Knockout: A Hell’s Belles Novel

She was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen, coming apart in his hands, against his mouth, on his tongue, holding back screams until they escaped in little, perfect sighs, leaving him hard and aching for her.

He would spend the rest of his life holding this memory—this night—close. Because there would never be another one like it. And it would end here, with her a soft, lush promise in his bed, and him, using every bit of strength he had to resist claiming her, even as he intended to hold her through the night and thank God and the universe for sending snow to keep her in his arms.

Tommy eased back from her, his hands wide, gripping her thighs, reveling in the way they trembled. He couldn’t deny the deep satisfaction that came with the knowledge that he’d made her weak with pleasure. He would do it again before the night was out, he vowed.

He would drink the sighs from her lips and memorize her taste.

And maybe she would memorize something of him, as well.

If that was all he won, it would be enough. It would have to be.

Leaning over, he pressed a kiss to the swell of her belly, reveling in her touch as her hands came to his head, fingers tangling in his hair once more, no longer gripping. No longer stinging. Now soft. Loving.

He, too, could be loving. He might not be able to speak the truth aloud, but he could show it to her. He could press another kiss, lower, letting his tongue linger until she sighed.

A third on the flesh of one soft thigh, loose and open to him.

A fourth on its match.

And then he let her go, sitting back on his knees, taking one last look, one last deep breath before he made to stand. To collect himself. To steady his thoughts. To prepare to give more and never take.

Lie. He would take. Every moment of this was for his taking.

“Wait.” Before he could distance himself, however, Imogen set one small foot to his bare shoulder. “Don’t leave me.”

His hand rose to grip her ankle, holding it firmly, his thumb circling the inside of it in a slow, even slide. She was soft even there, dammit. Irresistible. “I am not leaving.”

Her beautiful brown eyes searched his. “You are, though,” she said. “Even if you stay—you are leaving. You are retreating.”

He shook his head. Lied again, but this time it was worse because he lied to her. “I am not.”

She sat up, slowly, reaching between them, her fingers curling into the band of his trousers and fisting the fabric there. “Prove it,” she said. “Take these off.”

“No.” If he did that . . . if she touched him . . . There would be nothing noble in how this ended.

She read his thoughts. “Tommy?”

He reached for her, unable to stop himself from stroking his thumb over her cheek. “Imogen—”

“It would please me,” she said, the words a wicked blow.

Not a blow. A stroke. A slide. A lick. Perfection.

He took a step forward, drunk on her desire. On his own. “Then it would please me.” And then did as he was asked, removing the rest of his clothes, tossing them away.

“Stop,” she said as he stood straight once more, and he did, following the command without hesitation. She held up a hand, her only movement her hungry gaze, over his body. Tommy had never much cared for how his body looked. He knew people found him appealing. He rarely had trouble finding a lover, and he was not a fool—he understood all the double entendre in the papers.

But suddenly, he cared very much what Imogen thought. He stood under her inspection, imagining what she might be thinking as she took in his broad chest. His flat stomach. His muscled thighs, all dusted with coarse dark hair. What if she didn’t like it?

“Let me—”

He rubbed a hand over his chest when she stopped, not knowing what to do. How to be.

Her gaze darkened, tracking the movement.

Another slide of his hand. Another hungry look as she followed it.

She liked it.

The knowledge crashed through him, and he remembered the rest of it. What else she could see. Without thinking, he stroked down over his torso, the light of curiosity and desire in her eyes making his own touch—usually perfunctory and utilitarian—powerful. Charged.

He stilled as he reached his stomach, not wanting to startle her.

“Don’t stop,” she whispered. “You’re beautiful.”

He wasn’t. She was, bare and perfect on his bed. Not an oracle. A goddess.

He did as she asked. Lower. Lower still.

Imogen’s eyes went wide. “It is . . .” She shook her head, her eyes on his cock, straight and thick and aching for her. “. . . nothing like I imagined.”

He couldn’t help the low rumble. “Have you done a great deal of imagining it?”

“A very great deal,” she said softly, her jaw soft and slack, making him want things he had no right wanting. And then Imogen, his perfect girl, swallowed, as though she, too, wanted those things, and said, “That is . . . I’ve spent enough time with married women to know that this particular appendage cannot be predicted with a knowledge of classical art or a visit to the British Museum. But yours . . . It is . . .”

Tommy closed his eyes and took himself in hand, stroking himself in a long, slow slide, crown to base, unable to resist it as she finished her thought. “. . . significant.”

His laugh came on an exhale of pleasure. It was not the first time he’d been assessed in such a way, but it was different now, with Imogen. Eager for her approval in a way he’d never been before.

