Goddess of the Hunt (The Wanton Dairymaid Trilogy #1)(105)

“In hand.”Jeremy let the gun slide from his shoulder and flung it to the ground. He stalked toward her with a strange expression, his eyes black as midnight. His breath came uneven and ragged, breaking up his words. “You had the situation in hand. Alone in the woods. In the dead of night. With a violent criminal.”

She swallowed. “He wasn’t a criminal. Not a violent one, at least.”

It was as though he didn’t hear her. He approached her slowly, step by deliberate step, until his chest grazed hers. She could taste desire on his breath. The blue of his eyes was swallowed by black, and a wild intensity radiated from him. A fierceness she’d only glimpsed before, he kept it so deeply buried. Now it seethed to the surface, exuded from him in potent waves, sweeping over her body. And her body roused to it. Craved it. Her skin came alive with exquisite awareness, every hair standing on end.

Lucy didn’t know how to calm him down.

She didn’t want to.

“Dressed in a few scraps of silk and lace.” He hooked a finger under the collar of her dressing gown and pulled, exposing one shoulder to the night. She felt his finger graze along her collarbone, press against the hollow of her throat, then trace the column of her neck to her chin, lifting her face to his. “But you didn’t need saving. You had the situation … in hand.”

“Yes,” she breathed. He moved forward again, his chest pushing against hers. Her back collided with the trunk of a tree.

He grabbed her wrist and wrenched her hand from its grip on her dressing gown. “In hand,” he repeated, interlacing his fingers with hers. He tightened his grip until the bones in her wrist ached. In one swift motion, he pulled her arm up over her head and pinned it to the tree with his own. Her dressing gown fell open to the waist. She gasped at the rush of cold night air that assailed her throat and drew her ni**les to hard peaks against her nightgown.

With his free hand, he palmed one breast through the shivering silk. He drew his thumb over her nipple. She gasped again, this time with pleasure.

“You didn’t need saving,” he said, sliding his thumb over the silk in tiny, maddening circles. Waves of sensation flooded through her, heat rippling beneath the gooseflesh that covered her neck, her belly, her thighs. Lucy bit her lip and closed her eyes. “Look at me,” he growled. “Look at me, damn it.” He gave her nipple a sharp pinch. Her eyes flew open.

“You don’t need my money.” He tore at the strap of her nightgown until the fragile lace gave way. The silk slid down, baring one breast.

“You don’t need my gifts.” He covered her breast with his warm, heavy hand, teasing the taut peak of her nipple, rolling it under his thumb until a tiny cry escaped her throat. He pressed his body against hers, pinning her to the tree with his weight. The heat of his arousal pulsed against her belly.

“You don’t need my protection,” he said through gritted teeth. His hand shot to her thigh, gathering up fabric, hitching up the hem of her nightgown in impatient tugs. His eyes bored into her.

“Damn it, Lucy, you are going to need me. I will make you need me.” He lowered his head to her breast, drawing her nipple into his mouth.

Pleasure surged through her—hot, white light arcing through the darkness. His tongue flickered over the sensitive peak, making her writhe with a sweet, torturous ache. One of her hands remained pinned above her, but she reached for him with the other, digging her fingers into his neck.

His hand tightened around her hip, then snaked beneath the silk of her nightgown, pushing it up to her waist. He curled his hand under her thigh and lifted it, wrapping her leg over his hip. Icy cold rushed under the silk, over her thighs and between her legs. Then he pulled his hips back slightly, swept his hand over the crest of her thigh and plunged his fingers into the gap between them.

There was no more cold, only fire. Liquid heat coursing through her veins, churning in her belly and that space between her legs. He slid a finger into her. Then two. His touch was rough and artless, but she was slick and ready, and it wasn’t enough. It wasn’t nearly enough. His thumb found her most sensitive bit of flesh, and her mouth fell open in a startled cry. He clamped his mouth over hers, filling it with his tongue. Lifting her with his fingers and working her with his thumb until she nearly came apart.

And then it was gone. His hand was gone. His lips were gone. He leaned on her, pressing his chest to hers, all his weight bearing down on her aching br**sts, and she writhed against him, desperate for more. She heard him gasping for breath against her ear, felt him fumbling with the buttons of his breeches. Then she felthim , hot and heavy and jerking with impatience against her thigh. She arched toward him instinctively, but he grabbed her hip, pushing her back down. His other hand tightened over hers, still holding her arm above her head.

“Tell me you need me.” His eyes held her, dark and fathomless as the midnight sky.

“I—” Her voice failed. She couldn’t think how to speak, couldn’t remember how to make her mouth form words. Speech had no meaning. Her lips’ sole purpose was to kiss; her tongue existed to lick and suck. She burrowed her face into his neck and ran her tongue along his throat. He inhaled with a sharp hiss and pressed his thumb deeper into the flesh of her hip.

“Tell me you need me,” he insisted. He teased her with his shaft, brushing against her, and when he pulled away, a strangled sob wrenched from her throat.