Wicked Whispers (16 page)

“Tired.” He swept her into his arms. She curled into him as though they’d done this many times in the past, her head on his shoulder, hand on his chest. “Bring her sack to my horse.”

“Are you taking her to her castle?”

He was bringing her to his home, or rather theirs. He wouldn’t consider her ever leaving his side.

At his gelding, she woke long enough to protest. “Why are we here? I need to check on my patients.”

“If they need you, their families will send word. Time for you to rest.”

“I have never been…ah, been…” She inhaled deeply and frowned.

“You have never been better. Which will be true once you sleep.”

He helped her to mount and joined her quickly before she fell off his horse. Her head hung between her shoulders, hands dangling loosely at her sides. He eased her into him, arm around her waist, and motioned his guards to accompany them.

With Sancha asleep, he had to keep his gelding at a slower pace to avoid disturbing her or risk having her fall from the saddle. She was dead weight against him, arms flopping, feet bumping his ankles. What should have been trying delighted him. He couldn’t stop smiling at having her close and finally relaxed, for the most part.

Halfway to the castle, she awoke. “Where are we?”

“Numerous leagues from home.”

“Why?”

“Because we have yet to arrive there.”

She fell back asleep.

He held her close, burning these moments into his memory. The air smelled fresher today, grass and wheat sweeter. A chirping bird seemed miraculous somehow when he’d scarcely noticed the noise before. Being with her heightened his senses, making him grateful to be alive, humbled that she was with him.

He recalled what Tomás had said about worrying too much, to take things as they came, enjoying what he had.

For once, his brother seemed to be right. If Enrique filled his life with fear about events he couldn’t predict, he’d drive himself mad and push her away. She worried over him, as much as he had with her, and was willing to leave his castle to keep him safe.

He tightened his hold. Not enough for her to notice, to comfort himself. If he had to use all his power, will, and wealth to assure her place at his side, he would. Until they drew their last breaths. A man in love had no other choice.

He ordered himself to look forward to pleasant times. Her next swimming lesson, them pleasuring each other, her wedding him, them coupling, his first son, followed by a daughter, then four more sons, and another daughter or two, the children’s pranks, their schooling, marriages, their own infants.

He couldn’t recall a time he’d smiled so much. A few guards noticed. Enrique stared in return. They made certain not to glance at him again. Good thing. He refused to allow them or the lengthy ride to ruin his mood.

At last, they arrived at his castle. He woke Sancha gently. Once she was off the horse and in his arms, she snuggled into him. He carried her to his room where she belonged.

She regarded the sumptuous walls hangings depicting scenes from his estate and his bed with a canopy draped in red silk. The fabric cascaded down the posts. His mattress was wide enough for three men, perfect for a man and woman, the counterpane scarlet, sheets white as milk.

As he unlaced her garments, she watched, eyes still hooded with fatigue. “Do I tend to you next?”

He kissed the top of her head. “You need to sleep.”

She pressed her hand to her mouth, hardly quieting her noisy yawn. “I have never been better.”

He tossed her gown and tunic on the floor, made quick work of her chemise, then carried her to the mattress.

She sank to the featherbed, head against the pillow and sighed softly. “Join me?” She lifted her hand.

He kissed her fingers. After using a damp cloth to wash her hands and face, then his, he undressed quickly, though not fast enough. By the time he was nude, she was asleep.

He gathered her into his arms, her face against his chest, hand on his flat belly, leg draped over his. Stirred by her heat and softness, his carnal hunger battled with his fatigue.

Weariness won. They had decades to live their lives, to love as a man and a woman should. Trusting his newfound hope, he fell asleep moments after she had.

* * * *

Sancha awoke on her belly, her hand on Enrique’s thigh.

She smiled. How wonderful his skin was, incredibly warm, his leg roughened with short dark hairs. She stroked them and spied the scene, not remembering how she came to be in here. He hadn’t taken her. That, she would never forget.

He sprawled across most of the rather enormous bed, leaving her a sliver of mattress on her side. Another inch to the left and she’d land on the floor. That wouldn’t do.

