A Week to Be Wicked (Spindle Cove #2)(80)

Don’t stop. Please, don’t ever stop.

She rode the wave of pleasure higher and higher, until it broke. He held her tight, stroking on and on as she spiraled and tumbled through bliss.

He raised up on his arms, working her from a new, deeper angle. His pace accelerated, and the force of his thrusts increased. She loved feeling the need strung tight in his muscles. Loved knowing how much he wanted her, seeing the pained expression of desire on his face. Loved taking him just as deep and as hard and as fast as he wanted to go. As though if they collided hard enough, they might be meshed into one person.

They could be meshed into one person, if he didn’t take care.

“Colin,” she panted. “We must be careful.”

“I know. I know. You just feel . . .” He groaned on a deep, hard thrust. “So sweet. So right. So good. So . . . very . . . very . . . very . . .”

With a deep, guttural cry, he pulled free of her body. He slumped forward, shuddering in her arms. His seed spilled over her belly like a confession of some kind. A warm, vital secret.

She stroked his back as his breathing eased. He was so quiet. This was Colin in her arms, and he was never quiet. As he lay there, heavy and silent atop her chest, she began to worry. Had she . . . performed . . . well? Perhaps she hadn’t done enough, or maybe she’d done too much. Perhaps he would have wished her to be louder or bolder or . . . just different, somehow.

She was on the verge of apologizing and begging him to give her a second chance, when he rolled to the side.

“Oh, Min. That was unbelievable. I never dreamed how good it could be with . . .” He smoothed her hair back from her face. “With you.”

Tears of relief and happiness pricked at the corners of her eyes.

He flopped onto his back and propped his head on one arm. “You know, I probably shouldn’t say this. But you could ask me for anything right now—anything at all—and it would be yours.”

“Truly?” She giggled. “Whatever would I wish for? Gold, silver, pearls, rubies . . . ?”

“Done. And done and done and done.”

“The moon.”

“Yours. I’ll go snag it for you, just as soon as I’ve caught my breath. A few stars as well, if you’d like.”

She nestled close to him. “Don’t bother. I can’t imagine anything that would make this moment better.”

But that was a lie. There was one thing she wished she dared ask of him. If she could have anything she desired, she would ask only this.

Love me.

Love me, and let me love you.

The words burned on her tongue, but Minerva couldn’t give them voice. What a hopeless coward she was. She could pound on his door at midnight and demand to be respected as an individual. She could travel across the country in hopes of being appreciated for her scholarly achievements. But she still lacked the courage to ask for the one thing she wanted most.

To be loved, just for herself.

Chapter Twenty-three

Somewhere, a dog howled in the night.

Colin sat up with a start, shaking and drenched in sweat. He flung open the door of the shepherd’s hut and drew greedy gulps of the fresh, cool night air. As his pounding heartbeat slowed, he leaned his brow on his wrist and swore violently.

Light, soothing caresses trailed up and down his back. Her touch didn’t ask questions or make demands. It simply let him know he wasn’t alone.

“Can I help?” she eventually asked.

He shook his head. “It’s nothing out of the usual. Just took me by surprise. The last few nights, I haven’t woken at all. I’d almost begun to think . . .”

“That I was your cure?” He heard a wry smile in her voice. “I think I hoped so, too. But I suppose it was a foolish notion.”

“Not foolish.” He exhaled, running his hands through his hair and gathering his wits. “It’s just this place, I think.”

“It’s too small and dark. We can take our blankets and lie under the stars. Or we can just give up sleeping altogether and walk toward the road.”

“No, no. It’s ages before dawn yet. I can go back to sleep, but I think . . .” He fumbled for his discarded neck cloth and wiped the sweat from his brow and neck. “I think perhaps I’d like to talk.”

The words came as a surprise to them both. They didn’t pretend that he had the weather or coaching routes or any other topic on his mind. She knew instantly what he meant.

“Of course.” She sat up. “Shall I light the lamp?”

“No. Don’t bother.” With the door open, some moonlight shone through the opening. He could discern the silvered outline of her profile, and the concerned glint in her dark eyes. That was enough.

He drew her down beside him, nuzzling in her thick, jasmine-scented hair. He was unsure how to begin. He’d never spoken of that night with anyone, not in detail. But years of keeping his silence hadn’t seemed to help matters. Perhaps it was time to try talking instead. He had to do something, if he was ever going to put this behind him. To seize control of his days and his nights, and weave them into some semblance of a normal, boring life.

He wanted that kind of life. He wanted Minerva to be part of it.

“It will be unpleasant to hear,” he warned her. “Are you certain you won’t mind?”

She snuggled against his chest. “You lived through it, Colin. I can find the strength to listen.”