A Week to Be Wicked

“God, yes. That’s the way.” He slid his thumb out half an inch, then pushed it in again, deeper. Her cheeks hollowed as she lightly suckled. “You are unspeakably clever, Min. And so . . . so damned lovely.”



She moaned a little as he withdrew his thumb from her mouth. Her lips cinched him so tightly, he heard a small popping sound when it finally slipped free.



“Holy God,” he muttered, collapsing to the mattress. “You’ll kill me.”



She regarded his cock, holding it steady in her grip and giving it a bold, assessing look. Just the thought of watching his length disappear into her mouth . . . it was almost enough to bring him off, right then.



But then his damned conscience caught up with him. “Min, you needn’t . . . hell, you really shouldn’t.”



“Why not? You want it, don’t you?”



“With every corpuscle in my body, believe me. But I can’t ask it. And you shouldn’t offer. It would . . . it would make things awkward in the morning.”



She convulsed with laughter. “We can’t have that. Because we’ve been getting along so smoothly as it is.”



With a toss of her head, she flipped that mane of long, dark wavy hair over her shoulder, and then her head—that enticing mouth—began a slow yet steady descent. She was true scientific adventuress, this girl.



Rules.



He had to have some rule against this. And even if he didn’t have a standing rule—any code of conduct that allowed him to slide his cock into a virgin’s mouth but not her cunny? Well, that code probably needed some rethinking.



But then her sweet kiss was upon him. And then he was in the hot, slick heaven of her mouth. No more thinking would happen tonight.



“Oh,” he moaned, as her warmth enveloped him. “Oh, Minerva.”



Her lips slid downward, slipping over the swollen crown of his erection and partway down the shaft. Then she suckled lightly, her tongue caressing him in sweet waves. His hips arched off the bed, and he cursed.



She pulled away, leaving his cock glistening, aching, and quite possibly hard enough to crush stone. Colin struggled to master his disappointment. She’d performed her experiment, and now she was satisfied. He would not, could not ask for more.



But rather than abandon him entirely, she began to press little kisses up and down his length. He closed his eyes, reveling in the coy whispers of sensation. It was the sweetest torture he’d ever known.



When she took him in her mouth again, he slid deeper this time. Near halfway inside. Her slow, slippery retreat drove him wild with need. He writhed on the bedclothes, grappling for restraint.



No restraint to be found.



Rutting bass-tard that he was, he reached for her and did what he’d been longing to do for ages. He tangled his hand in all that dark, silky hair and made a tight fist. And then he guided her, teaching her how to please him. Dragging her lush, hot mouth up and down his length, in a deep, steady rhythm.



He was a cad. He was a monster. He was going to burn in the fires of hell.



It would be worth it.



“Yes,” he told her, wincing at the exquisite pleasure. “Min, that’s so good. You’re so good.”



He relaxed his grip on her hair, and she backed off him again, sitting straight.



“You don’t—” He gulped for air. “You don’t have to continue.” As if that made him some kind of generous saint.



She only smiled. First, she removed her spectacles, folded them, and set them aside. Then she readjusted her position, hiking her shift to her knees and straddling his sprawled leg as she bent to once again take him in her mouth.



He groaned. She was such a quick study. This was serious now. Shameless, he watched those plump, ripe lips sliding up down his cock. The tight, wet friction was only part of the pleasure. The rest came from the sweet triumph of being stroked by her, pleased by her. Most of all, just being inside her, in some way. He’d been wanting this so damn badly. Those nights of lying next to her, wanting to be inside her. To be part of her.



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.



Twisting to view herself from different angles, she ran her hands down her torso, pulling the sheer fabric tight. Until the wine-colored buds of her nipples showed through, and the dark triangle between her legs as well. She skimmed her hands down her body again, enjoying the soft heat of her flesh beneath the cool fabric. The gentle curves of her breasts, belly, and hips. As she watched her own hands stroking over her skin, her pulse quickened.



This body wanted.



This body was wanted, by him.



In the bedchamber, Colin stirred and mumbled in his sleep. Minerva jumped, then pressed her hands to her mouth to keep from laughing aloud.



She donned a pair of sheer silk stockings and tied them with pink ribbons. She called the maid back in to lace her into a French divorce corset that lifted and separated her breasts to quite flattering effect. With reluctance, she put on the blue silk again. But the effect was much better with her pristine, lacy chemise peeking out at the top. And she found an embroidered white overskirt in her trunk, rather like a pinafore. It covered most of the wine stains.



Her hair was still damp, so rather than pin it all up, she merely gathered a few locks from the front and secured them with tortoiseshell combs. The rest of her hair hung loose and heavy about her shoulders.



“Good morning.”



She turned to see Colin tangled in the sheets, propped up on one elbow and rubbing his unshaven face with the other hand.



“Good morning,” she said, resisting the urge to make a girlish twirl and beg for his approval.



He blinked and focused his gaze. A smile crooked his lips. “Well, Min. Don’t you look pretty.”



Giddy joy fizzed through her. It was a simple compliment, but a perfect one. She would have doubted him, if he’d called her “lovely” or “beautiful” or “stunning.” But “pretty”? That, she could almost believe.



“Really?” she asked. She wouldn’t mind hearing it again.



“You’re the picture of a fetching country lass.” His gaze raked over her body and lingered on her enhanced, lace-framed cleavage. “You make me want to find a hayloft.”



She blushed, just as she supposed any fetching country lass would.



He yawned. “How long have you been out of bed?”



“An hour. Perhaps more.”