“Oh Dahlia, please? Spread your legs for me? Let me taste that sweet, dripping pussy. I know you must be so wet for me, Princess.” The girl tilted her head back, a smile curving her full scarlet lips as she let him kiss his way down her neck. She squeezed her knees tightly together at his request, ignoring the warm tingling between her legs. His length pressed hard against the back of her skirt, and though layers of fabric separated them, she felt the solid weight of him. He was larger than any of the village men who had previously managed to reach this point.
She gasped as his hand wandered from her waist, traveling higher and skimming inward towards the curve of her breasts. He was nearly there, his fingers brushing the soft points of her nipples, which were now taut with arousal and straining against the thin cotton of her blouse. Just as he reached for them, she pushed him away abruptly, bending to pick up her basket.
“Oh Archer, you know I can’t. A girl’s virtue is all she has until she walks down the aisle, says ‘I do,’ and catches a man once and for all.” She gave him a cheeky smile and smoothed her dark curls as she scooped up her red cloak, laid across the basket of baked goods her father had made to keep them warm.
Fastening the velvet cloak securely around her neck—her grandmother’s gift from the previous Christmas, lined with warm satin—she tucked her hair carefully inside. Archer stared at her in disbelief. He’d truly believed she was going to yield.
“Oh, woodsman. You know it’s true. I let you have the milk, you won’t even think to buy the cow.” Her laughter filled the space behind the barn where he’d pulled her from her morning path.
“Any man in this town would be happy to marry you, whether they fucked you before or after. A proposal? Is that what you want, Dahlia? I’ll ask.” He paused, then continued, “I’ve already built a cabin in the forest, enough to provide for a family. I’ll marry you and make an honest woman of you.” Dahlia’s eyebrows rose at his emphasis on “honest,” and her laughter rang out again.
“Oh, will you Archer Barnes? You’re willing to marry me just to bed me? And after I heard you bedded Goldi Graves after she was lost in the woods, not even a fortnight ago, if my sister’s telling truth?” His cheeks flushed crimson, and she turned on her heel, skipping down the path toward the forest.
“But I’ll think on it, Archer. I wouldn’t mind living in the woods in a cabin. There are worse fates for a girl.”
The forest closed around Dahlia quickly. Her grandmother lived a half-day’s journey away, and she knew she shouldn’t have lingered, letting Archer kiss her and grind against her before continuing on her way. It wasn’t safe to be in the woods after dark—her father had instructed her to leave at dawn.
But Dahlia rarely followed instructions. Her sister, Hazel, was the dutiful one. Three years older, Hazel was already married to the village blacksmith, with a four-year-old and a two-year-old, and another on the way. She was everything their parents could ask for, while Dahlia was simply…Dahlia.
From childhood, she’d sought out trouble wherever she could find it.
Dahlia let her head drift backwards, staring up at the trees that hung over the path. Cedars, pines, and firs crowded close, creating a thick canopy that blocked most of the light from reaching the forest floor. But the birds were singing, and she’d already counted three squirrels—one of which, she was sure, had scolded her.
Personally, she always felt the stories about the forest were exaggerated.
Wolf people. She rolled her eyes. Monsters weren’t real. Bears, yes, and occasional cougars. Maybe wolves, but they were never seen near town, not with the hunters around. She’d likely see several hunters on her walk. She might even see Archer again. Her lips curved into a suggestive smile at the thought.
Did she want to marry him? She twisted the handle of her basket as she considered the question.
Archer was handsome, reliably solid. His length against her ass felt promising. He had a home, could support her steadily, and she wouldn’t have to leave the village she’d grown up in.
That thought turned the corners of her lips into a frown.
What was she expecting? Dahlia asked herself. You aren’t a princess. No Prince Charming will come along and sweep you off your feet.
But she knew that wasn’t really what she wanted. It was something else—a vague, nebulous longing for adventure.
Shifting the basket against her hip, she hurried on. She needed to make up for the time she’d lost that morning if she was going to reach her grandmother’s house before her afternoon nap.