A Week to Be Wicked (Spindle Cove #2)(78)

“Minerva.”

Awareness tingled over every inch of her skin. The hunger in his eyes, the smoldering heat between their bodies . . . this wasn’t a lesson, or an experiment to satisfy scientific curiosity. It wasn’t pretense of any sort.

This was real.

He bent his head by slow degrees, teasing out the moment. Making her reach for him, stretch for him, ache for him. Until finally, his hand slid to cradle her neck and he took her mouth in a deep, passionate kiss.

She let the peach slip from her fingers and tumble to the straw-covered ground, the better to fill her hands with him. They kissed and grappled, tangling tongues and weaving their fingers into each other’s hair. It seemed they couldn’t get close enough, couldn’t kiss deeply enough, couldn’t press enough skin to skin.

Her ni**les came to tight points. She felt the hard ridge of his erection, jutting against her belly. And her mind slowly caught up to what their bodies already knew. There was only one way to satisfy this need. Only one means of achieving the closeness she craved.

“Minerva.” He slid his tongue from her throat to her ear. “I want to make love to you.”

Just at the words . . . that bold, unequivocal statement of intent . . . fire raced through her veins. Hot, powerful, consuming.

There were a dozen reasons why she might refuse him. But they were all someone else’s reasons. Her mother’s, her peers’, society’s. She’d already left all those expectations behind. If Minerva consulted herself, there was no question. Her body craved the feel of his skin against hers. Her ever-curious intellect was eager to experience physical passion, with him. And her heart . . .

Oh, her heart was already his for the breaking.

His hands went to the knotted overskirt ties. With deft motions, he untied them and slid the garment free. Then he started on the row of hooks down her back.

His voice grew rough with need. “I promised you I wouldn’t do this. Hell, I promised myself I wouldn’t do this. But I can’t help it, Min. I want you so badly.”

She kissed his throat and pressed her body to his, hoping to show him what she couldn’t quite find words to say. That she wanted him, too. Needed his touch. As he worked the closures of her gown loose, she tangled her fingers in his wavy hair.

“Colin,” she sighed.

His hands went to her shoulders. His gaze searched hers. “If you don’t want this, tell me so.” He swallowed hard. “Say the word, and I’ll stop.”

In answer, she merely drew the sleeves of her gown down her arms and pushed the blue silk to her feet. He took one of her hands to steady her as she stepped free of the gown.

Standing back a pace, he made a wistful noise in his throat. “Just look at you. So lovely.”

She warmed with pleasure as he surveyed the items she’d drawn from her trousseau that morning. Her lacy white chemise, bosom-flattering corset, and silk stockings. If she’d been saving them for anything other than this moment with him, she couldn’t remember it. This mad, triumphant day at the fair; this snug, humble place to spend the night. The unveiled desire in his eyes as he regarded her.

This felt like all she’d ever wanted.

She opened her trunk and found those embroidered sheets she’d stitched and saved for some unlikely wedding night. Together, they spread them on the narrow cot.

Even if she went to her grave a spinster, she would still have known more passion in this one night than some women experienced in a lifetime. She vowed to savor every touch. Remember every caress. Keep her eyes open for each and every moment. Even now, as he kissed the soft place beneath her ear.

He took her by the waist and spun her around. With her back to him, she trembled as he worked the laces of her corset loose. At last, the restrictive garment fell away from her body, and she drew a deep, intoxicating breath.

With a soft groan, he gathered her close. The solid muscles of his chest supported her weight as he lifted and cupped her br**sts through her chemise. Her breath quickened as he stroked and caressed the soft globes, thumbing her ni**les to taut, eager peaks.

She turned in his embrace, wanting her turn to touch. Sliding her hands under his lapels and toward his shoulders, she cleaved the coat from his body. He shook the heavy garment down his arms and tossed it aside. She gathered the loose fabric of his shirt and yanked it free of his waistband, sliding her hands beneath to explore the smooth, muscled contours of his torso.

He lifted his arms overhead—as much as he could, with the low ceiling—and she drew the shirt up and over his shoulders. Once his shirt was removed, he directed her to do likewise. Minerva stretched her arms tall as he gathered the thin, gauzy fabric of her chemise and drew it up her body. Slowly, reverently. Until he pulled the shift over her head and arms. With a flick of one hand, he tossed it aside. Then his hands made a slow, languid sweep back in reverse—skimming down her stretched arms, over her br**sts, her waist, her hips. Awakening every part of her with his touch. His palms were a little roughened from his thatching work that morning, but the delicious friction only increased her excitement.

It let her know this was real.

She stood before him bare, save for her stockings and garters. He ran one hand over her backside and down her thigh. She thought he would untie her garter, but instead he smoothed his hand over the delicate silk. Lifting her leg, he wrapped her thigh over his hip, drawing her close. Her br**sts met his bared chest, and as they kissed she couldn’t help but rub them against his solid heat, easing their dull ache. He moaned into her mouth.