she worked his trousers open, and another as she pushed them down past his hips, revealing the hard length of him. His breath came in harsh pants when she reached for him, and then stopped altogether when she took the smooth length of him in her hand. “So hot,” she said. “So hard.”
“For you, love.” The words were wrenched from him, followed by a low, thick groan when she rubbed her thumb gently over the broad head of him.
She smiled at his chest. “You like that.”
He exhaled harshly. “I do.”
She looked up at him. “What else do you like?”
He threw his head back against the mast, staring up at the stars. “All of it. My God, Hattie.” She pressed another kiss to his chest, fisting him in her hand—down, then up again, until he cursed softly in the darkness. “I want to touch you.”
She shook her head, licking over the nipple she’d missed earlier. “Not right now. I’m busy tempting you.” Another stroke of her fist. “You like this.”
“Yes.”
“Tell me what else you like?”
His eyes opened and desire pooled deep in her at the look of him, wild with pleasure. “No.”
She leaned up and kissed him, and he was ravenous, eating at her mouth with his own. When she pulled away again, he grated, “Untie me.”
She smiled. “Do you think this was how Odysseus felt?”
“I don’t care. Untie me. I want to touch you.”
She shook her head, lowering her attention to the steel length of him in her hand. He looked, too, and they watched as she stroked him, over and over, until the ropes above them creaked with his resistance. Their sound, combined with the rhythm of their breath and the smooth slide of him, was enough to make Hattie ache. “You won’t tell me?”
He bit back a groan. “What?”
“What you want?” She met his eyes.
He shook his head, but did not look away from her. “This is for you.”
She smiled, feeling like a queen. “And if I told you that I, too, want it?”
His exhale burst from him like he was in pain, but she was already moving, sliding down his body, to her knees. “Fuck, Hattie,” he said softly. “You don’t have to—”
She smiled at the words, pressing a kiss to the muscle above his thigh that plunged in a V toward the straini
ng length of him. “I liked this very much when you did it to me.”
“So did I, love,” he growled.
“Will you like it, too?”
“Yes.” The word was a breath. “God, yes.”
“May I?” she asked quietly.
He grunted, his hips moving toward her. A silent plea.
She opened her lips over the hard, straining tip of him, licking her tongue gently over him, gently, tentatively, uncertain what he would like. He pulled tight against the ropes, his back bowing at the touch, and he shouted her name in the darkness.
He liked it.
Hattie did, too. The feel and taste of him, the strength of him beneath her hands and against her tongue, and the pure, unmatched power he gave her. Hattie had never felt this way—so certain. So strong. So desired, it felt like he might do anything to have her.
It was need.
She took him into her, the salt and sweet of him like nothing she’d ever experienced as he talked from his place above her, this strong, silent man who seemed to only ever have words in the throes of pleasure. He whispered wicked words—words like harder and deeper—words like tongue and suck and fuck, Hattie, just like that. And she followed where he led, took him slow and deep, reveling in his pleasure. In her own.
She liked this.
She liked him.
She loved him.
He was pulsing against her tongue as she found a rhythm that made them both mad—and then he was making filthy promises, like please, Hattie . . . more, Hattie . . . if you don’t stop, I shall come . . . but she didn’t want to stop, especially not when he lost all words—every word but one.
“Hattie . . .” Again and again, over and over, until she, too, forgot everything else, and then he was giving himself over to pleasure, and to her, and, finally, to release, loud and unbridled and glorious, just them and the ship and the docks and the sky.
And when she released him, she was full of a single thought.
More.
More of this power, this pleasure, this partnership. She was greedy for it.
For him.
She opened her eyes and looked up at him, his eyes riveted to her, unwavering. Her heart pounded. “Untie me.” The words were harsh and nearly broken, and Hattie wondered if she’d gone too far.
Brazen and the Beast EPB Page 31
