Wicked Whispers (12 page)

She may have decided it was best for him to protect her virtue, but in time she had to see the wisdom of their coupling and wedding, or their marriage first before full intimacy. As far as he was concerned the order of events hardly mattered.

She was his for a lifetime. Their union a done deal.

Pity he didn’t have her full acceptance and compliance now. Sighing in stark need, he dropped to the blanket, arms and legs flung out, hiding nothing. His member was so rigid it lay on his belly, the crown pointing at his chest. No matter how many breaths he took, none seemed sufficient. “I accept your offer.”

Her laughter filled the pleasant air, dusk beginning to settle on them. No matter. Tonight the moon would be fat, allowing her to peruse his nudity while he did the same with hers.

At his side, she glided her fingers over his throat and down his chest, her touch light yet powerful enough to stir a dead man to life. She circled the flat discs of his nipples, making the tiny tips stand erect.

His shaft grew longer and harder, the skin stretched painfully. He feared his flesh might split if relief didn’t come soon.

She ran her fingers through the crisp curls on his chest and swept her tongue over his nipple, generating heat that had his toes curling and his sex demanding its due immediately. Even a short wait might do him in.

Unmoved by his turmoil, she suckled his nipple and stroked the hair in his armpits.

“Enough.” He wiggled. “There are other parts of me requiring your ardent attention.”

“As you wish.”

She curled her fingers around his thickened shaft, her thumb on the small slit. With the moisture from the opening, she lubricated his cap and ran her thumb over the plump head to the uneven skin on the back.

An eruption of pleasure tore through him, stealing his breath. He lifted his hips, seeking her marvelous touch.

She stopped stroking the spot to work her sweet fingers up and down his shaft instead, mirroring what her channel would do.

A riot of feelings bombarded him. He shuddered. Her strokes grew harder, faster. He tensed, driven closer to the edge.

She slid down him, reaching his tangle of curls and rubbed her nose against his thatch, inhaling deeply of his fragrance.

Their musk already perfumed the air, driving him past restraint.

He panted, barely able to keep still at her stroking the back of his crown. A squall of heat and unrelieved passion battered him. He held his breath, trying to stave off the whirlwind, wanting to prolong the act. No good. His lungs burned so badly, he lost what air he had on an explosive sigh.

She tongued the base of his shaft.

He gritted his teeth hard enough to make his jaw hurt. One more lick…no. What she was doing was too much. He cupped her head. “Enough.”

“Are you quite certain? You haven’t reached the most pleasurable part. Nothing has happened.”

She couldn’t be serious. “What are you doing? Do you intend to take me in your mouth?”

“If you allow me.”

He’d wanted nothing more from the other women he’d known. The well-bred ladies had never suggested or offered their mouths in such a brazen fashion. Only harlots had given him unrestrained delight. “Is this more of Isabella’s doing?”

“My sister likes to talk. Because I love her dearly, I am obliged to listen.”

His laughter sounded slightly frantic to him. “You two…”

“My sister and I are no different from you or any other man.”

Sobering, he lifted his head, taking in her breasts and the delightful hair above her cleft. “I beg to differ.”

“Do what you must, but in our needs we are quite the same. Why should I deny myself your amazing body, surely the most wondrous of any man, when you never hesitated a whit when it came to mine?”

She had a point. He slumped to the blanket, hands still on her head. “Do what you must.”

Her soft laughter sounded amused. “You will not regret this.”

How could he? She drew her tongue down his shaft and cupped his sac in her palm, running her thumbnail over the ruddy skin. The slight rasp registered at the top of his head, the back of his throat, the tips of his fingers and toes. He groaned lustily.

She dipped her tongue into the small opening in his crown.

Never had another señorita savored this part of him as she did, not even the ones paid to deliver pleasure. To them, sex was work with an ample reward if they performed well. To a lady, coupling with a man was part of her duty as a wife and mother, not a delight she couldn’t live without.

To Sancha, enjoying the man he was seemed enough for her without any hidden or unhidden motives. As though she’d been born to pleasure him in the most intimate acts as he did the same with her.

