A Week to Be Wicked (Spindle Cove #2)(62)

He clutched her bottom, bringing her pelvis flush with his. His hardness ground against her, sending pleasure rushing through her veins.

“Feel that?” he growled.

She nodded. Good Lord, how could she not?

“I’ve been hard for you for days, Minerva. Since before we even left Spindle Cove. If you believe nothing else, believe this.” He rocked against her. “This doesn’t lie.”

Colin was done pretending.

He ushered Minerva into the card room. After he’d greeted the half dozen familiar faces assembled about the green felt tabletop and introduced his feisty foreign mistress-or-murderess Melissande, he took his own chair.

And taking Minerva by the hips, he put her on his lap. Nestled her sweet little backside on his left thigh, draped one arm about her shoulders, and let his hand dangle directly over her breast. With lazy motions, he traced the delicate border where her altered neckline chafed against her exposed décolletage.

“Stay close,” he whispered, nuzzling her ear. While he was in the neighborhood, he took the chance to catch her tiny earlobe with his teeth.

In sum, he made the two of them very, very cozy. Not to create appearances for Halford’s sake. Not to prove a point to her, or to anyone.

Simply because he wanted her. And he was done pretending otherwise.

“Well, Payne.” The duke reached for the deck of cards. “The game is brag.”

Colin surveyed the coins and gambling tokens scattered on the table. “Stake me a sovereign’s worth, will you? I’m not carrying much coin on me.”

“But of course.” The duke slid him two stacks of shillings, each ten pieces tall.

Minerva tensed in his lap.

“Hush,” he murmured against her hair. “Trust me.” She should understand this was necessary. A few hours at the card table earned their board and keep.

She made a doubtful noise in her throat. But she kept still.

“Be a good host, Hal, and have one of these liveried jackanapes fetch my lady food and wine? She could do with some nourishment.”

“So could you, from the looks of you.”

“Yes, well.” Colin grinned. “We’ve quite exhausted each other over the past few days.”

The gamblers around the table laughed heartily. The duke merely waved for servants to bring refreshments and began to deal the cards. Halford was always all business, in the card room.

Colin turned his attention to the cards. Minerva turned hers to the food.

She took care of him, in small ways. While he concentrated on the hand he was dealt, she had his glass filled with claret. Now she prepared for him a slice of roast pork, sandwiched between two halves of a buttered roll. In the process, she dabbed a bit of butter on her thumb. She put her thumb to her mouth and sucked it clean. Colin knew she didn’t intend the motion to be coy or provocative. Which made it arousing as hell.

He’d noted this about her, ever since that first night in the turret. There was an earthy, natural sensuality in her, but it only emerged when she felt confident. Or when she’d had a little wine. He wondered what it would take to coax this Minerva out into the world, permanently. She would need a steady supply of assurance, he supposed. Perhaps her participation in the Royal Geological Society could give her that, to some degree. But the right man could do far more. The right man could plant seeds of confidence, deep inside her, and nurture them to healthy, robust vines that reached and stretched, offering sweet, bountiful fruit.

The only fruit she cared for at the moment was the plate of grapes and apricots before them. Filling her famished belly was clearly her primary goal, and she went about it with energy—devouring wedges of cheese and slices of ham. When a passing servant offered her a tray of bite-sized tarts, she abandoned her wineglass with an eager gasp and reached for a tart with either hand.

She popped one in her mouth and offered the other to him.

Rather than take it with his fingers, he grasped her wrist to hold it steady. Then he devoured the morsel of pastry directly from her fingers, letting his tongue swirl over her fingertips. She sighed, and the little sound was more honey-sweet and sinfully delicious than a jam tart could ever hope to be.

Halford cleared his throat. “It’s your bet, Payne.”

Colin shook himself and sent a shilling wobbling toward the center of the table. “Yes, of course.”

He played, they ate. When they’d both consumed their fill, Colin waved for servants to remove the plates and trays.

Minerva made herself comfortable in his lap. Her fingers curled into the fringe of hair at his nape, toying idly. She stroked up and down the tendons of his neck, soothing away the tension coiled there. Little brushes of kindness he didn’t deserve.

He pressed his lips to her ear and whispered, “You do know I’m sorry? For earlier.”

She gave a slight nod.

With a breathy groan, he slid his arm to her waist and gathered her close. She laid her head on his chest.

He kissed her crown. “Sleep, if you wish.”

She released a full-body sigh and melted in his embrace. This easy intimacy between them . . . it made sense, he supposed, given their adventures over the past few days and nights. But still, it came as a surprise.

He’d been physically intimate with many women, and he’d felt emotionally close to others. But thus far, he’d assiduously worked to keep the two social spheres separate. There were women Colin counted as friends, and then there were women he bedded. Anytime he’d allowed the two groups to overlap, it meant trouble.