A Week to Be Wicked (Spindle Cove #2)(45)

His touch grazed her nipple. Just lightly, like the pass of a feather. The sensation was startling, exquisite.

“Did you like that?” he asked. “Do you want more?”

Yes. Yes, and yes, please.

“Then you must tell me so. Not in words, if you don’t wish. When you’re caught up in lovemaking, words can—and should—fail you. But a man does perform best with encouragement. So if you wish for more, you must tell me so. With a gasp, or a sigh, or a little moan of pleasure. Let’s try again, shall we?”

Once again, his fingertip teased over her taut, aching nipple. Gone, almost before she could register the sensation.

And then nothing.

She bit her lip. She knew he was waiting on her response. Horrid, teasing man. He would drive her to the brink of trembling, molten pleasure, and then abandon her there. Unless she begged for more.

Minerva lay still and silent for what seemed an age, doing battle with herself. Struggling between the desire to take just a little more, and the fear of surrendering far too much.

Raw need and curiosity carried the day.

Her lips parted, and she released her breath as a slow, almost musical sigh.

He answered with a deep, resonant groan. “Yes. That’s the way. Sigh for me again.”

He pressed his thumb to her nipple and rolled it, teasing around and around the puckered nub. She sighed again, with more feeling this time, and he rewarded her with a light pinch. She arched into his touch, and her head rolled to the side.

“Do you like it?” He tweaked her nipple. “Answer.”

A low moan eased from her throat. He was right. Giving voice to the pleasure made it that much sweeter, sharper. Real.

“Yes. God, yes. This is how to drive a man wild, pet.” His hand shaped and molded her breast as he trailed kisses over her elongated throat, sipping and licking at her skin. “Once I’ve made you sigh, all I can think is how to make you moan. Then whimper. Then cry out in helpless ecstasy.”

He shifted over her, redistributing his weight. He was so hard all over, pressing against her soft flesh. His muscled chest flattened her br**sts. His knee wedged her thighs apart. And then that hard, eagerly thrusting organ she’d brazenly observed and admired last night . . . he pressed it against her sex.

Pleasure rocketed through her. Intense. Consuming. Like nothing she’d ever known.

She moaned, deep and lustily. Because she wanted more. More of his hardness, his heat. More of this enticing friction rubbing her through that cool, smooth linen.

He gave her just what she craved. He set a rhythm, slow and steady, rocking against her as he kissed her throat and nuzzled her linen-sheathed br**sts.

“Yes?” he prompted, sucking her earlobe into his mouth.

“Yes.”

“More?”

“More.”

“Tell me with your hands now. Hold fast to me. Move with me.”

She clung to him, shameless, sliding her hands around his shoulders. Her arousal only climbed as she felt the flex and strain of his muscles beneath her palms. He was laboring so hard, and for her. All for her. She loved feeling the strength in his body as he moved over her, rubbed against her. Again and again and again.

Soon, he had her moaning with every delicious stroke. The louder she called to him, the more resounding his response. The mattress joined the erotic symphony, creaking in time with his strong, rhythmic thrusts. He quickened his tempo, and the bedpost added thumping percussion as it knocked against the wall.

“Yes, Min. This is how it should be.” Raw need edged his voice. “Never settle for less. Be fearless. Wild and loud and lovely. God, you’re so lovely.”

It was dark, and she knew he could scarcely see her. But it didn’t matter. She felt lovely. Beneath her touch, his fevered skin slid hot and beautiful. Together, they’d made this stunning, gorgeous pleasure.

She chased the sensation, tilting her hips and riding his thrusts as they came faster, stronger.

Then something changed. Suddenly, the pleasure was chasing her. Hunting her down with ruthless intensity. She couldn’t hide from it, couldn’t escape.

Her eyes flew open, wide and unfocused in the shadowy dark. “Colin.”

“Yes.” He stroked on, relentless. “Yes, call my name. Louder.”

“Colin, I—” Her voice caught on a fearful gasp. “I can’t . . .”

“Don’t fight it. All’s as it should be. It’s perfect.” As he surged on and on, his brow dropped to her shoulder. “You’re perfect.”

Here it came, the pleasure. Swirling, taunting. Pulling at her from the inside. Dragging her into some dark, strange place. She grasped him tighter, pressing her nails into the flesh of his shoulder.

Don’t let me go.

He kissed her cheek, her lips. “Come for me, darling. Come for yourself.”

At last, she surrendered to it. She heard herself cry out as the bliss finally caught her, lifted her. Pulled her to fragments. Wrung her limp. Left her gasping for breath and changed inside.

And still he moved on, pumping his hips at a tortured, frantic pace. He framed her face in his hands, then drove his fingers back to twist in her hair. The delicious pull sent pleasure rushing through her again.

He held her still and tight, grinding his hardness against her. “Sorry,” he groaned. “Too good. Can’t stop.”