Goddess of the Hunt (The Wanton Dairymaid Trilogy #1)(5)

“Have no fear, Jemmy, I have no plans forit . Thenyou would have to marry me, and that would not do at all.”

“It most certainly would not.” He studied the face cupped in his hands. Her skin drank in the firelight and glowed like burnished gold. Her eyes danced with reflected flame, daring him to look closer, draw nearer. Who was this woman, and what had she done with Lucy? She felt like a stranger to him, and that was a dangerous thing. A stranger was fair game, for kissing … and more.

Jeremy began a short list of the reasons why Lucy was not—most definitelynot —fair game.

Point one, she was the sister of his oldest friend.

Point two, his oldest friend was a crack shot.

“Listen to me,” he said, giving her head a little shake. “If you have questions about … about the marriage bed, you ought to take them up with Marianne. Or you should wait for your wedding night, when your husband—who willnot be Toby—can enlighten you. There will be no lessons on fishing for husbands or ensnaring men.”

She smiled. A smug, maddening smile that Jeremy longed to shake right off her face.

“Do you understand me?” he demanded.

“Yes.” She pressed her lips together briefly before they parted again in laughter.

“Then damn it, why are you laughing?”

“Because I think itwas working.”

That damned impish grin again. But this time he saw not the impudent smile, but rather what composed it.

Lips.

Full, sweetly bowed lips, flushed deep red with kissing and laughter. Lips that begged to be covered with his own.

He closed his eyes to the temptation, sliding his hands back to fist in her tumbled hair, as if by taming those curls he could control her. Control himself. But—sweet heaven. It was like plunging his hands into liquid silk, and behind his eyelids he saw those strands of exquisite softness stroking every inch of his skin.

His eyes snapped open. In desperation, he glanced downward, just to see if the third button of her nightgown was still undone.

And it was. Damn it, it was.

She laughed softly, drawing his gaze back up to her mouth, now tilted at the perfect angle to receive his kiss. Those lips … and just a hint of a moist, pink tongue … the instruments of his irritation for so many years, now offered up in invitation. Just waiting to be silenced, mastered, tamed. There was one certain way, a dark voice inside him argued, to make Lucy finally see sense.

Kiss her senseless.

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 …