A Week to Be Wicked (Spindle Cove #2)(82)

Sweet, darling Min. From the first, this was what he’d loved most about her. Her certainty.

She pressed a kiss to his jaw. He took a deep, slow breath. Remarkable, how much lighter he felt. As though without her arms anchoring him, he might simply float away.

“Do you know something?” he asked drowsily. “I’ve always thought my parents’ death was like something from a ballad. They loved each other so very much. Even as a boy, I could see it. It seems almost fitting that they met such a poetic end. Always together, united even in death. As tragedies go, you must admit—it’s a rather romantic one.”

She was quiet for a long time, but he knew she wasn’t sleeping. Her fingers teased through his hair.

He’d almost drifted off when he heard her reply.

“If you write the verse, I’ll sing it.”

Minerva didn’t sleep any more that night. Her heart and mind were too full. And somehow, she knew he’d sleep more soundly if she kept the vigil for him.

As the first rays of dawn seeped into the hut, she stretched her left arm. First overhead, drawing blood to her numbed, stiff fingers. Then habit and necessity drew her arm to the side, where she groped for her spectacles.

With an incoherent murmur, Colin turned in his sleep. He threw a leaden arm over her torso, and his fingers fumbled for her breast.

Oh, heavens. Her heart froze for a moment, refusing to beat. Then it underwent a rapid, prickling thaw. It hurt, the way snow-numbed fingertips stung, when thrust in a basin of warm water. Breathing suddenly required conscious thought.

She reached for her spectacles every morning, first thing. Because she could make no sense of the day without them.

Colin reached for her.

She couldn’t “heal” him. No woman could. Events that far in the past just couldn’t be undone. But perhaps he didn’t need a cure, but . . . a lens. Someone who accepted him for the imperfect person he was, and then helped him to see the world clear. Like spectacles did for her.

An hour from now, the idea would seem absurd. But these first misty rays of morning forgave all kinds of foolishness. So just for a moment, she let herself dream. She let herself imagine how it would be to wake like this every day, feeling essential to him. The last thing he touched at night, and first thing he reached for every morning—out of familiarity and a desire to feel whole.

By the time he stirred with wakefulness, pressing kisses to her cheek, she wanted it so keenly, so desperately, some raw, throbbing part of her heart was already mourning the disappointment.

She turned away from him, onto her side—not wanting to explain how she’d managed to make herself so overwrought even before breakfast. He nestled behind her, cradling her body with his own. The pose emphasized all the contrasts of their physiques. The hard contours of his chest pressed along her back. The coarser hair of his legs rubbed against her smooth thighs.

Beneath the linens, his hands roamed her curves with hot, possessive intent. Cinching an arm about her waist, he drew her close. His arousal pulsed against her lower back.

“Min,” he breathed, nuzzling the curve of her neck. “I need you again. Can you take me?”

She nodded her assent. But before she could turn to face him, he’d cupped and lifted her leg, shifting position behind her. His hardness wedged between her thighs.

She tensed, uncertain.

“It’s all right.” He kissed her neck as his fingers slid down her belly, working their way to her cleft. “Let me show you.”

He caressed her intimate flesh with skill and patience. Until she was not only ready, but desperate for him.

“Love me,” she begged. Because she could speak the words right now, without risking too much.

He took his erection in hand, tilted her hips to just the right angle, and eased inside.

She was tender from the night before. But he was gentle, holding her curled in his arms and loving her in slow, deliberate strokes. The sweet warmth between them grew and spread. She relaxed her body, undulating with his thrusts so that they moved as one.

He palmed her breast and pinched her nipple. Then his touch drifted down her body.

Yes. Lower. Touch me there.

He knew what she craved. He caught her pearl with his fingertips and worked her in tight, feverish circles until she shuddered and cried out with the exquisite pleasure. As her climax receded, he withdrew, finishing with a few hard, desperate thrusts between her thighs. As he came, she savored his low growl.

“Good morning.” She felt his smile against her nape.

“Is it?”

His tone changed. “Don’t you think so? Are you wishing we hadn’t—”

“No.” Screwing up her courage, she twisted to face him. “I have no regrets. None. But I want assure you, just in case it needs saying . . . I don’t have any expectations.”

Only hopes. Wistful, foolish hopes.

He blinked. “You don’t have any expectations.”

Surely he must understand what she meant. “What we shared was wonderful. But I don’t want you to worry that I’m expecting something more.”

“Well,” he said dryly. “How very generous of you.”

“Aren’t you relieved?” She didn’t understand the annoyance in his voice.

He rolled onto his back, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “Minerva, I can’t decide which of us you’re insulting more. After last night, you should have expectations.”