He released her head and ground the heels of his hands into his eyes. She slipped his crown into her mouth, its heat warmer than the sun, her tongue sweeping, licking, loving.

He couldn’t stay still. He stiffened, relaxed, then grew rigid once more, all feeling centered in his groin, his passion threatening to consume him. Desperate to keep from reaching his peak and having this end, he tugged on his hair.

She slipped another inch of his member into her mouth, followed by more until she finally reached the end, her nose pressed against his hairy groin.

His mouth hung open, words beyond him, noises his only means to communicate. He growled and groaned like a wild creature. She eased back, allowing his shaft to slip out except for the head that she imprisoned between her lips. He never realized anyone’s mouth could be so hot and wet. She took his full length back inside, running her lips up and down him, creating the same heat and friction her channel would.

Perhaps better. Her tongue added a dimension to the erotic play her sheath never could.

He bellowed his delight. Before the sound had faded, he shouted again, his seed spurting before he could warn her to move away.

She remained, her mouth still around his sex as she swallowed.

Overwhelmed and humbled, he cradled the back of her head to let her know she’d honored him. He was still too weary to speak.

Once she’d finished, she let his shaft slip from her mouth and tongued his sac.

His hair stood on end. He cupped her head. “No. Enough. I cannot….”

She stopped tonguing him. “It is true.”

“What is?”

She rested her chin on his hipbone and circled his navel with her finger. “A man can endure most anything: the prick of a sword, hunger, thirst, intense heat, unbearable cold, but not a woman’s tongue on him after he spills his seed.”

Heat flooded his cheeks. This was too much. She’d actually put him to the blush. “Would that be another of Isabella’s tales?”

“Not a tale, the truth. With you, I proved what she said.”

“It would be wise for you to stop listening to your sister.”

“That would be rude.”

He lifted his head to look at her. She laughed quite gaily. “Would you prefer me to be less bold?”

Such a request would be like asking the sun not to shine, the wind to stop blowing, rain not to fall. That would be a tragedy of the greatest order. “Never change. Stay precisely as you are. Except I want you up here, near me, rather than so far away.”

She settled in his arms, her hand on his chest. He gathered her even closer and draped his calf over hers. She slid her other leg across his until her knee reached his groin, his shaft warmed by her heated flesh. “Comfortable?”

He stroked her hair. “I am. You?”

She nodded.

He finished his yawn. “We must do this again.”

Her breasts wiggled against his chest with her soft laughter. “Indeed.”

Happier than he’d ever been, he stroked her silky back, his movements dulled by spent pleasure. At last, he had to rest his hand on her hip, unable to do more.

She nestled closer. “Sleep.”

“Not long. Promise to wake me within a minute.”

“I fear the time you speak of has already passed.”

“Two then. No more. I want your pledge.”

She rubbed his chest in answer and snuggled closer, delighting him to the point he forgot what to say next and surrendered to fatigue.

* * * *

His quiet breathing was more comforting to Sancha than anything she’d ever heard. Within the protection of his caress, she knew contentment. How right Isabella had been on the wonder of sharing intimate moments with a lover.

As long as he was the right man, of course.

She couldn’t imagine giving herself to anyone other than Enrique. He seemed created for her, her for him, everything fitting, nothing at odds. The notion should have made her leap with joy and run headlong into a life with him.

Having witnessed other women’s lives tempered her joy. To the outside world, her mamá and papá had the perfect union. Sancha had never known a couple more devoted to each other. Her mamá had always been willing to give her life for her husband, with him feeling the same about her. He denied her nothing except decisions, a voice, a goal of her own.

Her mother had craved knowledge on potions and poultices, the same as Sancha, only she’d denied her needs in favor of her husband’s.

Her mamá hadn’t been unhappy, but she’d never been truly fulfilled. She knew of Sancha’s dreams and encouraged her, without her husband’s knowledge, of course. She’d listened with interest to everything Sancha had learned, her expression hungry for converse that didn’t involve children or her husband’s pursuits and victories.

