Wicked Whispers (11 page)

He stared, not certain he’d heard her correctly. However, he must have. Her eyes were bright with passion, features softened with surrender. Perhaps she hadn’t considered her words. “Have you any idea what you said?”

She nodded.

Far too casually for his taste, though her hand gliding down his throat to his chest was a touch straight from heaven. Even so, he needed to ask her what any man would. “How could you possibly know such things?”

“Isabella.”

Of course. His brother was an incredibly lucky man to have met such a woman, though not as blessed as he was with Sancha beneath him.

With his weight and strength imprisoning her, he kissed her deeply, demanding she mold her mouth to his.

She did better than he’d hoped. Their tongues danced. She slid her hands up his chest and past his shoulders to his back, clinging to him as he did her as though some horrible tragedy would separate them in a moment and they had no time to lose. Noises poured from them, the kind only lovers make. A wanton moan, a lewd groan, growls and sighs. Music for the soul, sounds a man could build a future on.

He cradled her breast, frustrated by her clothing, layer upon layer keeping him from her heated flesh. He pulled his mouth free and pressed his face to her neck, his breath skimming her skin. “I want you naked.”

With her hands cupping his head, she forced him to ease away and look at her. He dreaded doing so, not wanting to hear that she’d changed her mind about this and intended to return to her studies.

She regarded him solemnly.

He couldn’t stand the suspense. “What?”

“I want the same of you. Fully naked.”

Astounded and pleased, he grinned.

“You must take care with my virginity though. I may lose my resolve. You cannot.”

He wanted to laugh, bellow his frustration, beg her to reconsider and agree to wed him, with their betrothal solving everything.

“Please.” She touched his cheek lightly.

His heart stalled, then raced out of control, but he nodded, determined to honor her request. Getting them out of their clothes wasn’t an opportunity he’d pass up, though the matter soon proved far more daunting than he planned. He wasn’t a stranger to buttons and laces on a woman’s garments. However, hers seemed made to defeat him.

Biting back oath after oath, he forced himself not to rend the fabric in his haste to uncover her. At last, her gown lay on the blanket, followed by her kirtle, farthingale, and chemise.

After placing her shoes to the side, Sancha faced him.

The sun had gone behind the trees, the last of its light streaming across her nudity. The finest cream couldn’t have competed with the smooth texture of her skin, its flawless white flushed with pink. Her nipples were rosy and aroused, tips erect, the curls between her legs fiery, the same as her hair.

She looked too perfect to be real. His mouth watered.

She tugged on his shirt. “How does this come off? Why are you still wearing it?”

“I thought you were a woman with endless patience.”

“I have been in the past when I had to see to my own restraint. Now I have you to protect me from myself.”

Yes, there was that. He held back a sigh at what he’d promised, wondering if such denial would kill a man. Good sense told him to turn away, order her to dress, return to the castle, and drink himself into a stupor.

His heart wouldn’t allow defeat, urging him to woo her to his side, prove she could trust him not to clip her wings as she did with him.

Before either of them changed their minds, he tossed his shoes aside, pulled off his belt, shirt, hose, and braies, dropping everything into a messy pile. At last, he was naked and fully aroused.

* * * *

She studied him as one would a celebrated painting or a brilliant sunset, speechless at its beauty.

His arms were muscular, and his chest, torso, and the rest of him so perfect she’d never understand how anyone could consider a man’s nudity wrong. To her, his male beauty was miraculous.

Dark hair dusted his powerful calves and thighs. His sex was pendulous, the root of his shaft nestled in a nest of thick, dark curls. Veins dashed up the erect column, his crown scarlet with passion. A bead of clear fluid escaped the small slit at the top.

She longed to touch and taste the pearl of moisture but still had far too much to see. His sac was lightly furred, the two halves plump to make a perfect whole. Yearning and curiosity encouraged her to touch and explore him as a blind woman might, caressing every part until she’d had her fill.

She never would.

