A Week to Be Wicked (Spindle Cove #2)(68)

To feel joined, and not alone.

He stroked a fond caress down her body and reached for the hem of her shift, drawing it up. He slid a hand beneath the frail linen, sliding a touch up the bare expanse of her thigh. She moaned, spreading her legs a little. He took the encouragement, stroking higher still. Until he cupped her sex in his hand, dewy and flushed, guarded by enticing curls.

Yes. God, yes.

He slid a finger between her slippery folds, rubbing up and down her sex. She whimpered and ground her hips, seeking his touch. He slipped his middle finger inside her tight sheath, moving in slow, shallow thrusts that she began to mimic with her mouth. When he moved faster, so did she. When he pressed his finger deeper, she sank down, taking him almost to the root.

The pleasure was so acute, so intense. He couldn’t take much more of this.

He cupped his hand, so that the heel of his palm would rub against her pearl. Moaning with pleasure, she pressed into his touch. She rolled her hips at a brisk, frantic pace, and for the first time, her own rhythm faltered.

“Min,” he gritted out.

She lifted her head, glassy-eyed and flushed with arousal. His left hand remained blissfully lodged between her thighs. He put his right hand over hers where she gripped the base of his erection.

“Like this.” He dragged her hand up and down. “Yes.”

They worked each other in a firm, steady rhythm, staring into one another’s eyes as the pleasure mounted. Until her eyelids flickered closed, and little frown lines appeared between her eyebrows.

“Colin,” she gasped.

“Yes, love. That’s it.” His own head rolled back on the pillow, as he stroked them both faster. “That’s it. That’s—”

She cried out. Her intimate muscles clenched and pulsed around the buried girth of his finger. And then his own climax erupted, sending pure bliss quaking through his body and white light flashing behind his eyelids.

In the aftermath, he kept his eyes closed. He slid his finger from her sex and drew her shift back down her thighs. His chest rose and fell with his heavy breaths. He tried to coax her down to lie beside him, but she stayed where she was—straddling his leg, hand curled around his flagging erection.

Now that curiosity had been satisfied and her own need slaked, he expected her to recoil from him. Surely she’d realize how callously he’d just used her, and what liberties he’d taken with her body and her trust. He fully expected her to hate and loathe him with a renewed—nay, unprecedented passion.

When he finally summoned the fortitude to lift his head and gauge her reaction, he found her replacing her spectacles. Her expression did not hint at hatred or loathing, but rather . . .

Scientific interest. Of course.

“Oh, Colin.” She dabbed a fingertip to his sticky abdomen, then rubbed her fingers together, as though testing the quality of his seed. “That was fascinating.”

Chapter Twenty

He’d been right. Things were a bit awkward in the morning.

Leaving Colin to his sleep, Minerva crept out of bed as stealthily as possible and rang for the maid. She met the servant at the door to the suite, using ridiculous pantomime to ask for a hot bath drawn in the adjoining room.

She felt a pinch of anxiety as the servants brought up the heated water and tub, cringing to imagine how this all looked. A young, unmarried woman sharing a room with a naked, sleeping lord? But the maids acted bored and businesslike, not shocked. Minerva soon realized that for servants at Winterset Grange, this was hardly a scandal. It was merely . . . Friday.

Lord, it was Friday. The number of days before the symposium was dwindling, and here they’d barely made it one third of the way to Edinburgh.

Despite the urgency that calculation implied, she took her time in the bath. The maids had brought her scented oils and soaps, rose petals for the bathwater and cool cucumber slices to soothe her eyes. Minerva accepted assistance in washing her hair. Then she dismissed the servants and lingered in the tub until the water went cool, feeling the soreness and tension ebb from her muscles.

As she toweled dry, she rued the fact she had nothing to wear but the same beleaguered shift and ruined silk gown from yesterday. Perhaps there were spare clothes to be found somewhere in this house, but she didn’t know that she could stomach wearing some mistress’s castoffs. But then her eye fell on her trunk. The trunk that held Francine’s footprint, Minerva’s scholarly notes, and . . .

Her trousseau.

Wrapped in the towel, she padded across the room and undid the buckles on the trunk. Carefully laying aside all her journals and papers, she removed the rolls of white cloth padding the plaster cast. For the most part, these bulky cylinders of white were embroidered bed sheets and tablecloths and pillowcases. But there were other items, of a more personal nature.

Lacy chemises. Gauzy fichus. Bosom-lifting corsets. Silk stockings and ribbon garters.

She’d forgotten these things, tucked inside her trunk for years now. It had seemed she’d never have a use for such sensual, indulgent attire. She’d all but given up on the idea of marriage.

After this journey—heavens, after last night—marriage seemed less likely than ever. But that didn’t mean she couldn’t use these things, or that she must deny this side of herself. The items in this trunk were elegant and sensual, and they were hers. Whether or not she had a husband to display them for.

She unfurled a pristine white chemise, low-cut in both the front and back and worked with lace at the neckline. Setting aside the sprig of dried lavender tucked inside for freshness, she drew the sheer fabric over her body and stood before the mirror.