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

His mouth crushed down on hers, and he felt her lips contract from that wide smile to a passionate pout. And when she opened her mouth to him readily, eagerly, Jeremy thanked God for lurid novels.

He slid his tongue into her hot, whiskey-bold mouth, exploring, demanding. She gasped against his lips, and he thrust deeper, took more, determined to drink in her sweetness until he tasted the bitter edge of fear. If she wanted lessons, he meant to give her one. He would teach her that desire was not a game; passion was dangerous sport indeed. He meant to push her until he pushed her away—sent her scurrying back to her room to tremble beneath crisp white sheets and curl back into that high-necked virginal nightgown. And button that damned button.

Then her tongue stroked his. Cautiously, once. Again, with abandon. She was pulling him in, coaxing him on, stoking the fire in his loins with every darting caress. He answered instinctively, deepening the kiss. And a realization pierced him with all the sweet sting of requited desire.

This kiss was a dare.

And in the eight years he’d known her, Lucy Waltham had never once backed down from a dare.

She wriggled closer, grasping his shoulders and running one hand to the back of his neck. He growled as her fingernails raked lightly across his nape.

Some force pulled his hand downward. Regret, perhaps. The desperate need to regain control. A charitable impulse, truly—he had to convince her she was playing with fire. Fingers splayed, he laid claim to the small of her back and pressed her to him, drawing her body tight against his swelling groin. The pleasure was immediate. Intense. Not nearly enough.

Surely now she would squirm away, perhaps even scream.

But no. She was moving, yes. God, was she moving. Arching against him, moaning into the kiss. Cool velvet teased his fingertips; warm velvet caressed his tongue. Traitorous images flooded his mind. A crimson robe pooling on the floor. Buttons flying everywhere. He was in this kiss far too deep, and oh God, how he longed to sink in deeper still. It had gone all wrong.

This was … all …wrong .

Jeremy fought through the haze of lust, clenching his fist in her hair and tearing her away. An inch. He looked down at her face. This time, her eyes were closed.

“Lucy,” he whispered hoarsely.

Her eyes fluttered open. They were green flecked with gold; dark, wild passion, glinting with laughter. He untangled his hand from her hair, released her waist, and stepped back, trying to think. His breath was ragged, his pulse thundering, and blood was rushing everywhere in his body except his brain. “Lucy,” he tried again, “that was—”

“That was practice,” she interrupted. A smile curved her lips. “Very good practice.” She shifted her weight back on one foot, pushing the curve of her hip into relief and lifting her br**sts for attention—an unconscious motion of raw sensuality.

It was wildly seductive.

Jeremy swore inwardly. What had he done? He’d opened the door to an awkward virgin, and not a half-hour later, he was sending away a temptress. It was as though he’d been handed an unloaded gun, only to pack it with powder and buckshot and—dear God—damn near pull the trigger. Scant minutes ago, she’d been harmless. Now …

Now Lucy was a danger to herself.

And if she stood there a moment longer, taunting him with those glittering eyes and those swollen lips and that flushed, kissable curve of her throat, Jeremy would be a danger to her.

What had he been thinking? He had mauled her like a brute. Never mind the fact that she had mauled him right back, or that the whole thing had been her idea. He was a gentleman, and she was—by birth if not behavior—a lady. She was his best friend’ssister . He ought to be facing a pistol at dawn, or worse. A vicar across an altar.

She must have read the guilt in his eyes. “For heaven’s sake, Jemmy. Henry’s never going to know, unless you tell him.” Smiling, she tied the sash of her dressing gown. “And I strongly suggest you don’t. You’d never live it down.”

“You,” he said, grasping her by the elbow and steering her firmly to the door, “are very late for bed.” He cautiously scanned the corridor before guiding her through the doorway. She started to turn left, toward Toby’s bedchamber. He caught her by the shoulders and swiveled her to face the opposite direction.

“Go to your room, Lucy,” he whispered sternly. “I shall keep my door open all night—if you try to get to Toby, you’ll have to get through me.”

She flashed him a coy look which, in any ballroom, he would have taken for shameless flirtation. She was a quick study, indeed. “Are you suggesting that would be difficult?”

He gritted his teeth. “So help me, I will march you down to Henry’s room this instant if …”

“Shhhh.” She silenced him with a finger to his lips, glancing over her shoulder. “Very well, Jemmy,” she whispered. “I suppose Toby will let Sophia unpack her valises before he drops to one knee. I can wait one more night.”