Despite the unshakable attraction between them, Maeve and Lucian are uninterested in love and marriage; especially since they hate one another and couldn't think of a worse match.
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London, 1815
Maeve Langston's aversion to the opposite sex has...
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On her way back to the manor, Maeve decided to take her time. If she arrived a bit late for dinner, no one would bother her about it. It wasn't as though she'd been eating much lately, anyway.
Her exploration of the estate had provided a modicum of distraction, as it always did, but now that she was about to return to reality, her anxieties were slowly making their way back into her mind. She'd been truthful with her mother when she'd said she was happy for Ailia, but she regretted how things were going between them. In two days, her twin would be married, and then off to live with her husband soon after. It was a shame that twenty-four years of closeness and love would end this way. With them barely even speaking.
Maeve wasn't even sure her sister still intended to have her by her side during the ceremony, as maid of honor. The likeliness of it was feeble, but since they hadn't discussed it, she gathered she was still meant to be her Twin's companion during the wedding.
Beneath her, Sleipnir had a slight jump, distracting her from her thoughts. Her mount wanted to run, having not had his fill of activity yet. Maeve bent forward to reassuringly pat the side of its powerful neck. The pelt there was barely humid, and she wondered if she should have demanded more of him. London had been rough on her riding abilities, too, and she didn't have as much stamina as she used to.
It turned out she'd found a passion for riding Lucian more than her horse.
Before her thoughts could wander any further into that direction, Maeve forced herself to think of something else, like the narrow path in the wood she would soon enter. But by the time her eyes sought the trees ahead, images of her lustful encounters with Lucian flashed before her eyes. The memories of them in their rawest, most sensuous moments triggered dormant needs to erupt within her.
She missed their talks, their exchanges, his mossy green eyes, the scar that adorned his face, the low tunes of his baritone voice... But she also missed being his, claiming him in her bed or his, offering him her body to do with as he pleased. It was as though he'd planted a need in her, one that never existed before, and now it wouldn't leave her no matter how hard she tried.
He'd introduced her to the pleasures of love and passion, and her body demanded its fill of it. Sometimes, in the darkest hours of the night, she found herself missing him, reminiscent of their nocturnal adventures. Three times now, she'd send her hand below the covers and had touched herself the way he used to touch her, unable to hold back. With him on her mind, she'd found momentary bliss through her ecstatic releases. But those moments had been short-lived, and tears never failed to follow as she was reminded that this would be her life from then on.
Loving and desiring a man she was forbidden to have. One she was ashamed to need so much.
Scolding herself for being such a pathetic idiot, she adjusted her position on the saddle, trying to quench the need awaking in her center. From now on, Sleipnir would be the only being she'd welcome between her legs. No more men, no more nothing. She'd messed up once, she wouldn't do it again. Not ever.