He stroked himself again, loving the way she watched. Aching to give her everything she wanted.

Her eyes went even darker. “Do that again.”

She was going to kill him, but he did as she asked, a drop of liquid revealing itself at the crown as he did. She leaned forward.

Oh, God.

“Does that feel—”

“Yes,” he grunted with another stroke.

“May I . . .” She reached for him, and he exhaled harshly. She froze at the sound, her fingers mere inches from his.

She wanted to touch him.

Her gaze slid to his, and Tommy stared down at her, all soft skin and softer curves, her enormous eyes and her dark hair and those lips that made him want to do terrible, wonderful things. He reached for her, stroking a thumb over her full bottom lip, dipping just inside her mouth. “Would it please you?”

She turned and pressed a kiss to his palm, her little tongue sneaking out to lick at his skin and he cursed in the darkness. Something flashed in her eyes. Mischief. “Shh,” she said. “You must be quiet, or someone will hear.”

Not a goddess. A siren.

Singing him to his doom.

And he went with pleasure when she returned her attention to his hand, where he continued to stroke himself before she said, “Let me.”

There wasn’t a man alive who would deny her this. She took him in hand, working him, learning the feel of him. Another drop formed at the tip and she rubbed it into his skin. “Like that?” she asked, her eyes flickering to his, and he was laid low by the doubt in her gaze.

He leaned down and took her mouth in a searing kiss, delving deep with his tongue before he said, “Yes, love. Like that. It’s perfect. You’re perfect.”

She blushed at the words, her grip tightening to perfection, and he wrapped her hand in his own, revealing all his secrets. Their breathing came harsh and ragged as she worked him, as he gave himself over to her, reveling in her touch, his free hand sliding over her soft skin, her shoulders, her arms, playing at the tips of her breasts, at the silken curves of her thighs.

Soon it was too much, and he stayed her movements. “Stop, love.”

Her gaze flew to his. “But don’t you—”

“Yes . . .” He leaned down and kissed her until the doubt was gone from her beautiful face. “Christ, I’ve never wanted anything like I want this. Like I want you. But I . . . can’t. We can’t.”

Her brow furrowed. “Not can’t. Won’t.”

“Shouldn’t.”

“What nonsense,” she said, releasing him and coming to her knees on the bed, tempting him with her lush body even as he ached for her touch again. “Have I not made clear what little interest I have in should?”

“Imogen,” he protested, drawing closer to her, cupping her face in his hands. Wanting to explain it. “You deserve so much more than this. Than me.”

“I know quite well what I deserve.”

Tommy raised a brow at the firm words, suddenly full of Mayfair after her day playing in the East End. Which was the point, was it not? “Dammit, Imogen, I ain’t for you,” he said, dropping his own mask. Letting Shoreditch into his voice. “I’m a boy from the East End who’s only ever dreamed of touching a woman like you. This is more than I ever even let myself imagine. You, here, naked and sweet in my bed.” He kissed her again, unable to stop himself, loving the way she pressed into him, stroking over her body, sneaking every bit of her he could. “You’re so fucking perfect—too perfect for me.”

It was her turn to kiss him, her turn to stroke over his body, singeing him with her touch. “You say you have not dreamed of me,” she said when she broke the kiss and they were both gasping for breath. He closed his eyes and resisted the urge to deny it. To confess his lie and all the ways he’d imagined her since the moment he met her. “But I have dreamed of you, Tommy.” Her fingers tripped over his skin. “I have dreamed of you in a thousand ways. Do I not deserve a taste of those dreams? While the world is at bay?”

She was back to goddess. Making him want to drop to his knees again. To worship her again.

“Do I not deserve to find pleasure?” she pressed on. “In this moment? With you?”

Yes. God, yes. She did.

“What if this is my only chance for it?” she asked, caressing his cheek with one beautiful hand. “Don’t I deserve it? Don’t you?”

How was he to deny her?

And then she whispered, “Please,” and it was soft and sweet and full of an ache he recognized as the twin to his own.

He pulled her to him, lifting her up and over, following her down until they were beside each other on the bed, and a little triumphant noise sounded in her throat, and he matched it with a growl of pleasure before lifting his head and saying, “I will keep you safe.”

Whatever it took.

She met his eyes, her gaze clear and beautiful. “I have never doubted it.”

Kisses came long and slow and slick, and he took his time with her, grateful for the snow outside making the night endless, eliding time so he could worship her in every way possible, with his hands and lips and tongue, until she was writhing on his bed, her fingers fisted in his hair, forcing him to meet her gaze, unfocused and eager.

“Now, Tommy. Please.”

