Grace Goodwin - The Virgins - Complete Boxed Set

I had to find her. The dream would return tonight, every night, until we touched marks, until we mated. But I no longer wanted the dream, I wanted her.

Putting my foot in the stirrup and settling onto the animal, I turned it in the direction of my mate and kicked the horse to a gallop with one word running like a chant in my mind.

Mine.

Cassie

“Mr. Bernot is asking for more coffee,” Mr. Anderson told me, using a cloth to lift the pot from the stove.

“I bet he is,” I whispered to myself.

It was dinnertime and the boarders were finishing off their baked chicken and the string beans I’d picked from the garden. I was whipping the cream for tonight’s dessert of huckleberry pie. With my free hand, I wiped my brow, the heat from the oven and stove made the kitchen warm, even with the back door ajar.

The bell by the front door chimed. He sighed and settled the pot back onto the stove. “So much for trying to help.”

I offered him a small smile, but when he left the room to answer the door, my false gaiety fell away. Mr. Bernot was a problem and had a habit of placing a very unwanted hand on my bottom when I served him at the table.

None of the other guests noticed, for he was very sly. Either that or the other men traveling simply didn’t care. When I gave Mr. Bernot a narrowed look, he only grinned. He was handsome enough with brown hair and a mustache, but the looks he gave me made my skin crawl. Until he left, I planned to spend more time in the kitchens than usual—and sleep with my bedroom door locked. Even sleeping in the attic I had to be cautious.

But I had to go and offer the man some coffee or Mr. Anderson would think me neglectful.

Putting down the whisk and bowl, I wiped my hands on a cloth and retrieved the coffeepot. There were two boarders at present, Mr. Bernot and an older gentleman, a recent widower planning to stay with his sister through the winter.

I’d been widowed at twenty-one, and although I missed the company, my life wasn’t much different now than when my husband, Charles, had been alive. But our guest had lived more than forty years with his wife before her passing and he seemed sad and truly lost without her.

Making my way to the table in the dining room, I filled the older man’s cup first as was polite. While I wished I could lean across the table to reach Mr. Bernot’s cup, he held it out where I would be forced to come around the table to serve him.

Bastard.

Forcing a smile I was quite sure did not reach my eyes, I skirted the table and poured his beverage. Of course, he put his hand on me. I stiffened and shifted back, but he pressed his palm to my bottom, halting my retreat. The old man made no notice, too lost in pouring sugar into his steaming cup.

“Mr. Bernot—” I hissed, ready to tell the man to go straight to hell, but Mr. Anderson came into the room and I held my tongue out of respect, not wanting to make a scene in front of a potential boarder, for Mr. Anderson was not alone.

“And you can see, we eat our meals together. Breakfast is at seven, lunch at noon and dinner at five.”

Mr. Bernot took advantage of my situation; as Mr. Anderson was escorting a handsome gentleman into the dining room, he actually pinched my bottom. I would have slapped him across the face, but the birthmark on my palm, which had only pulsed and emitted a slight warmth before, flared with enough heat to feel as if I held my palm over a candle’s flame. The pain blazed for several seconds before quickly fading, but I could not hold back a gasp of shock at the sharp sting.

Mr. Bernot’s mouth tipped up at the corner and I recognized the look in his eye. He’d taken the sound as approval for his action, which was completely incorrect.

“It smells delicious. I am sorry to be tardy for this evening’s meal.”

Whipping my head up, I was sure I’d heard the deep voice before. I ignored Mr. Bernot to inspect the man standing beside Mr. Anderson at the entry to the dining room. Next to my employer’s short stature and round figure, the newcomer was a giant. He held his hat in his hand, but his head was close to the top of the doorway. He was bulky, with broad shoulders and a barrel chest; however, he held no fat. Only hard, lean muscle. Everywhere.

I took notice of his dark hair, creased by his hat yet the ends held a slight curl I wished to rub between my fingertips. His jaw was square and covered by the early stages of a beard. I had the absurd urge to rub my lips along his jaw and test the texture. It was his eyes, strikingly blue, that held my attention, drew me in, especially since they were sharply focused on me. Not me, specifically, but Mr. Bernot’s hand on my bottom.

My cheeks heated and I forced myself away from Mr. Bernot. Spinning on my heel, I dashed into the kitchen and put the pot back on the stove. Standing there, I rubbed my thumb over the birthmark, which no longer burned, but pulsed at the same frantic pace as my heart.

That man. It was him .

The man from my dreams.

Cassie

In my dreams, my lover’s face had never been revealed, but I knew that voice. The deep timbre, the rough edge to it. He spoke of dinner, but it was the words, “I will find you, ” that I’d never forget.

Leaning against the worktable, I rubbed my palm in an effort to make the tingling stop. Surely, dreams did not become reality. I was hearing things. His voice was similar, but not the same. It couldn’t be the same man. That was simply impossible. No one dreamed of those they hadn’t met.

Then why did my body react to him so viscerally? My breathing was ragged, my skin flushed and heated. It wasn’t from the stove. No, this heat came from within, a warming of my body as if I were readying myself for him, eager for his touch. Beneath my corset, my nipples were hard and sensitive against the unforgiving fabric. And lower, lower I ached.

I didn’t know what to do. I felt… on edge, unsettled. I paced across the small kitchen. Back and forth, rubbing my thumb over my birthmark. The coffee had been served and there was no reason for my return to the dining room. Restless, I picked up the bowl of cream and began to whisk again. I had more energy, more fervor to release and I took it out on the pie topping. Mr. Anderson came through the door then, talking to himself, as he was inclined to do. I did not stop my work, for it easily disguised my agitation.

“The nice young man will be staying three days,” he said, busy filling a plate to the brim with the leftover dinner offerings.

Nice was not the word I’d use to describe the man. Powerful, brooding, intense. And his cock. I knew what it felt like, the thickness of it stretching my pussy wide, the length of it filling me completely. I knew what he smelled like, how he tasted. I knew the power of his thrusting hips, the intensity of his kiss.

“I will fix a plate for him to eat while the others have their pie,” he added, taking a minute to do so. “Well, Cassie, that cream is perfect.”

I looked down, seeing the white topping was thick and stiff. I’d been staring out the back window, lost in my fervent thoughts and hadn’t even realized it. As I helped Mr. Anderson plate several slices of pie with a dollop of the cream on top, I thought more about him . His pale blue shirt fit him snugly. His pants rode low on his narrow hips and could not disguise solid thighs. The dream—no, dreams, for they’d happened four nights in a row—came to me then, the feel of the man on top of me. I envisioned this stranger touching me, nudging his knee between my thighs, sliding in deep, tilting my head for a kiss.