Goddess of the Hunt (The Wanton Dairymaid Trilogy #1)(35)

She would have to push him away.

Instead, she curled her fingers around his lapel. And pulled him in.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Lucy wanted him to plunder her.

Even though he was wrong, in every possible way. The wrong man, in the wrong place, and just wrong, all wrong. Even though it was wicked, and she knew she was acting the farthest thing from an angel or a dream.

She wanted to be a goddess—someone’sgoddess. And here he was, worshipping her with his gaze if not his words. And when she touched him, she had the power in her fingertips to make him tremble. She wanted to be kissed. She wanted to bewanted . She wanted those strong, full lips to stop spouting wrongheaded nonsense and start kissing her instead.

She pulled him against her and watched his sky-blue eyes darken to the deepest indigo, then close in a sweep of ebony lashes. His warm male scent embraced her, the clean aromas of leather and pine blending with musk. He bent his head by slow degrees, until his brow rested against hers. They traded the same breath back and forth. And when his lips finally bridged the last bit of distance between them, it felt like the end of a kiss rather than the beginning.

Lucy closed her eyes. She let the world contract to the unbearable softness brushing against her lips and the feel of rough wool clutched in her hand. She wouldn’t remember anything before that moment, and she wouldn’t think about the future. She wouldn’t think about what he’d said. She wouldn’t think—she would only feel. She would shut everything out and let only him in. The taste of him and the warmth of his mouth.

His mouth, claiming hers in a tender kiss. His lips, ranging over hers in a series of slow, teasing tastes. His tongue, sweeping into her mouth again and again in a gentle, rhythmic dance. She pressed her body against his solid chest, burrowing closer, nestling into his strength and warmth. He groaned against her mouth and tore his lips from hers.

Lucy kept her eyes shut tight. She didn’t need to see him. She couldfeel him looking down at her, the heat of his gaze wandering over her closed eyes, her flushed ears, the hollow of her throat where her quickened pulse beat. She kept her eyes shut tight and her lips slightly parted, and she waited. Because she knew he would come back.

He did. And this time, there was no gentle dance, no teasing or tenderness. He pressed himself against her, pushing her against the trunk of the tree until the ridges of bark bit into the flesh of her back. His lips claimed hers in a scorching embrace. He thrust his tongue into her mouth again and again and again, stealing her breath, stealing her very presence of mind. He cupped her face in one hand and angled it back, taking more of her, and she clung to his lapel as if the scrap of fabric were her only tether to the earth.

This wasn’t Jeremy Trescott. This wasn’t any man she knew. He was some wild, dangerous, plundering stranger, and she was a wanton, pagan goddess being ravaged under a pear tree. He broke away from her mouth, kissing a trail of fire along her jaw. He groaned her name against her ear, and it sounded foreign, forgotten—two random syllables sliding over her skin like a pair of hot, seeking lips. She didn’t know who she was. Who he was. Didn’t care. The world had contracted to the warmth of a kiss and a clutch of rough wool, and there was no one else.

But there was.

There was someone else.

Someone—orsomeones —treading over dry leaves, drawing nearer, talking to one another. Lucy exhaled in a sharp hiss. Jeremy froze, his face buried in her neck, his lips pressed against the soft place under her ear.

“They must have come this way,” a voice was saying. “That’s Jem’s horse.”

Toby.

“Perhaps we shouldn’t follow them,” Sophia replied. “Perhaps they wish to be alone.” Her voice took on a coy inflection. “Lovers sometimes do.”

Toby chuckled. “Not these lovers.”

They must be only a few rows away. In a matter of paces, they would turn their heads and discover Lucy and Jeremy, clinging to one another, molded to the bark of the tree like lichens. Lucy released her grip on Jeremy’s coat and pushed against his chest.

He didn’t budge.

“Get off,”she whispered.

He didn’t move, just covered her body with his own and pinned her to the tree. “No.”

“They’re coming.” Desperation tweaked her voice. “They’ll see.”

“Let them see,” he whispered roughly. “You wanted this game. You wanted besotted. You wanted him jealous. Let them see.”

Lucy squirmed against him, to no avail. His bulk trapped her. She heard footsteps approaching. She shut her eyes, held her breath, and buried her face in Jeremy’s coat.

The footsteps stopped. Lucy did not move. She did not breathe. The silence stretched to an eternity. Then, finally, the footsteps resumed. They hastened, grew fainter.

She heard Sophia’s laugh fading into the tree-lined avenues. “Notthose lovers, hmm?”

Lucy shoved against Jeremy’s chest again, and this time he fell back. His face was blank. The expression in his eyes was, as usual, unreadable.

“You were right.” She jerked the fabric of her riding habit back into place. He eyed her warily as she wound her hair into a simple knot. “You were right about one thing.” She backed away from him. “We’re through playing games. I’m going to tell Toby the truth.”

“So—do I tell him the truth?”