On her hands and knees, she crawled to Enrique then straddled him, her back to his front.

He grunted softly before going quiet and still. She turned as much as she could to see him.

He stared.

She grinned. “Buenos días. Did you sleep well? I did.”

He regarded her buttocks poised above his navel and rested his hands on her hips, his expression hot with passion. “What are you doing?”

His voice was so deep his words rasped. Her belly fluttered. “What does it look like?”

He laughed. “I have no idea—wait. Is this something else you learned from Isabella? If so, you need to tell her a woman and man face each other to seek pleasure.”

“Not always.” She backed over him until her cleft was above his face, hers in line with his shaft. His member blossomed quickly, growing thick and hard, precisely as she wanted. She cupped his sac and smiled. “Do you now understand what we do?”

He laughed, growled, and grabbed her hips, bringing her mound to his mouth. “Not one more sound from you, only pleasure.”

Was there any other way?

She cradled his shaft and lapped his crown, tasting the fluid that seeped from the tiny slit. The flavor was as wicked and enticing as the first time, his musky scent exhilarating.

He tensed his legs, long toes splaying then curling. Twice he stopped licking her soft folds, groaning softly from what she did to him.

Pleased with her effect, she eased his shaft aside and licked his sac.

“Ah.” He squirmed.

Surely, he could do better than that. Wanting him to bellow in joy, she took his right testicle into her mouth.

He cried out then made more noises, crude and uncontrolled.

Her lips caressed the wrinkly skin on this part of him, her tongue learning the contours of his sac, stroking him lazily, mouth suckling.

He bellowed at last. “Holy mother. Are you trying to kill me?”

She released him. “Do you want me to stop?”

His chest heaved with his labored breaths. “You already have. Why? Did I tell you to do so?”

At times, he was impossible to please. “Forgive me. I shall continue.”

She eased his left testicle into her mouth, then ran her hand up and down his shaft, taking charge of him finally.

He gasped and moaned. After panting an oath, he gripped her hips, brought her down to him and licked her nub.

A heavenly ache built within her, making her forget his pleasure. His sigh, possibly pleased or arrogant at what he’d accomplished with her, reminded Sancha of her power. She flicked her tongue over his testicle, licking the short hairs, liking their roughness on her tongue.

He growled an oath, lapped her folds and nub, finally settling there, stroking, teasing, trying to deliver ecstasy quickly.

She wasn’t about to allow herself release until he reached his peak at least three times.

He’d risked so much for her last night, giving all he could in spite of his concerns. She had to make these moments the best he’d ever had. Not only because she was grateful for his kindness. She loved him, always would. She’d tried to talk herself out of the truth but her heart wouldn’t listen, wanting him so badly she ached with tenderness and need.

He swept his tongue over her nub.

Whimpering, she steeled herself against further arousal and eased his testicle from her mouth, taking his shaft inside to its root.

He groaned louder than any time before.

She kept him as deep as she could, a matter she wouldn’t have believed possible if not for Isabella explaining how women accomplished such a goal. She’d have to thank her sister for speaking freely. With his member in her mouth, his sac in her palm, and her tongue lavishing him with undivided attention, Sancha was determined to give him her best. As soon as she could deny her own pleasure.

He suckled her thigh, ran his thumb over her nub, and dragged his other hand down the furrow between her cheeks, pausing on her tightest opening. The spate of pleasure he’d stirred threatened to overcome her.

Determined to resist, she tongued the back of his crown and slid his member in and out of her mouth quickly, only to slow, stop, then begin anew, sensing his delight fading with each pause. The same as hers had when he’d repeatedly pulled his hand from between her legs.

His growl said he didn’t like her doing to him what he’d done to her. He settled his mouth on her sex and licked her nub fervently.

Sounds of delight filled the room from her and him, both racing toward release, their competition forgotten in favor of shared joy. She knew bliss first, the towering delight that was too much to deny or resist, her cries muffled by his shaft still in her mouth.

