Goddess of the Hunt (The Wanton Dairymaid Trilogy #1)(69)

She slid her hands to his hips and pulled. “Never.”

And then he was in her, swift and sudden and strong. Filling her, stretching her.

He stayed there, motionless, atop her. In her. His chest struggling against hers as they each fought for breath.

“You aren’t hurt?” he asked.

She shook her head. “Should I be?”

“I … I don’t know.”

This admission sent Lucy into a bit of a panic. “What do you mean, you don’t know?” she asked, pushing on his shoulders until he rose up to meet her eyes. “You said you were a rake! Don’t tell me this is the first time you’ve—”

“Of course it’s not.” Jeremy clenched his jaw. “But I’ve never bedded a virgin before. And I had been given to understand it’s painful.” Lucy regarded him quizzically. “For the woman,” he clarified.

“Oh.” Lucy closed her eyes and fell quiet, assessing. Sifting through the myriad overwhelming sensations to judge if any qualified as pain. As if they sensed themselves the subject of enquiry, her intimate muscles tightened around him. He groaned.

“I’m not hurt,” she said. “I feel …”

He sucked in a ragged breath. “You feel what?”

“That’s all.” She opened her eyes. “Ifeel.” She uncurled her fingers from around his arms and skimmed them up to his neck. “I feelyou.”

He rocked against her gently. Exquisite pleasure washed through her body. Yes, she felthim . And he felt like heaven.

He withdrew slightly and thrust into her again, deeper this time. Into the very heart of her. She clutched his neck and cried out against his ear.

His whole body went rigid, and Lucy wondered for a moment if she’d done something wrong. Then Jeremy looked down at her, his gaze searching and anxious, and a sharp stab of emotion caught Lucy in the chest. It hurthim , she realized. It hurt him to think he’d hurt her. “No pain,” she assured him between panting breaths. “Only you.”

He held her tightly, tenderly, while her body learned to accommodate his, resting his forehead against her brow and dropping a light kiss on her cheek. And when he gently withdrew and thrust again, Lucy closed her lips over her cry, sealing it into a moan. Again and again he stroked into her. She buried her face against his shoulder and felt the sweet ache building once more.

He moved faster and harder, and she began to move with him, arching into each stroke with a gasp of delight. Her fingers sank into his shoulders. She heard a loud moan. It was probably hers, but he made no reproach. They were both past caring. She felt it starting again—that wondrous flood of pleasure that welled up from deep inside her, welled up fromhim . His breathing grew rough. His thrusts rougher, too. Until the dam broke and the flood took her and they drowned together in bliss.

He collapsed onto her, sinking her into the bed with his weight. They floated there together, simply breathing. And Lucy tried to collect the pieces of her body, scattered like branches after a storm. One leg she found twined around his. A few fingers she located tangled in his hair.

And just when she began to believe that she was all still there, if somewhat rearranged, another flood began. This one didn’t start from her womb, or from him. It began in her heart. A strange and powerful deluge of emotion burst forth and filled every inch of her body, until she trembled with the terrible task of containing it. And it wouldn’t stop. It only kept coming. There was no reprieve. It flowed in great rivers out to her limbs and pounded in waves through her still-quivering core. It swelled her lips and thundered in her ears and welled up in her eyes. And it was too much to hold, impossible to dam.

It spilled over into her soul.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

“Oh, I hate you!”

Sophia bent over Lucy’s betrothal ring, wearing an expression of fascinated envy. “You just have to stay one step ahead of me, don’t you?” she asked, flinging away Lucy’s hand.

Lucy remained seated at the dressing table, watching Sophia’s reflection pace back and forth in the mirror. Above her, Sophia’s lady’s maid muttered violent threats around a mouthful of hairpins. Lucy’s curls, like her thoughts, were particularly unruly this morning. The diminutive French maid was undaunted. She attacked with Gallic determination, yanking and twisting the chestnut locks into an elaborately coiled coiffure for the wedding.

The wedding. Lucy’s scalp prickled at the thought.Her wedding.

“First,” Sophia ticked off on her fingers, “you’re miles ahead of me in kisses. Then I get engaged in the garden, in perfectly scandalous fashion. One would think I’d have the advantage of you there for at least a solid hour, but no. Ten minutes later,you get engaged in the garden. You’re about to get married before my father’s even granted his consent. And now you’ve even beaten me to the ring. I shan’t have mine until Toby can retrieve it from Surrey. And even then, it won’t be half so fine.”

Lucy smiled at her friend’s pouting tirade. “Must I remind you,” she asked, “that I would not be engagedor getting marriedor wearing a betrothal ring at all, had you not invented that ridiculous letter?”

“It wasyour idea.” Sophia paused at the window and leaned against the glass in a petulant pose. “And don’t sound so put out. I did you a grand favor.” She toyed with the tassel of the amber-colored drapes. “You’re disgustingly happy; don’t try to pretend otherwise.”