Goddess of the Hunt (The Wanton Dairymaid Trilogy #1)

Lucy’s hands fell to her chest, covering her br**sts. She watched as he gathered his shirt, yanked it over his head, and cast it aside.

She let her gaze wander over him. Slowly. Greedily. Possessively. He was hers. All hers, tonight and thereafter. Every muscled ridge of his shoulders and chest. The dark, curling hair that tapered down to his navel, then trailed lower still. And the fascinating, pulsing prominence in the front of his breeches. Lucy was greatly tempted to stare. With some effort, she pulled her gaze back up to his face, framed with black, ruffled hair and anchored by clear blue eyes, now dark with desire.

Dark, and focused intently on her hands. Or thereabouts. It took Lucy a moment to realize it was probably not the sight of her hands that captivated him, but rather what heaved beneath. She let her palms slide slowly to her sides, revealing her br**sts.

He sucked in his breath.

Her ni**les hardened under his gaze, contracting to taut, aching peaks, straining toward him, begging for his hands, his mouth, his tongue. If he didn’t stop staring and start touching her soon, Lucy felt certain she would go mad.

She reached up for him, gliding her palms up the thick trunks of his arms and letting her fingers feather over his chest. He groaned and leaned over her, caging her between his elbows. Lucy gasped at his sudden, enveloping heat. Sliding her hands around his neck, she pulled his lips toward hers.

He suddenly resisted. “I haven’t bathed.”

His expression was so adorably earnest, she had to laugh. “I don’t mind.” She pulled his face down to hers and rubbed her cheek against his jaw. The rough beginnings of a beard rasped against her skin. She brushed open-mouthed kisses up to his ear. “In fact,” she whispered, licking his earlobe, “I like it.”

She inhaled deeply, drinking in his scent. The scent she’d been craving for two endless days. That heady aroma of saddle leather and whiskey and night wind raked through boughs of pine. She buried her face in his neck, ran her tongue down the rigid tendon there, tasting salt and musk. Then she kissed her way back up his throat, blessing the world for the mercy of an unwashed man.This man, who had ridden hard in the dark to her, bringing jewels and the wind and the sweat of his body.

She felt him swallow and tense as she nuzzled his throat. She let her head fall back on the bed. His eyes fixed her with a wild, almost feral look.

“Lucy.” Her name tore from his chest like a threat, or a prayer. Then he fell on her, pinning her under his weight, and she realized too late what it had really been.

A warning.

He took her breath away. Literally. His chest crushed hers, flattening her aching br**sts and forcing the air from her lungs. His tongue filled her mouth, thrusting and demanding and stealing even her startled gasp. Then his hips ground against hers, working in between her legs, nestling into the cradle of her thighs, and she lost all thought of breathing. She lost all thought.

He rocked his hips against her, growling deep in his throat. Suede-soft buckskin teased over her inner thighs. Solid heat throbbed against the cleft of her legs. He rocked again, and pleasure lanced through her. Sharp, slicing joy.

Suddenly, he abandoned her mouth and raised up on one elbow. “Lucy …”—he swallowed hard between panting breaths—“You do understand what’s going to happen? Someone has explained it to you?”

Lucy laughed. “Of course. The book explained everything.”

His voice deepened. “Everything?”

Between the note of delicious danger in his voice and the way her intimate places pulsed around each syllable, she began to wonder ifThe Memoirs of a Wanton Dairymaid hadn’t been a bit vague. But regardless of the details, she knew she had a firm grasp of the basic concept. “Jeremy, this is a farm. I’ve helped Henry breed hounds for years. I understand how mating is accomplished.”

Now it was his turn to chuckle. “Yes, well—it’s a bit different between a man and a woman.”

“Because it’s done face-to-face?”

He smiled slightly. Rather wickedly, she thought. “Usually.”

Before Lucy had any chance to wrap her mind aroundthat casual statement, he continued, “It’s not the act itself that’s so different. It’s more what happens beforehand.”

“Beforehand?”

He kissed his way down her neck, his tongue dallying in the notch at the base of her throat. “I need to make you ready for me,” he murmured.

“I think …” Her voice trailed off as he lightly nipped her shoulder. “I think Iam ready.” She was completely naked, in his bed,under him. How much more ready could she be? She hooked her legs around his. “I’m ready.”

A muffled laugh against her neck was his only reply. Then he dropped lower, dragging his mouth down to her breast, and Lucy was not inclined to interrupt.