A Week to Be Wicked (Spindle Cove #2)(30)

“Min, I didn’t mean . . .”

“Turn around,” she said, waving him off. “It’s late, and I’m fatigued. Spare me the apologies and turn around while I undress. I’ll tell you when my four priggish eyes are safely beneath the disgusting sea snail.”

He did as she asked, turning away. While he worked his cuffs loose, he tried to close his ears to the rustle of fabric. It didn’t work. He couldn’t stop his imagination from running wild, painting image after image of her stepping free of her gown, freeing the laces of her stays. He heard a rush of breath, and a thrill raced down his spine as he recognized it as that deep, arousing sigh a woman gave when her br**sts were unbound at the end of the day.

Blood rushed to his groin, and he strangled a sigh of his own. He was a man, he told himself. There was an unclothed woman in the room. His physical reaction couldn’t be helped. It was simple biology. Birds felt it. Bees felt it. Even primeval sea snails felt it.

He heard soft splashes from the washstand, as she dragged a wet cloth over her every lush, naked curve. Really, she was just torturing him now. He probably deserved it.

At long last, he heard the bed creak. “You may turn now.”

He turned, fully assuming he’d find her huddled under the covers, facing the wall. Instead, she lay on her side, looking directly at him.

“I’m going to disrobe,” he said. “Didn’t you want to turn away?”

“I don’t think so, no.” She propped her head on her hand. “I’ve never seen a man naked. Not a real one, not up close. Call it indulging my scientific curiosity.” Her gaze sharpened. “Or call it an apology, if you prefer.”

Oh, she was a clever one indeed. So, he was to pay for all his teasing and unthinking insults with naked humiliation. Even Colin had to admit, the penalty was just.

“I’d be more than happy to let you survey my physical perfection in its entirety. But only if I get to see you, too.” To her shocked silence, he replied, “It’s only fair. Tit for tat.”

“How is that fair? You’ve seen countless tits.”

Damn, the way she said that word. So plainly, without any hint of missishness. Just when he’d regained control of himself, she had him instantly, throbbingly aroused.

“I don’t know why you’d need a peep at mine,” she went on. “And since you’ve proudly waved your . . . tat . . . before half the women in England, I find it odd that you’d claim modesty now.”

“It’s true,” he said evenly, “that I’ve been blessed to view a great many bosoms in my life. But every pair is different, and I haven’t seen yours.”

She shrank in the bed linens, curling into that embroidered shell. “They’re nothing out of the ordinary, I’m sure.”

“I’ll be the judge of that.”

Her chin lifted. “Very well. Here is my best offer. Half of my nakedness, for all of yours.”

He pretended to think on it. “It’s a bargain.”

Sitting up in bed, she unbuttoned the front of her chemise. Then she drew the sleeves down each shoulder, carefully shielding her br**sts with her folded legs. Her forearms were toasted by the sun, but her shoulders were pale, swannish curves of loveliness.

Once she’d bared herself to the waist, she hunched behind that wall of knees and issued a challenge. “You first.”

He pulled his shirt over his head and cast it aside. Then he undid his buttons and dropped his breeches without ceremony.

Well, not entirely without ceremony. There was a certain amount of fanfare. His rapidly growing erection all but trumpeted for attention, jutting out from its nest of dark hair. Waving in an embarrassing, adolescent way.

“Now you,” he said.

True to her word, she lowered her knees and revealed her bare torso.

They took each other in.

She was right, he told himself. Her br**sts were nothing out of the ordinary. To begin with, there were two of them. The usual number. They were round and just on the plump side of average, capped with prominent ni**les. The room was too dark to discern those puckered nubs’ precise shade, but he wasn’t choosy. Pink, berry, tawny, brown . . . they all tasted the same in the dark.

No, her br**sts, while attractive, were not empirically more or less enticing than most bosoms he’d seen. But what quite stole his breath away was the entirety of her. The picture she made, sitting there half-nude in a rumpled nest of fresh white sheets. Her dark hair tumbling about her shoulders, and those spectacles perched—fetchingly askew—at the tip of her nose. Those lush, plum-colored lips oh-so-slightly parted.

She looked like a memory, interrupted. A torrid dream. Or a glimpse of the future, perhaps.

Stop. Don’t think such things.

“Surely it’s not always like that?” she asked, leaning forward and peering intently.

“Like what?”

“So . . . big. And active.”

His straining c**k gave another eager leap. Like a poorly trained hound.

“Did you do that on purpose?” she asked, sounding amazed.

Oh, the devious things Colin suddenly longed to do on purpose. With purpose. For the explicit purpose of steaming those spectacles and making her mewl with unfettered delight.

“I’m not going to seduce you,” he said.

After a moment’s delay, she gave her head a brisk little shake. Her gaze wandered back up to his face. With a single fingertip, she pushed her spectacles up on her nose. “Excuse me, what?”