Knockout: A Hell’s Belles Novel

Imogen trembled at the order, a fuse, bringing a heady rush of anticipation and sound. A frizzle that had her catching her breath.

He noticed, reaching for her like she was a gift he could no longer wait to open, helping her to her feet and then clear off them. He carried her to the bed that dwarfed the rest of the small room, large enough for a man his size. And for her, too, she thought as he set her to the edge and returned to his knees before her.

She leaned over and caught his face in her hands, kissing him deeply as her hands stroked over his shoulders and then inside, pushing the coat off him, being careful of his wounded arm even as she urgently wanted him free of fabric. So she could touch him. Claim him.

Tommy did not hesitate, kissing her deep and wild and lush even as he shucked the garment down his arms and tossed it away, across the room, unbidden. They worked together for the rest—waistcoat. Cravat. Shirt, up over his head and sailing the distance to meet its brethren in a wrinkled heap.

And then, Imogen set her hands to his skin, warm and smooth and broke the kiss, loving the way he chased her lips for another, and then another, before she put her palms to his shoulders and pushed him away. He went, putting space between them, breathing heavily and looking like he wanted to do crime. Like he would punish anyone who kept them apart, but since it was Imogen, he would allow it.

Because he would allow anything, as long as she asked.

Her heart pounded in her chest. He was stunning.

“I want to see,” she said. “Let me look.”

God help her, he did. He leaned back, just enough for the firelight to play over his wide chest and muscled arms. She’d known he was strong—the way he carried her like she weighed nothing—but seeing the proof of it . . . his thick arms, one sporting the bandage from the night on the docks, the dark hair over the planes of his chest and down his torso, where it narrowed between muscles cut in a deep V, disappearing into the band of his trousers . . .

She met his gaze. “You are so beautiful.”

He looked away. It was not easy to tell, but she thought he might be blushing.

“Has no one ever told you that?” she asked. “You are. I—” She reached for him, her fingers trailing over his skin, through the coarse hair on his chest. “May I—”

“Anything you want,” he said instantly. “Take it.”

She was greedy for it, tracing the hard lines of his body, reveling in his fast, deep breath and the way his muscles tightened and he held himself back from her. “You are not interested in the details of my desires?”

“I am riveted to your desire,” he replied, a dark laugh in the words. “But whatever it is . . . it is yours. I will not deny you.”

She traced down his chest, stilling on a puckered circle on one side of his torso. Her gaze flew to his. “You were shot.”

He grasped her hand and pressed a kiss to it. “Barely a scratch.”

It was a lie, but she let him tell it. Loved that he did not want her to worry. She continued her exploration, lingering over a long line of raised skin. The result of a sharp blade. “And here? Another scratch?”

“Exactly,” he panted. “Imogen, you’re destroying me.”

“I don’t care for this,” she said, letting her words go firm. “I don’t like you hurt.”

His stunning blue eyes found hers. “You sound like you’re staking a claim, my lady.”

Imagine if she could? Imagine if he were hers to claim? The idea sent a thrill through her. “And if I did? Would you take better care?”

He reached for her and kissed her deep and thorough, and once they were both breathing heavily, he pressed his forehead to hers. “I would have no choice, would I?”

“You wouldn’t,” she said, feeling playful and wild. “Because you would be mine.”

Mine. The word was delicious, food after a long journey without it.

“I would be yours,” he said at her ear. Agreeing. Strong and hot and perfect.

Her fingers stroked lower, dancing across the front of his trousers, making him pant with the way they avoided the hard, straining length of him. And then, a surprise. There, peeking out from one of his pockets, a piece of paper. One she recognized.

She picked his pocket, brandishing the white square between them. “You saved your note.”

He claimed it in one fist, crumpling it with the force of his grasp, as though he did not have time for notes. But instead, he pulled her hand to the side with it and kissed her again. This time, like a reward. “You were brilliant tonight,” he said softly.

He opened the paper and she watched as he ran his thumb over the words. I love you. He stared at the message for a long moment before turning an admiring gaze on her. “That was very clever. The invisible ink.”

A thrum of pleasure came with the praise, and she smiled, her hand sliding down his arm. “An ancient trick. Roman. Pliny the Elder.”