She’d guessed his intent about these moments when he’d come to her room with his basket. Yet, she hadn’t stopped him. Didn’t want to. She’d been in agony these last weeks with him so close, every look, word, unexpected touch tormenting her. Hours would go by with her reading the same passage dozens of times understanding none of the words. Her mind kept drifting to him. She’d listened for his footfalls, waited to hear his deep voice as he spoke to a servant, smiled when he laughed, wondering what had made him happy.

Avoiding Enrique hadn’t caused her to forget him. Her longing had merely deepened, driving her mad with desire. She still feared succumbing to their basest needs, though not because it was wrong. Sancha couldn’t imagine anything more sacred than a man and a woman coming together, or a matter more frightening than marriage when it came to her freedom.

She’d come to treasure her days and nights of undisturbed study, not wanting to lose the peace she had. If only the quiet moments would stop killing her with an incessant desire to be with him.

They both had known this day of reckoning would come. The only solution to their attraction was pleasuring each other without jeopardizing her virginity. At least for today. She didn’t want to consider what might happen tomorrow or in the coming moments.

He eased her to the blanket, hair tumbling over his forehead, his forelock enthralling her as much as the rest of him. The balmy air caressed, tightening her nipples, skimming across the dampness between her legs. Proof she wanted this moment and him. She wreathed her arms around his neck and held him close, reveling in his naked flesh pressed to hers. His skin was delightfully hot, chest, groin, and legs roughened with hair she found incredibly masculine and seductive.

He kissed her thoroughly, his tongue slipping deep. A poor substitute for his rigid shaft burrowed within her channel as she gave his thickened member a home.

She raised her hips to meet his, part instinct, part need.

He eased back, denying her, controlling his passion because she couldn’t manage to do the same with hers, proving his honor. She clung to him, wanting nothing more than to know the full extent of his desire and would have given anything for those moments, even her soul. But not her freedom to do with her life as she willed.

Any other man might have left her frustrated and wanting. Not him. He trailed kisses from her cheek to her throat and chest, at last cupping her breast, confining the soft globe in his palm. At the stroke of his thumb, her nipple tightened, the tip begging for his mouth.

He brushed his lips over that part of her, then tongued her flesh. A shock of delight raced through Sancha. He suckled her nipple as a babe would, loving her with the strength of a man.

He groaned throatily. She cradled his head to keep him at his task and ran her fingers down his back then his arms, desperate to touch each part of him, saddened she couldn’t as yet.

He latched onto her left breast and trailed his hand down her belly to her triangle of hair, exploring her at his leisure.

Currents of pleasure dashed through her, building relentlessly at him touching the fur between her legs, dipping his fingers to her damp folds. She trembled.

He stilled his hand and licked her nipple instead, biting the tip gently before he suckled once more.

Adoring his touch, needing him close, she pushed her leg to the side and exposed her sex, proving she wanted him to know every part of her.

He fitted his mouth to hers again, his desire scarcely controlled. Deep, uncivilized sounds rumbled from him that would have frightened her if they’d come from another man. His excitement stoked hers. She lifted her hips, giving him what he wanted, eager for all she’d yet to experience.

He eased his fingers down her cleft, slick with her desire. His groan sounded pleased. He touched her nub, the kernel hard and sensitive.

Jolts of heat and aching need sped through her. She gasped around his tongue.

He kissed her more deeply and stroked, increasing the delight. A curious tension coiled within her, begging for freedom. She squirmed, wanting release, yet she also fought its arrival, the delicious ache between her legs maddening, thrilling, too much for any woman to bear.

Cry after cry flowed from her, muted by his tongue.

She dug her fingers into his arm. He stroked more slowly and finally stopped to rest his hand on her thigh.

No. This couldn’t be the sum of his passion and her pleasure. When she and Isabella had spoken, her sister claimed the feeling should burst and flood to every part of her. The thrilling pressure between Sancha’s legs had already dulled and began to fade.

She pulled her mouth from Enrique’s to question him.

He rubbed her once more, harder and faster than earlier, not stopping this time, bringing her to a place she’d never been. Pleasure so intense, she could barely endure the feelings and cried loudly.

