The Infamous Miss Rodriguez: A Ciudad Real Novella (8 page)

The objects in question were encased in white silk stockings, which were fastened at the top with a scrap of lace and a most distracting ribbon that fluttered with his breath as he leaned down to run the tip of his tongue all around the edge of one stocking. His fingertips skimmed over the other knee and delved behind it to softly stroke the back. She let out a soft, shuddery breath and Vicente sat up, giving her a satisfied smile.

She returned it with a protest. “Why did you stop?”

“I need permission to touch your legs, Miss Rodriguez.”

“You have it,” she said, already breathless.

He reached down and trailed his hand over the silky fabric that covered her slim, shapely calves, lingering again at the edge of her stocking. “Does that permission extend to your thighs?”

She looked at him. “You may touch my thighs, Mr. Aguirre.”

“Very obliging of you, Mrs. Aguirre,” Vicente said, and even in the haze of desire threatening to cloud his senses, he noticed the way she startled at the appellation.

Pretending he hadn’t noticed, he gently separated her legs and placed himself between them. She looked down at him, heavy-lidded and expectant. The late morning light filtering through the open windows painted her skin with streaks of light. Even the cleft between her legs was illuminated, as though to guide his way.

Lowering his head, Vicente began to trace a trail of kisses along the inside of one thigh, switching to the other when he reached the top and discovering as he went that his tongue fit perfectly into the creases where her thighs met her hips. He traveled downwards again and laid a kiss against the side of her knee, near the ribbon fastening, then sat up again.

She was breathing heavily by then, her voice unsteady when she said, “Where would you like to touch next?”

He looked up at her, pretending to consider. After a moment, he said, “Your shoulders.”

She groaned. “Do it if you must but I will warn you—I feel like I might expire at any moment.”

He laughed as he returned to the head of the bed, where they both sat up against the wooden headboard. “I’d really rather you didn’t. Call me choosy, but I’d rather my lovers are alive.” Her shoulders were smooth and golden, slightly sloped. He tilted up her head with the tips of his finger and kissed the place where her neck began, where her pulse beat faintly against his lips. “Warm.”

He made his way down her shoulder, softly scraping the skin with his teeth. Her hand reached out to grasp his bare thigh and he cursed against her skin.

“Vicente,” she said, and he pulled away to look into her eyes.

She was serious, and for a heart-stopping moment, Vicente wondered if he’d done something wrong. But her hand was still on his thigh and she was rubbing her thumb against a patch of skin, gently, as she tried to find the words she wanted to say. “Thank you. For making this so…pleasant. I know it’s not necessary for a man’s enjoyment.”

“It is for me,” he said firmly. He dipped his head to drop another kiss on her shoulder. “I couldn’t take any pleasure if I didn’t know you were enjoying yourself as well.”

Her fingertips landed on his face, feather-soft. “What can I do for you? Where can I touch you?”

“I’ll show you. Later. For now, your only task is to enjoy yourself.”

His lips were on her neck and his hand was exploring her thigh, mirroring her movements. The skin on the inside of her thigh was velvety soft, thinner than the rest. Hotter, too.

His own temperature had been increasing with every moment that passed, and it wasn’t only because of the heat that permeated the luxurious room. He was ablaze, the fire inside him kindled by the small sounds escaping her lips as his fingers crept between her thighs. And there, in the cleft between them, he confirmed what he already knew: she wanted him, as badly as he wanted her.

He abandoned her neck and reached for her lips, sighing as he felt the heat of her mouth against his. She kissed him back hungrily, boldly, with as much enthusiasm as she did everything else. He ran his tongue over her lower lip and she opened up for him, responding eagerly, if a bit clumsily.

“I should like to touch your breasts,” he murmured against her mouth.

She didn’t say a word, but picked up his hand in hers and lifted it to her chest. Together, they caressed her round, small breasts and the pendant that fell between them. After a moment, though the could imagine no pleasanter sensation than that of her tight nipple under his palm, he slipped his hand away and watched hers skim over her skin. Her touch was confident, like she was used to giving herself pleasure and knew just how to touch herself to elicit it.

But it was the expression in her eyes that nearly finished him off. She kept her gaze fixed to his and her eyes were filled with a mixture of humor and desire and daring. It was a look he knew he’d remember long after he was gone.

He touched her jaw and drew her in for another kiss, this one deeper than the one that came before. His breathing was ragged when he pulled away, saying, “Graciela.” He swallowed, feeling the need gather in the base of his stomach. “Graciela. I can’t hold on for much longer.”

“Then take me, Mr. Aguirre,” she whispered into his ear. The rolling r’s of his name sent a tremor running through them both. “Make me your wife.”

* * *

H
e took her
.

He eased himself inside her slowly, murmuring something about a momentary discomfort. She was already slick and ready, the place between her thighs throbbing with need, and after the initial resistance had been gotten over with, Graciela found herself thoroughly enjoying the way he felt inside her.

Then it was her turn to touch him.

She held him by the back of his neck and moved her hands over his upper back, kneading his muscles as she dragged her lips over his neck, keeping her mouth occupied so she wouldn’t cry out.

But it was nearly impossible to keep quiet when it felt like she really
would
expire.

