Sandra Hill

by Love Me Tender

  She opened her eyes to find her husband braced on one elbow staring down at her. “Boy, did my prince come!” she murmured sleepily.

  He tweaked her playfully on the chin. “That’s not what I meant. Your prince has come to take you away from your mundane world to a land of fantasy, where all your dreams come true.”

  Fantasy? Dreams? I have no dreams, she thought in a panic. But what she said was, “Who says my world’s mundane?”

  “Anything will seem mundane after tonight, my princess,” he boasted with silky promise.

  “You’re not short on ego are you, Lancelot?”

  “Just call me Lance.” He grinned. “Seriously, a knight must be ever confident if he is to go about storming castles.”

  “How many castles were you planning on storming?”

  “Just one,” he drawled, placing his fingertips against the pulse in her throat and lowering his lips toward hers. Before he sealed the kiss, he said thickly, “I give you fair warning, my lady, it’s going to take a long time.”

  “A slow assault?” she managed to get out as she tunneled her fingers through his thick hair, pulling him closer.

  “Very slow.”

  “Woe is me.”

  He smiled against her parted mouth. “Woe is we.”

  “The spell might fade away any minute,” she reminded him.

  “Then you’ll be back to thinking me a toad.”

  “You’re a toad, regardless.”

  He nipped her bottom lip. “You better like toads, then, because we’re going to take advantage of every minute of this honeymoon while the mood lasts.”

  “The slow assault?”

  “The very slow assault.”

  The prince was true to his promise. This time his lovemaking was a prolonged, muted arousal. If their first coming together had resembled the eye of a hurricane, now they were caught in a summer storm…slow building but equally powerful in its force.

  “Love Me Tender” wasn’t just a song title; it became her lover’s credo.

  Kisses. At first there were only kisses. Endless, drugging kisses that went on and on. Supremely, agonizingly tender. A woman’s dream come true.

  Her mouth. “Can you taste how much I want you?” he murmured mid-kiss.

  Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes.

  Her ears. “Can you hear me panting for you?”

  I thought it was me.

  Her arching throat. “I can feel your heartbeat racing, love. Slow down. Slow down.”

  How does one slow a runaway train? Or an out-of-control fantasy?

  Her palms and wrists, the insides of her elbows. “So soft! You’re so damned soft.”

  Oh, my! Who knew? Who knew?

  Her breasts—oh, Lord, her breasts! How he kissed her taut nipples! But only the lightest skimming of warm lips over turgid flesh. And the delicate undersides. “Beautiful, beautiful, beautiful.”

  I…can’t…stand…much…more…of…this. She wanted him to linger there. She told him so, “Please,” and gripped his head, trying to hold him in place. To no avail.

  “Too soon, mí corazón, too soon.” Ignoring her breasts, which swelled and ached unbearably for kneading fingers and deep suckling, he resumed his tantalizing trail of kisses. He had his own map and his own driving agenda.

  Her stomach got his attention next. A warm kiss brushing over the sensitive palette, with only the flicker of a tongue inside her navel. Her muscles clenched and unclenched in response. Couldn’t he see that her defenses were falling brick by erogenous brick? Surely it was time to cross the moat.

  When he kissed her inner thighs, she parted for him. But he bypassed that intimate invitation. Instead, he traced his lips down one leg, over her toes, then up the other leg, rasping barely coherent words of appreciation the entire time.

  Then…oh, then…he nudged her legs wide with his knees and kissed her there. He settled his lips over that secret part of her and shifted his kiss from side to side. Once, twice, that’s all. But it was like hot oil poured over crumbling battlements. More fuel on already ignited embers.

  To her dismay, the rogue knight retreated and sat back on his heels. He watched her expectantly.

  Suddenly, without warning, she came. A fluttery orgasm of progressively more intense spasms accompanied by involuntary short jerks of her hips.

  And still she mewled for more, reaching out her arms for him.

  He shook his head with a soft smile and commenced the second phase of his assault. Touching. Wonderfully expert, torturous touching.

  “Your hands are magic,” she said.

  “No, love, I just bring out the magic in you.”

  He explored her face with fingertips so light that the downy hairs on her skin rose to meet them, like sensory magnets. Her eyelids, the outline of her mouth, the fine bones of her cheek and jaw. And all along he whispered low, velvety words of wonder, punctuated by the refrain, “And you are mine.”

  When he grazed her collarbone and the vulnerable curve of her neck with the knuckles of one hand, she felt something long buried inside her break free. How could such a nonsexual caress create such erotic havoc? This was sex at its best, and yet it was so much more than mere sex. It was a celebration of all that was good between a man and a woman.

  Through a glaze of excitement, she watched her husband…her lover…her prince…as he bent over her. His ebony hair took on gilded shades of brilliance from the many candles Ruth had lit around the room. The tiny gold loop earring glittered in his right ear. Flickering flames created enticing planes of light and shadow on the dark skin of his lean body.