A bird squawked and took wing, rustling leaves, the same as the light wind. She gasped and gulped air in her struggle to catch her breath. Impossible. A pulse ticked deep within her channel. Swells of heat bombarded her, followed by delicious weakness, the moment more astonishing than what Isabella had claimed.

Sancha clasped Enrique with the little strength she had left, her cheek against his shoulder. “Gracias.”

“You enjoyed my touch, no?”

She would crave him until time ended. Possibly beyond. “Sí. As soon as I catch my breath, I must see to your pleasure.”

“I have yet to finish with you.” He slid down to kiss her torso, belly, and finally her delicate curls.

Her cheeks stung.

“Open your legs.” He pushed against them gently. “Part them for me.”

She wanted to obey but needed a moment. Having him stare at her most intimate area gave her pause.

He asked no more. With his palms on the insides of her thighs, he spread her widely and positioned the soles of her feet on the blanket to display and expose her sex to him.

Her face burned. The breeze did nothing to cool her, seeming to blow nowhere except the folds between her legs drenched with moisture.

He ran his fingers up and down her slit.

She stared at the sky, the leaves, a bird on a branch far above her. Enrique touched her nub and stroked slowly. The glorious tension mounted within her again, her mouth sagging open,

breaths faltering. He pulled his hand away. No! She lifted her hips, frantic for his touch, demanding he continue. He didn’t.

She struggled to her elbows. He smiled broadly. She had no idea why when he hadn’t given her relief. “Touch me again.”

He rested his fingers on her mound and stroked her hard kernel.

Moaning crudely, she dropped to the blanket and kept moving into his hand, her body acting independently of her thoughts. The logic she’d always employed evaporating beneath his skilled touch. Her sole goal now was to experience this moment fully.

She lifted her hips. He withdrew his hand. She growled. “Touch me.”

“In time.”

“Now.”

“Later.”

Oh, this man. “Have you forgotten how to finish the task? Do you need me to remind you?”

He laughed. “Never. My hands are hardly the only way I can offer pleasure.”

He slid his palms beneath her, lifted her buttocks, and lowered his mouth to her cleft.

She moaned, the sound wanton and passionate, speaking of her desire for a man among men.

He tasted her folds, grunting softly, growling too, his pleasure noisy and obvious. He seemed uncertain whether to lick her, tongue her nub, or bury his face in her curls, trying to do all three simultaneously. His appetite for her sex appeared as endless as her hunger for him. He paid no heed to her bawdy cries, except to squeeze her cheeks, keeping her still and close to him.

Nothing would have made her move away. Not the servants return or an inquisitor’s presence. If she was damned, she wanted this act to be her last before facing an eternity without him.

He kissed the inside of her thigh, giving Sancha a brief respite from the wonder he stirred, then held her nub carefully between his teeth and licked relentlessly.

A tempest of delight battered her, more intense than what he’d done earlier. She dug her nails into the blanket for some measure of control. He slid his thumb down the furrow between her cheeks and touched her tightest opening.

The pressure between her legs broke free, relief rolling in from all directions, lifting her to heights she’d never known. She seemed to reach the sky, spin wildly, then drift back down. Exactly as Isabella had claimed when she’d said this act allowed a woman to soar.

In the aftermath, Sancha could scarcely breathe. Perspiration coated her throat, a drop sliding between her breasts. Her legs wobbled, her limbs too heavy for her to lift, body spent.

Enrique grinned, his hands still on her.

Never would she complain about his touch. She smiled as well as she could, craving sleep but denying herself any rest. “Now, I see to you.”

How could he refuse her giving and lusty suggestion?

She looked like a cross between an angel and temptress, her hair mussed from his passion, several tresses spilled over her shoulders to graze her breasts. A most seductive and shameless image. He’d used her nipples well, their tint slightly darker than their natural state, the halos around the tips pebbling at his scrutiny.

They and her soft folds had tasted more delicious than the finest foods he’d known, her response equal to his desire. Sancha wanted him.