Her hands moved over his shoulders until her nails were digging into his biceps. They were bulging with muscle as he raised himself above her and though she wanted to trace every curve and indentation, it was all she could do to hold on as he plied her with strokes that grew less careful and controlled the closer they both reached the edge.

Stroke after stroke and her pleasure mounted until it exploded through her body, bright and hot at its center, everything but Vicente fading away in the blinding glow of it.

* * *

F
or the next several hours
, Vicente watched as light streamed through the shutters and dabbed the bedsheets and Graciela’s skin with brightness.

But night fell swiftly here in the tropics. Before long, afternoon faded into twilight, which gave away to a deep, dense darkness, relieved only by the street lamps that dotted the avenue.

Nightfall hadn’t relieved the day’s scorching heat. Normally, Vicente would be roaming the waterfront, hoping for a stray breeze, or in one of the rougher taverns, being plied with cool drinks by girls with fans and too little clothing. Instead, he was lying in a posh hotel under a thin cotton blanket, his wife clasped in his arms.

Save for the scratchy embroidery on the pillow and the mosquito that wouldn’t stop circling his right ear, Vicente was curiously content with the arrangement.

There was a dimple on the back of her left shoulder and though he couldn’t see it in the dim light that came through the open windows, he was more than happy to stroke her smooth brown skin until he found it.

“I can hardly believe it’s all over,” she said drowsily. “I’m finally,
finally
, free.”

“What will you do now?” he murmured. As he spoke, his lips brushed the curve of her ear and his breath ruffled the wayward curls she’d tucked behind it.

“I don’t know,” she admitted. “I’ve got no reason to court notoriety now, so I suppose I can do… whatever I want. I’ve been so preoccupied with the fight for my freedom I never stopped to think of what I would do once I’d gotten it. But there are plenty of things I can amuse myself with, so the real question is, what will
you
do now that I’ve spoiled your chances with the Medinas?”

Vicente had been wondering that exact thing since the moment his fist had connected with Alvaro Medina’s face. Leaving Montsant was his best option. There were plenty of other factories in the world where he might be able to find employment and until he did, the money she’d promised him would be more than enough to live on. But the thought of returning to rough labor and odd jobs held no appeal.

“I’ll think of something,” he said finally. He always did.

Graciela was silent for a moment.

“Have you any family?”

“Not to speak of.” He would have left it at that but something—the strong, sweet wine, perhaps, or the intimacy that had been growing between them until it encircled them like a protective bubble—made him continue. “My parents are alive. I think. I hadn’t heard from them in years since before I left Chile. I have siblings. Two sisters and a brother that I know of. Maybe more by now. I don’t know if I’d recognize them if I were ever to see them again.”

“Will you see them again?”

“I have no plans to return to Chile.” There was nothing for him there. And once Graciela had paid him, there would be nothing in Montsant for him either.

“How long has it been since you left home?.”

“Years and years. I was always making off when I was a boy. My parents seemed to neither notice nor care, and by the time I could look after myself, I’d leave for as long as a week at a time without anyone noticing. Then I got a job as a bobbin boy at a factory they’d just opened in Santiago and just…stopped going back.”

“Didn’t you miss them?”

“Not dreadfully. There were always too many people around, and none of them very kind.” He’d tried to go back, once, with a gift he’d bought his mother out of his own wages—some cheap trinket, he couldn’t remember what exactly. His brothers, bigger and stronger than he’d been, had pummeled him, saying they wouldn’t stand for thieves in the family. Considering it was composed mostly of drunkards and gamblers, Vicente had thought they’d no cause to be picky about thievery.

He didn’t say any of this to Graciela but in response to his earlier comment, she made a small noise, which Vicente didn’t know whether to interpret as amusement or pity. “I had grand old times once I got away from home,” he said. “I met another boy around my age and we went around Santiago together, finding odd jobs in factories and having what fun we could.” They’d taken care of each other as well as they could and when he’d been killed in a factory fire, at the age of twelve, Vicente had all but gone mad with grief.

“Why factories?” she asked.

Vicente shrugged with his free shoulder. “I like them. People complain the machines are taking jobs away from humans but there’s always something for a willing body to do. There’s an order to things, a process, and very few places are successful if they don’t follow it. I’ve seen a great many foremen work, and the only ones who’ve had any success are the ones who respect the process.”

“It’s funny,” she said. “My family has owned the factory since before I was born but I don’t think I’ve ever set foot in it.”

She was stroking his chest, fingertips moving restlessly over the ridges of muscle. It felt vaguely ticklish, in a pleasant way, but Vicente reached up to capture her fingers into his palm, drawing his other hand over the curve of her long neck. The back of it was warm and slightly damp with sweat.

He dipped his head to kiss one of her golden brown shoulders. They had been married only for a handful of hours but already Vicente could feel himself being gripped by the kind of longing he hadn’t felt since he was a boy, when he’d yearned for permanence and family and a home unlike the one he’d abandoned at eight years of age.

He had always been alone and he’d thought he always would be. Now, as he felt the warmth of her touch, Vicente realized for the first time how lonely his life had been so far. But even as the feeling dug its claws into his chest, he knew it was foolish to hope she could view their arrangement as anything other than that—an arrangement.