His brows rose. “And here I thought your interests lay in ancient Greece.”

“They lay anywhere I can learn about secrets,” she replied. “And this one—it is not simply a party game for children.” She stopped, her cheeks growing warm.

His gaze turned knowing. “Imogen, are you blushing?”

She pressed a hand to her cheek, willing the heat away. After all, she was on this man’s bed and he was half naked before her. What room was there for embarrassment? “It is said that lovers used to paint messages on their bodies with it. A game for adults, as well.”

“Hmm.” Tommy’s dark brows rose in curiosity. “And what were the rules?”

“I don’t know—it wasn’t in the book.”

“Pliny the Elder, always leaving out the most important bits,” he replied, leaning forward and pressing a kiss to the soft skin of her neck, sucking gently until she sighed. “You imagined it, though. How they made themselves a canvas. How you would make me your canvas.”

I could make you my canvas. She’d said it to him the other night, on the docks, as she’d stitched him closed. Her fingers traced down his forearm, along the fast-healing wound there. “Yes.”

“So tell me, my oracle,” he asked, a low rumble. “What prophecy would you write on me?” He pressed a kiss to the skin above her dress, where her breasts strained for him. And another. And another. “What truth would you paint me with?”

“I would—” He was unraveling her. “I would—”

He gripped the fabric of her dress and pulled it down, revealing the straining tip of her breast. “Tell me,” he whispered there. A command. A threat.

I would paint you with my love.

She bit back the words, desperate to say them and still knowing they would ruin everything. She looked down at him just as he turned his cheek and ran the thick pelt of his beard over her aching skin. She cried out.

He stole the cry with his kiss, swallowing it before he lifted his head and said softly, “Shh, love. We will be heard.”

“I’m sorry,” she replied. “I didn’t mean . . .”

And then he was returned to her breast, running his beard over her skin like torture. “You misunderstand,” he said, his hands at the hem of her skirts, sliding the fabric up her legs, his hands big and warm on her skin, leaving fire in their wake. “I would give everything I have to hear you scream, Imogen. But those sounds—they’re all for me.” He pressed her thighs apart and turned toward her breast, licking over the straining tip. She bit her lip and let out a tiny, soft sound. “They are my secret messages. How quiet do you think you can be?”

As quiet as she had to be for him to never stop.

And then he opened his mouth and sucked her nipple into his mouth and she nearly came out of her skin, immediately finding purchase in his hair. “Tommy,” she whispered, his name strangled and aching.

He released her and licked over the tight bud. “I thought you were going to give me my prophecy?” His hands stroked higher, finding the edge of her stockings, making quick work of the ribbons at her thighs. “Tell me my future?”

It was all so much. “It is difficult to think of your future when I am so desperate for my own.”

The scoundrel grinned, a flash of white teeth as he scraped them against her skin and she sucked in a breath. “Yes . . .”

“Tell me your future, then, Oracle.” Another lick. Another suck. The slide of silk down her leg. “Let me make it come true.”

He was giving her permission to ask for anything she wanted. Free rein.

Except . . . “I’m afraid you will be disappointed.”

His hands stilled in their path up her other stocking. He lifted his head. “By what?”

“Not what. Whom.” A pause. She closed her eyes, hating it, but having to say it. “By me.”

“Imogen,” Tommy whispered, releasing her legs, reaching for her face, his eyes searching hers. “There is nothing about you that could ever—” He let out a little huff of disbelief. “The way I want you . . . I could never . . . It’s impossible.”

“It’s not, though. I have . . . never done this.” She hated her lack of experience. “I’ve heard of things. Seen things, even. But I don’t know . . .” She looked down at her lap, where her skirts were bunched and he was on his knees between her thighs. “I don’t know how to please you.”

He swore, soft and wicked, and the word alone sent pleasure pooling to her core. “You already know, love,” he said. “You’ve pleased me before, coming apart in my arms in the library at the ball.”

She shook her head. “But you didn’t—”

He stole another kiss. “You, finding your pleasure, Imogen. You, letting me please you. That will please me.”

“But what about you?”

He kissed her, long enough for her to forget herself. “Would you like to see how well your pleasure pleases me, my lady?”

She could lie. She probably should lie. But she didn’t want to.