Sancha hoped she’d given her mamá a part of life she’d missed.

For her to have come this far and to have risked so much only to surrender everything to Enrique would go against what she believed in. Worse, if she submitted fully to his needs and neglected her own, she might grow to resent him one day, even though none of her pain would be his fault.

He simply behaved as men did, raised to anticipate obedience from women. He demanded nothing now, because he couldn’t. If they wed and had children, he’d expect her to devote her life to them and him to the exclusion of everything else. A role everyone demanded women to fill, no matter how unfair and foolish.

Men waged wars, built cities, expanded their estates, advanced science, painted, sculpted, made the world a better or worse place and still sired children. No one said they couldn’t because of their other, more important duties of husband and father.

Would there ever be a time when women were equal to men?

Fearing not, she sighed deeply. At the same moment, Enrique loosened his hold on her and rolled to his back.

A more resolute woman would have seized the opportunity to return to the castle alone, no longer wanting pleasure, looking forward to studies and experiments.

Sancha wanted those things, but she craved Enrique too. She propped herself on one elbow, loving how peaceful and innocent he looked in sleep, like a little boy. The son he would surely want.

He wasn’t going to give up his notion of wedding her. She’d have to leave his side first, their moments together counted in weeks, not decades, the passage of this day reducing their time even more.

He’d wanted her to give him only a few minutes to sleep. She’d promised nothing, allowing him full rest.

A plump moon finally hung in the inky sky. Stars winked. The ducks had departed long ago, their honks replaced by insect chirps. A bird flapped its wings, adding to the night sounds, along with animal noises in the distance, and Enrique’s faint snores.

She turned to him, her heart catching at how wonderful he looked, the pleasure she found in lying at his side. The time had already passed for her to avoid love. She was falling more deeply with each second, the events of this evening serving to feed her desire and foolish hope that he could be different from other men, allowing her full latitude in everything she did. He knew she wasn’t a fool who would bring either of them harm or ruin. How splendid if he could also trust her opinions and decisions, or at least discuss them, before he demanded she do as he wanted.

Picturing such a paradise, she smiled.

He snored loudly and jerked at the sound, his expression confused as to what had awakened him.

One look at the sky revealed how long he’d slept. He pushed to a sitting position and frowned. “You promised to wake me.”

“I did no such thing.” She sat up as he had. “I stroked your chest and you accepted that as my answer.”

“Fool that I am.” The corners of his mouth turned down. “Look at what time it is. The day nearly over.”

As far as she was concerned, the night still stretched before them. She wasn’t going to speculate what might happen on the morrow. After pushing to her feet, she offered her hand. “Come.”

He regarded her nudity bathed in moonlight, his attention tarrying most on her nipples and mound. Her sheath was still so damp from their passion the moisture must have sparkled in the silvery rays. Enrique seemed incapable of looking anywhere else.

She finally wiggled her fingers at him as he had earlier with her.

He didn’t accept the bait. “Where do you intend to lead me?”

She inclined her head to the left.

“The pond?”

She longed to go there before leaving this spot. When she was growing up, her father had never allowed her, Isabella, or their sisters to enjoy themselves in a stream or pond. Water was for bath times, always in their chambers, behind closed doors, with female servants attending them.

Her male cousins had frolicked in whatever water they found, always nude. Isabella had repeatedly dragged Sancha with her to spy on the spectacle, giggling madly as she watched.

She leaned down to Enrique. “Do you know how to swim?”

“Of course.”

“Will you teach me?” Isabella had learned on her own, away from their father’s prying gaze. No surprise. She’d always been outspoken, a warrior, when Sancha preferred to handle things quietly. Pretending to be demure had caused her far less trouble and notice.

Enrique pushed to his feet, his brow furrowed. “Why do you want to learn?”

He made her request sound as though she planned to swim to another continent, no doubt to escape the shackles of marriage. “Why did you?”

“I had no say in the matter. When I was four, my father brought me to a stream, tossed me in and shouted, ‘Swim or drown!’”