She was ready for him. He was sure of it, but still, when he rose up over her, every muscle taut with restraint, he was consumed with fear. “I don’t want to hurt you,” he whispered as she parted her lush thighs, making room for him.

“You could never hurt me,” she replied.

He leaned down and kissed her again, deep and slow, until she was arching up into him. “Talk to me,” he commanded, soft and harsh at her ear. “Tell me everything you feel.”

If it was only once, he wanted all of it. Everything she could give him.

“I feel full of you. Already,” she whispered. “I feel you inside me everywhere. A part of me. How could that be?”

“I don’t know, love.” The closest he would ever get to the truth. “But I feel it, too.” He closed his eyes and pressed his forehead to hers. “I never want to stop feeling it.”

And then he was there, where she was sweet and soft and so wet, and he cursed as she whispered, “Oh.”

“Tell me,” he commanded.

She writhed against him, and somehow, impossibly, he held himself from her. “Hot. And heavy. And . . .” A tilt of her hips, and they both groaned as the tip of him kissed her, finding purchase at her entrance.

Imogen’s groan became a gasp as he eased into her, sweat breaking over his brow as he filled her with just the tip of him. “That feels very good.”

He laughed at the analysis. He couldn’t help it. “I could not have said it better myself.”

“It feels good when you laugh, as well,” she said. “As though you like me.”

He stilled at the words. “Imogen . . . fuck . . .” She blushed and began to look away. He dipped his head to catch her gaze. “I do like you. I—” He bit back the words before he leaned down and kissed her, quick and sure. “I like you.”

Her brows rose and she gave him a little smile. “You do?”

“Very much.” God, she felt good. But he held himself still, knowing that what they discussed was more important than what they were doing. He repeated himself. “Very much. Too much.”

“You aren’t only exasperated by me?”

“I am always exasperated by you,” he said. “Exasperated by how you run circles around me. How you keep secrets from me. How you tempt me.”

A light in her beautiful eyes. “I tempt you?”

Because he was not a saint, he let himself go, sliding deeper—just a touch—not nearly enough— into her. She gasped and he groaned. “You are a vixen.”

“Oh,” she said, soft silk. “A vixen. I like that.”

Another slide, and she stretched around him, warm and wet and fucking perfect. “I know you do,” he said at her ear. “You like how you scramble my thoughts.”

“I don’t mean to,” she said, one of her hands coming to his hip, her fingers curling into the flesh there, holding him tightly.

“But you like it—” A tiny thrust.

A little sigh. “I like the way you look at me,” she confessed, her thighs tilting toward him. “Like you’ve never known anyone like me, but you want to understand me. Like you want me peculiar. And odd. Like I’m not too much.”

“You can tell that, can you? What I’m thinking?” He thought he hid it better, how she moved him. How she perplexed him. How he sought out her challenge. “Not too much. Not enough. Never enough.” He pressed deeper and she sucked in a breath. Concern chased away all his other thoughts. “Love—if it hurts—we can stop.”

Her eyes flew to his. “Don’t you dare.”

He gave a little huff of surprised laughter that turned into a deep grunt when she wiggled against him, adjusting to his size. She stilled, staring up at him, a dangerous discovery in her face. “You like that.”

“I fucking love that,” he said. “But if it hurts—I know I am—”

“It does not hurt,” she said, quick. “It is full and—” Another move. “Tight.”

Another groan. “God, yes it is.”

“Do you feel that?”

“I’ve never felt anything so magnificent.”

“Interesting.” She shifted, as though she wanted to investigate.

Oh no. He did not think he could handle an experiment. “Imogen,” he panted. “Be careful.”

Curiosity. A cant of her hips. “Or what?”

“Or I won’t be able to . . .” He trailed off, then growled, “Yes. Do that again.”

Gorgeous girl, she did.

“You will, though,” she whispered. “You promised you would keep me safe.”

He had, and he would. And she knew it. And her knowing made him feel like a fucking king.

“Let me—”

“Anything.” Everything she wanted.

Another lift. Another circle. He sank into her, deep and smooth, until he was seated to the hilt and consumed with pleasure at the feel of her beneath him. Around him.

“Tommy.” She sighed. “That is . . . I never imagined . . .”

“I should be sainted for this.” He panted, sounding like he’d run from one end of London to the other.

She tossed an amused look at him. “For what?”

Another laugh. Had he ever enjoyed himself like this? Doing this? “For my patience.”

“I do not think they saint people for this particular act,” she said.

He leaned down and sucked at the tip of one of her beautiful breasts. “But think of how many more people would pay attention in church if they did.”

“Tommy?”