She told him the truth. Painted him with it, her fingers on his torso again, reveling in the way his muscles tensed and rippled at her touch. “Yes.”

She gave herself up to him, and the way they crashed together was like an explosion, his hands on her knees, her thighs, removing another stocking, pulling her closer to the edge of the bed and standing her up, turning her back to him.

He stood, the heat of him so close as he leaned into her, pressing kisses along the back of her neck, her shoulders. And then his hands were at the fastenings of her dress. “Would it please you if I undressed you, my lady?”

“It would,” she whispered.

And he did, unbuttoning the gown, letting it pool at her feet. He paused, and she felt his tongue at the edge of her corset.

“Don’t stop,” she said, the words out before she could stop them.

“If it pleases you,” he replied, humor in the words.

It was a game. Their game.

The corset was gone, followed by her chemise.

He slid a hand down her spine, and she sucked in a breath.

“Tell me,” he whispered.

She knew her line. “It pleases me.”

“And me.” And then he was on his knees again, his large hands on her bottom, grasping her there, setting her aflame. She tried to turn, but he stopped her with his kiss, pressed to first one globe and then the other. He swore again, dark and wicked against her skin. “Do you know how many times I have had to stop myself from looking at you here? From watching this sway beneath your skirts? Hidden from me? Do you know how long I’ve wanted to . . .”

He pressed another kiss to her skin, his hands sliding around her hips, down her thighs, between them, cupping her tightly in his hand.

She gasped at the feel of him there. Everywhere. “Wanted to what?”

A pause, and she would have given anything to hear what he was thinking. She tried the game. “It would please me to know.”

“Bend over.” The command was soft and steel.

“I—”

“Let me please you,” he whispered.

She did as he asked, folding over the bed, feeling the rough fabric of the counterpane against her belly, her breasts, her cheek.

He let out a shaking breath. “You are . . . so beautiful.”

She almost believed it. And then he was parting her thighs, and his fingers were there, at the place she ached for him, and she closed her eyes, wanting him there. “If I touch you here . . .” His fingers slid into her and she made a tiny noise. “Shh, love. Someone will hear. And then where will we be?”

How was it that the question made her ache more?

“Oh, you like that,” he said, low and dark, like he’d discovered something wicked. And maybe he had. “What pleases you, Imogen? Having to be quiet?”

His tongue was stroking at the back of her thigh. “Yes.”

“You don’t wish to be heard?”

“No,” she panted.

“But you like this . . . the threat of being found.”

Yes. Yes. She liked it.

“You know I’d never let it happen, though, don’t you?” His fingers stroked back and forth, maddening, circling the spot where she was desperate for him. “Because this is for me.” A scrape of teeth. A little nip at her backside. And his fingers, stroking. Teasing. Perfect. Agonizing.

She turned her face into the bed and made a noise of frustration. “Please, Tommy.”

And like that, the game was over. He flipped her to her back as though she weighed nothing at all, and spread her thighs wide, his gaze riveted to her core, to her hips, arching toward him. “Please,” she whispered again, but she didn’t have to.

Because he was already there, spreading her wide and setting his mouth to her hot, aching core, licking long and firm over her, setting her on fire. She thrust up to meet him as he made love to her, the sensation so wonderful that she threw an arm over her mouth to keep from screaming at the pleasure he gave her, sucking and stroking with tongue and fingers, grunting as she found his head with her free hand, clutching his hair and holding him close as he moved faster and faster.

His fingers worked inside her in a slow, sinful thrust as he found a breathtaking spot, and she gasped his name to the room, barely there and feeling loud as gunshot. With the knowledge of her pleasure, he pressed her thighs back with his broad shoulders, repeating his movements again and again, deep, rough licks, over and over, firm and strong, like the rest of him. Like his body. Like his mind. Hers for that moment, as she trembled with anticipation of what was to come.

An explosion.

Brighter, bolder, stronger than the ones that brought down buildings, and Imogen was bucking against him as he growled against her, the sound pure sin.

Pure pleasure.

“Tommy!” she whispered, and one of his hands came to hers at his head, threading his fingers through hers there as he rocked against her, bringing her back from the edge, steady and firm and present, until she was returned to the moment. To the room. To him.

It was like nothing she’d ever experienced.

And all she could think was . . . more.