Free A Week to Be Wicked by Tessa Dare Page B

course not. A proper excavation takes time and care. And very close attention to detail. Slowly sifting through the layers. Unearthing surprises as you go.”
    That sounded much more promising. After a long moment’s reflection, she asked, “So who is excavating whom?”
    “Ideally, it’s a bit of both. We sort of . . . take turns.”
    She was silent for a long moment. Something about the air around them changed. Heated.
    She swallowed hard. “May I go first?”
    C olin struggled to suppress his triumphant grin. It would have ruined everything. He made his voice solemn. “But of course.”
    She rose up to sit on her knees, positioning herself to face him. The dim glow allowed him to see her in silhouette. Just an enticing hourglass of shadow with a halo of curling hair. He wanted to reach for her, pull her close again. Give his pulse some better reason to pound. Ease his soul with the warm, human contact he craved. At times like these, patience came at a premium.
    But its reward was great. Her hand reached out to him, swimming through the dark to caress his face.
    God, she was such a surprise.
    Her curiosity marked her apart from other girls. She didn’t concentrate on the features one would suppose—eyebrows, cheekbones, lips, the line of his nose. All the features that comprised “a face” in a schoolgirl’s sketch. No, her touch was thorough, indiscriminate, searching out every detail. The flat of her palm scraped over his unshaven jaw. She smoothed a narrow furrow between his brows and stroked a light caress under his eyes, where the sleepless nights weighed heavy. He found himself nuzzling into the touch. He exhaled until his lungs were empty.
    She brushed the fringe of his eyelashes with one fingertip, and a delicate cascade of pleasure rippled through him. What a revelation that was. He’d have to add eyelash caresses to his own repertoire.
    When her fingers pushed into his hair, he moaned. Women always loved his wavy hair, and he always loved the attention they paid it. Pleasant sensations raced over his scalp as she sifted through the wet locks, teasing them back from his forehead. Her fingertip found his scar and traced it—the thin, pale ridge that began at his temple and curved back over his ear. His only physical souvenir of the carriage accident, it was undetectable to the casual observer.
    But she found it, easily. Because finding buried things was what she did best, he supposed. A proper excavation left no secret hidden.
    He began to wonder about the wisdom of this exercise.
    “We’re supposed to be kissing,” he said.
    “I’m getting to it.” Her voice betrayed a hint of nerves. She moved closer, drawing her knees between his splayed thighs. Leaning forward, she brushed her lips over his.
    The blissful shock of it rattled his very bones. But as she receded, he kept his tone glib. “You can do better.”
    She took the challenge and kissed him again, more firmly this time. Her tongue flicked out, nimble and curious. And all too fleeting. “Better?”
    “Better.” Almost too good.
    “Hmm. You taste of spirits here.” Her tongue traced the edge of his lip. “But here”—she dipped her head to nuzzle the underside of his jaw—“you smell of spice. Cloves.”
    Bloody hell. Colin’s eyes went wide in the dark as she sipped at his skin, over and over, tracing the curve of his throat. When she reached the center, she brushed her lips over his Adam’s apple. His breath was a painful rasp in his throat. He couldn’t take much more of this.
    “You still haven’t properly kissed me,” he said. “Are you afraid?”
    She lifted her head. “No.”
    “I think you are.” I think I might be, too, just a little.
    And for good reason. Her mouth found his, and her parted lips pressed against his own. And there they stayed. Soft, sweet. Warming in the heat of their mingled breath. All the while, a snarling, feral need clawed him from the inside out, fighting its leash of gentlemanly