His seed soon glided over her tongue, creamy and rich, the flavor faintly salty and unique in the best possible way. As she’d done at the pond, she swallowed the proof of his satisfaction, pleased to have given him such joy.

Gulping air, he lay sprawled worse than he had earlier, taking even more of the bed.

She rested her forehead on the mattress between his legs. “Do you want me to sleep on the floor?”

“What—no—what?”

She fell over his leg, one foot planted on the bed, the other on his sex, chin lifted to the canopy. The lovely red silk shimmered in a thread of light spilling past a separation in the velvet drapes. “You have most of the mattress. I did notice a soft carpet over there.”

She gestured toward the window, then dropped her hand, finding it too heavy to keep up.

He finished his yawn. “After the pleasure I gave you, you still complain?” He sniffed. “Very well, come here.”

Despite his fatigue, his strength remained. He pulled her into his arms easily and ran his hand down her hair and back while planting light kisses on her temple and cheek.

She stroked his jawline, liking his stubble. “I did not. And I did the same to you.”

His hand stalled on her back. “What?”

“I never complained, and I also gave you pleasure. Never deny it. I. Was. There.”

He laughed at her parroting his words from weeks before. “Indeed you did, and I thank you.”

His gratitude was wonderful, but what she truly wanted was that he never leave her.

She tensed at the sudden truth of what her heart craved, even though she feared what it would mean for her freedom and healing.

“What is it?” He loosened his arm. “Was I holding you too tightly?”

She buried her face in his neck, not willing to get into her feelings. “No. I twisted my foot the wrong way.”

“Are you all right now?”

No. She’d fallen too deeply for him and didn’t know which direction to take. Going back to loneliness didn’t seem possible. Moving forward with him was equally daunting. Although their shared lust was more than she’d dreamed of, what they’d done together wasn’t enough. She needed full completion as he did, if their passion wouldn’t mean ruin.

Lying with him one time could prove disastrous, resulting in a babe. They’d wed, as he wanted and she was beginning to desire, but what of her healing? Another woman might have been able to ignore outside interests, no matter how passionate she was about them, as long as love, home, a husband, and family were within reach.

Sancha couldn’t. Poultices, potions, experiments, and healing were in her blood. Without those things, a part of her would die, leaving her empty and wanting no matter how much he and their children loved her. She needed more for fulfillment, as men did. A purpose to strive toward other than a husband using her to produce heirs.

“Sancha, are you in pain?”

The worst kind, not easily solved by any healer no matter how skilled. She looked over. Her worry faded more quickly than she would have guessed, a smile replacing her gloom. His hair stuck out on each side and stood straight up on top of his head. Shadows ringed his eyes from lingering fatigue. Stubble darkened his chin, cheeks, and upper lip. Despite his clean face, soot dirtied his throat.

He was so beautiful tears filled her eyes.

“Show me where you hurt.” He sat up. “I may be able to help.”

She pushed him back down and leaned over him, her hair gliding across his chest. “You have soot on your jaw.”

“So did you until I washed it off.”

“You should have told me how awful I looked.”

“Never has there been a lovelier woman.” He kissed the tip of her nose. “In any event, would you have cared if I had told you about the state of your face and dress?”

No. Her appearance, gowns, jewels, what other ladies craved had never meant anything to Sancha. She adored books, learning, knowledge. “Thank you for being so wonderful at the village.”

“I did naught but watch you.”

Without interference or complaint. “You saw to the people’s needs, kept order, and not once did you become ill, even when I cleaned the most hideous wounds.”

“I saw hope on the villagers’ faces. What you did was remarkable and brave.”

She hugged him fiercely. “I want naught these next days except to be happy. Can you join me?”

He rolled them over until he was on top, his forehead against hers. “No books?”

“None. Nor experiments. The mice deserve a rest and so do we. I want to learn to swim. We can walk your estate hand in hand beneath the moon.” She cupped his face. “We can pleasure each other greatly near the pond, in the fields, within the stable, in all the hiding places the castle holds.”

His shoulders shook with quiet laughter. “I fear the servants may see or hear.”