send her home at this point. A better man. A stronger one. He didn’t have any business being a part of this. Of ruining her. She deserved better than a boy from Holborn who’d lived on scraps and fought for everything he had.
He knew it . . . but he wasn’t sending her home.
He wasn’t called Beast for nothing.
Chapter Twenty
In all the time she’d prepared for this moment and all the times she’d imagined what it might be like, Hattie had never imagined how much she would feel.
She wasn’t a fool, of course—she knew there was a certain amount of sensation to be expected. She knew the basics of the act, and had heard that there would be possibly pleasure and likely some pain, but she hadn’t expected the way her whole being would vibrate with awareness.
She hadn’t expected to be bombarded with it—with the soft silk of the cushions at her back, the heat of the fire on one side of her, and him, hot like the sun on the other. She hadn’t expected his hands—the rough stroke of them over all the curves and swells that she’d spent a lifetime trying to hide and diminish. And she hadn’t expected his lips, following those magnificent hands, tracking them as though she was what he’d said. As though she was beautiful.
That’s what he’d called her.
She didn’t believe him—Hattie had eyes in the head on her shoulders, and she knew what beautiful women looked like. She knew she wasn’t what they were. But still . . . now, as he stroked one large, warm hand over her skin, she came alive. “Whit,” she whispered, summoning his stunning amber gaze to hers, loving the way it sharpened, reading her thoughts.
“Tell me what you feel,” he said, low and dark and filled with promise.
One of her hands dropped to his, riding the long strokes he passed up and down her body, in sure, firm exploration. “I feel . . .” She trailed off, searching for an answer. “I feel alive. No one has ever touched me like this.”
A low grunt. “Good.”
She smiled. “That’s very primitive of you, considering we met in a brothel.”
“I cannot help it. I want to be the first to touch you. Here.” He stroked over her stomach, up to her breasts. “Here.” He cupped her breast, ran a thumb over her straining nipple once, twice, until she arched her back and pressed herself more firmly into his hand. He released her almost instantly, and she sighed her frustration as he reversed his path, moving lower until he slid his fingers beneath hers where they covered her most private place. “Here.”
She didn’t stop him. Why would she ever stop him? Everything he did set her aflame with pleasure. Instead, she lifted her own hand and gave herself to his touch, barely anything, really. He simply cradled her with one strong hand, his eyes raking over her body. “I want to be the first to know everything you like,” he said, lowering his lips to the curve of her shoulder. “I want to be the first to watch your body flush with pleasure.” He kissed down the slope of her breast, suckled on its tip. “I want to be the first you command to give it to you.”
His fingers flexed against her core, and she lifted her hips to him. “I’m not sure I could command you.”
“No?” Another suck. Another little flex, hinting at more.
She closed her eyes and shook her head. “I wouldn’t know what to ask.”
He was barely moving at the heat of her. She rocked against the cushions. “No? You’ve nothing to ask?”
She bit her lip. “No,” she lied.
A lick along the curve of her breast. Another gentle stroke of his hand—not enough. Not near enough. She let her legs fall open.
The pleasure in his low, rumbled “Hmm,” was enough to send desire pooling deep in her, where that maddening hand now rubbed in unhurried circles, as though he hadn’t considered the possibility of ever moving faster.
She ran a hand down his arm, to that hand. Added pressure.
The man laughed at her ear. “Seems like there’s something you’d like to ask.” He was doing it on purpose. And though she should be frustrated, she wasn’t. She was delighted.
Perhaps a little frustrated.
“Whit,” she said, lifting her hips to meet their combined touch.
“Hattie?” he asked at her ear, letting one finger slide, just barely, nearly close enough to what she wanted.