Goddess of the Hunt (The Wanton Dairymaid Trilogy #1)(65)

Something changed in Lucy’s eyes. Her gaze sharpened, focusing on his with an unnerving intensity. She set her whiskey down, and glass met polished wood with the resounding crack of a decision. Her hand went to his where he still gripped the decanter.

“I don’t want tohear it,” she said, her voice as warm and insidious as smoke. Her fingers skimmed over his wrist, the touch warm and soft, almost too light to be real. Like the sweetest of dreams. She curled her fingers over his forearm and pulled gently until he released the decanter. “I want to feel it.”

She took his hand in both of hers. “Have you noticed,” she asked coyly, turning his hand over, “that we are forever being interrupted at the most inopportune moments?” She began tracing lazy circles on his palm. Jeremy’s groin throbbed with each swirl of her thumb.

“Lucy, no.” The words came out strangled, hoarse. He cleared his throat and willed authority into his voice. “We can’t. We shouldn’t.”

“Why shouldn’t we? As you said, we’re to be wed in eleven hours.” An impish grin spread across her face, bracketed by saucy dimples. “And then I’ll never have my chance to be a brazen seductress. What a shame that would be. I read a book and everything.”

She raised his hand to her lips and kissed the tip of each finger, one by one. When she reached his thumb, her tongue darted out from between her lips and flickered across the tip.

Jeremy groaned. What the hell kind of book had she been reading? “Lucy,” he said darkly. He meant it to sound as a warning, but instead it came out more like a plea. He wrenched his hand from her grasp and laid it on her shoulder. “I am trying to behave in an honorable fashion. We are not married yet. We are in your brother’s house. I won’t do this to him. I won’t do this to you.”

“Even if I’m asking you to?” Her green eyes glimmered up at him. Emotion swelled uncomfortably in his chest. “We’re about to be married. Maybe duty is reason enough for you. But it isn’t enough for me.”

Fear clawed at his heart. Jeremy tightened his grip on her shoulder. She wasn’t getting away from him now. “It isn’t only duty. I told you as much.”

“You did. And I heard it. But right now …” She put her hands on his chest, and he winced with pleasure. “I want to feel it.”

“You want to feel it,” he repeated slowly.

“Yes.”

He slid his hands to her waist and crushed her to him. Her lips parted in a gasp, and he covered them with his own. He devoured her mouth, thrusting deep with his tongue. Deep, to taste through the sharp bite of whiskey. Deeper, to drink in the sweetness beneath. He was so damned hungry for her. Ravenous. Starving. He felt like a man who hadn’t eaten in days.

“There,” he said gruffly, holding her tight against the hard ridge of his erection. “Can you feel that?’

She nodded.

“Good.” He released her waist. His hands fell to his sides. “Now go.”

She shook her head. Her face was flushed; her eyes, smoky. She picked up one of his hands. “Now feel me,” she said, dragging his hand over the swell of her breast.

Jeremy knew he shouldn’t. But devil take him, he couldn’t help it. His fingers moved of their own accord, kneading her breast gently through the thick plush of her dressing gown. The feel of soft velvet sliding over the softer flesh beneath had him teetering on the brink of madness.

He had to stop this, he told himself. They would marry tomorrow. He could wait one more night. He was going to do this the right way, in the proper order. Wed, then bed. Some base, primitive Beast in him might have started this business, but he was resolved that the Gentleman in him would finish it. Lucy deserved no less.

But still his fingers roved over the velvet-cloaked swell of flesh. Her sharp gasp told him he’d found her nipple. He stroked it again, teasing the flat circle of flesh into a straining peak. Teasing the frayed remnants of his sanity.

Jeremy shut his eyes, searching for the shreds of his restraint. Damn it, nothing did this to him. Especially not a woman. Self-discipline, strength of will, resolve—they weren’t just empty words to him. They were a way of life. They were how he’d survived while his father lived and how he’d succeeded after his death. They marked him apart from his wastrel peers who gambled away fortunes in the hells and brothels of London. They made him a sought-after lover amongst women who didn’t want love. They made him who he was.

But she made him forget. She made him forget himself completely. And the longer he stood there—massaging her sumptuous flesh with his palm, rolling her nipple under his thumb, listening to her breathy sighs—the harder it became to remember. If there was one single reason why he shouldn’t haul her to the bed that instant, Jeremy couldn’t recall it.

Then suddenly she stepped away. Just in time. He regained a tenuous hold on the remnants of his willpower. He felt the urge to reach out and pull her back, but he checked it. Barely.

She was staring up at him with heavy-lidded eyes. Her lips were swollen and dusky red. She rotated her neck in sensuous motion, tossing her hair back over her shoulders. Her hands went to the belt of her dressing gown. She loosened the knot.

Oh, God. He knew all too well what was under that robe. That high-necked virginal nightgown with its dozens of buttons. He’d wanted to rip that shift off her even that night. He’d dreamt of doing so more than once.