He switched to her other breast. “Mmm?”

“Do you think you might try . . . moving?”

He stole her lips again, and did as she asked, a small thrust, pressing deep into her. “Only if you promise to tell me everything you feel.”

“I feel perfect.”

“You do feel perfect.”

She giggled, and he grew impossibly harder. “I meant—”

“So did I,” he replied. “Let’s see how much more perfect we can get, shall we?”

He pulled out, slow and punishing, making them both ache for the thrust he gave her, smooth and even, and she threw her head back, baring her throat to him. He leaned down and licked up the column of flesh as he thrust again. She sighed, and he gave her another and another, watching her throat, listening to her breath, loving the way she moved beneath him, soft and sweet and . . .

Perfect.

He would never survive this.

He would never survive her.

“More,” she whispered, and he gave it to her, knowing he would give her everything she asked, forever. Sure, deep strokes, over and over, until time slowed and she was clinging to him, a sheen of sweat on both their bodies as they rocked together.

Her pleasure became his only goal, and Tommy lifted himself over her, coming to his knees and pulling her up over his thighs, sliding into her again, watching the place where they were joined as he set his fingers to the straining bud at her core, rubbing tight circles there, timing them with the short thrusts he’d discovered she loved.

Imogen slid her hands over her body, toward the place where they were joined, and he thought he would spend then, in that moment, watching her shiver and writhe beneath their combined touch. Her eyes flew open, finding his gaze. “Look at me,” he whispered down at her. “Let me watch you come apart.”

He slowed his thrusts and he could see her losing herself. Turning herself over to pleasure. “Tell me, sweet. Tell me what you feel.”

“So much,” she panted. “So full.”

One hand found purchase on his thigh, squeezing. “More.”

“My greedy girl,” he said. “Aching for me.”

“I am greedy,” she confessed. “I do ache. Don’t stop. Don’t ever stop.”

“Never,” he grunted, moving harder now, deeper, his fingers still working over her. It was the closest thing to heaven he’d ever felt. “You are so beautiful,” he whispered. “So perfect. Do you feel it, love?”

She went tight, strung like a bow. “Tommy!”

Her back bowed to him, as he worked her, making good on his promise, giving her everything she wanted. She flew apart in his hands, around his cock, thrusting to meet him. “Please,” she panted. “I want— I need—”

She didn’t know, but he did.

He did, and he would always give it to her. Anything she asked. Everything she needed.

“Come for me, love,” he growled, stroking over her once, twice, and then . . . “Now.”

She did, shaking in his arms, whispering his name in the darkness as she came, hard and fast and stunning, clinging to him, one hand grabbing hold of his wrist holding him tight to her as she bore down on his cock, taking her pleasure, convulsing around him, milking the hard length of him over and over.

And in her pleasure, he found his own, pulling out to thrust once, twice against her beautiful, lush curves and come, her fingers in his hair, claiming his groans with her kiss, as though he were the virgin.

Fucking hell.

She made him feel like one.

And perhaps he was, in a sense. Because it had never been like this.

Clutching her to him, he rolled to his side, pulling her against him and kissing her, deep and sweet. When he released her, she said softly, “Thank you. For showing me. For giving it to me.”

Tommy’s breath caught in his chest at the idea that she might think he’d done her a service. “You are the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen,” he said softly, pressing another kiss to her cheek. Her temple. Tilting her chin up and running his tongue along the underside of her jaw. “My goddess. My siren. My oracle.”

Her fingers ran through his beard, and she replied, “Yours.”

A prophecy.

Mine.

He knew better than to say it aloud. Knew that if he did, he might never be willing to take it back. Instead, he kissed her once more, thoroughly, and left to add wood to the fire and fetch a length of cloth, rinsed in clean water.

When he returned to the bed, he washed her carefully, leaving a trail of kisses behind, kisses that led to him worshipping her again as she lay back and let him, whispering to him and to the dark room.

There.

Yes.

Again.

More.

Yours.

When she’d claimed her pleasure without shame or hesitation, she fell asleep, and he lay beside her, watching the firelight cast dancing shadows across her smooth, soft skin. He wasn’t tired. He wouldn’t allow himself to sleep. Not when he could stay up all night and watch her . . . too precious and fleeting a gift to waste.

And when she turned toward him in slumber, seeking his heat, fitting herself into his arms, as though they slept like that every night, he could not help the sigh that came, a bone-deep satisfaction that he knew he would not find again in his lifetime.

Knowing she was safe. Knowing she was loved. Knowing that, even in sleep, she understood those truths.

Imogen had been right. She was not ruined that night.

But Tommy was. For the rest of his life. For the rest of time.