A Week to Be Wicked (Spindle Cove #2)(21)

Her breath caught as he pressed a chaste kiss to her forehead. Then her cheek. Then her jaw.

Then her lips.

He pressed the tip of his tongue to that vulnerable hinge at the corner of her mouth, coaxing her lips to part. She gasped a little, and he took advantage of the moment, sweeping his tongue inside her mouth.

She froze instantly, pressing her hand flush against his chest. Then she pushed him away. “I don’t understand.” She made a fist, clutching his wet shirtfront. “I don’t understand why you do that. I don’t understand what I’m supposed to do in return.”

“Shush.” He stroked her hair, dragging his fingers through the heavy, damp strands to untangle them. “Kissing’s like any skill. It takes a bit of practice. Think of it . . . think of it like dancing.” He paused to kiss her neck, her earlobe. “Just surrender to the rhythm of it. Follow my lead.”

They tried again. This time, he sucked her upper lip between his and worried it a little. Then he repeated the attentions with her lower lip.

And then he swept his tongue between the two.

His tongue rubbed over hers. She cautiously stroked back with her own, earning a little growl of approval. A thrill chased over her skin. Heat built between their bodies, melting away some of her anxiety.

He tilted his head, exploring her mouth from a new angle.

She understood now why he’d compared kissing to dancing. He had moves. A great many of them. Not just thrusting his tongue in and out, but swirling and toying and subtle coaxing. And just as she always did on a dance floor, Minerva quickly grew faint, dizzy. She felt overwhelmed and out of her depth. Always a step behind.

Once again, she broke away.

“This won’t work,” she said, wilting inside. “I’m hopeless at dancing. It simply won’t work.”

“No, don’t say that.” His labored breaths raced hers. “It was a bad example on my part. Don’t think of it like dancing. Kissing’s nothing like dancing. Think of it as you would . . .” He flicked a glance to the fossil-studded cave wall. “An excavation.”

“An excavation?”

“Yes. A proper kiss is like an excavation. When you’re digging up your little troglodytes, you don’t just go plunging your shovel into the soil higgledy-piggledy, do you?”

“No.” Her wariness stretched the word.

“Of course not. A proper excavation takes time and care. And very close attention to detail. Slowly sifting through the layers. Unearthing surprises as you go.”

That sounded much more promising. After a long moment’s reflection, she asked, “So who is excavating whom?”

“Ideally, it’s a bit of both. We sort of . . . take turns.”

She was silent for a long moment. Something about the air around them changed. Heated.

She swallowed hard. “May I go first?”

Colin struggled to suppress his triumphant grin. It would have ruined everything. He made his voice solemn. “But of course.”

She rose up to sit on her knees, positioning herself to face him. The dim glow allowed him to see her in silhouette. Just an enticing hourglass of shadow with a halo of curling hair. He wanted to reach for her, pull her close again. Give his pulse some better reason to pound. Ease his soul with the warm, human contact he craved. At times like these, patience came at a premium.

But its reward was great. Her hand reached out to him, swimming through the dark to caress his face.

God, she was such a surprise.

Her curiosity marked her apart from other girls. She didn’t concentrate on the features one would suppose—eyebrows, cheekbones, lips, the line of his nose. All the features that comprised “a face” in a schoolgirl’s sketch. No, her touch was thorough, indiscriminate, searching out every detail. The flat of her palm scraped over his unshaven jaw. She smoothed a narrow furrow between his brows and stroked a light caress under his eyes, where the sleepless nights weighed heavy. He found himself nuzzling into the touch. He exhaled until his lungs were empty.

She brushed the fringe of his eyelashes with one fingertip, and a delicate cascade of pleasure rippled through him. What a revelation that was. He’d have to add eyelash caresses to his own repertoire.

When her fingers pushed into his hair, he moaned. Women always loved his wavy hair, and he always loved the attention they paid it. Pleasant sensations raced over his scalp as she sifted through the wet locks, teasing them back from his forehead. Her fingertip found his scar and traced it—the thin, pale ridge that began at his temple and curved back over his ear. His only physical souvenir of the carriage accident, it was undetectable to the casual observer.

But she found it, easily. Because finding buried things was what she did best, he supposed. A proper excavation left no secret hidden.

He began to wonder about the wisdom of this exercise.

“We’re supposed to be kissing,” he said.

“I’m getting to it.” Her voice betrayed a hint of nerves. She moved closer, drawing her knees between his splayed thighs. Leaning forward, she brushed her lips over his.

The blissful shock of it rattled his very bones. But as she receded, he kept his tone glib. “You can do better.”

She took the challenge and kissed him again, more firmly this time. Her tongue flicked out, nimble and curious. And all too fleeting. “Better?”