  And you are mine, she thought, mimicking the poignant vow he’d been repeating to her in an endless litany.

  When he came to her breasts this time, he stayed. For a long time.

  With loving care, he pleasured and worshiped her there. As if sensing her oversensitivity, his hands and mouth, even his teeth, were gentle to the point of agony. No matter if he was pushing her breasts high from underneath, or teasing the mounds with feathery fingertips, or kissing the hard, hard nipples, always his tongue came back to lave the tips with wetness. When he took a nipple into his mouth, deeply, aureole and all, his suckling had a gentle, soul-reaching rhythm.

  And the phrases he used to pay homage to her femininity were wickedly outrageous, enough to make a fair maiden blush. Good thing she wasn’t a maiden, she thought irrelevantly at one stage, though the candle glow on her ivory skin did turn her fair…fairer and more beautiful than she’d ever been before.

  Not surprisingly, she came again.

  And, not surprisingly, he would not come to her.

  “It’s too much,” she whimpered, reaching out for him. “Too much.”

  “It’s not enough, querida,” he said. “Not nearly enough.” All this, despite the fact that his breathing was erratic, his hands trembled with restraint and his erection stood out with rampant need.

  Parting her curls with one deft hand, he stroked her slickness, then entered her depths with one, two, three long fingers, pumping her to yet another climax. He had to hold the other hand flat against her breastbone to keep her from bolting up off the bed.

  To her frustration, he moved on to her legs, the backs of her knees, her toes, the soles of her feet. She’d never dreamed a lover’s hands could be so hot and tender at the same time. She’d never dreamed there were so many erogenous zones on a woman’s body. She’d never dreamed she could love a man as much as she loved him. She’d never dreamed, period…at least, not for a very long time.

  Then, when she thought he would at last join with her, he rolled over onto his back and guided her hands to him, urging her to explore his body in like fashion.

  “This power you exert over me…it frightens me,” she confessed.

  “Ah, sweetheart, the only power I have is what you give me.”

  With hushed words and sighs and gasps, he showed her all the ways she could pleasure and torture him, as well. And, without words, he showed her how her surrend
ering to his masterful seduction had rendered her the conqueror.

  When at last she’d touched and admired and kissed and, yes, even bitten, almost every part of him, she circled his hard, ridged maleness with both hands.

  Releasing a roar of capitulation at her unrelenting persuasion, he lifted her by the waist and eased her down onto the steely length and breadth of him.

  For an instant, neither of them could breathe, or move, as she pulsed around him.

  And then, still imbedded in her, he rolled her over onto her back, braced himself on extended arms and, with neck thrown back in corded torment, he stroked and stroked and stroked her, in and out, flooding her body with a neverending flow of love and rising urgency. Finally, through the blinding light of her own shattering explosion, she heard herself scream and him cry out, hurtling them both into a new place where wild passion and pure love mingled and became one.

  It was a slice out of time. One of those special gifts the gods sometimes deign to grant humans. No matter what else happened, she would cherish this miracle forever.

  “I love you, Cynthia,” he murmured against her damp neck.

  “I love you, too,” she whispered, pressing a soft kiss to the top of his head.

  And somewhere from her memory came an old reminder of her Grandma’s, “What the winds of God bring, the rains of God can wash away.”

  Surely God would not be so cruel.

  For the first time in many, many years, Cynthia said a little prayer. And added in an undertone, “Take a hike, Grandma.”

  She thought she heard a distant voice croon, “Fairy tales can come true, it can happen to you…” followed by the tinkle of laughter. She wondered for one insane moment if it was an answer to her prayer, accompanied by Grandma’s mirthful reaction to her advice. But, no, it was probably Elmer playing one of his records in the distant reaches of the castle and Ruth laughing at one of his miserable riddles.

  Or was it?

  Her husband raised his head to gaze at her with what could only be described as adoration.

  God, I can’t believe this gorgeous man is really my husband. I mean, he’s not really my husband in the legal sense, of course, but still the thought makes me humble.

  “What’s that song you’re singing?” he asked drowsily. Song? He’d heard the song, too?

  “Nothing,” she replied with a smile.

  Cynthia realized then that she’d never lost her dreams, not totally. She’d just been waiting for her prince to come.

  Unfortunately, the honeymoon didn’t last long.

  At ten o’clock the next morning, P.T. half-reclined in the sybaritically long and deep antique tub, taking a bubble bath with his new wife, who half-reclined at the opposite end.

  He’d picked her up and carried her into the bathroom a short time earlier when it became apparent she was going to play that universal female morning-after game. Analysis and Second Thoughts.

  “I shouldn’t have done this,” she’d moaned.

  Yeah, right.

  “It was a mistake.”

  Not in my book.

  “Don’t look at me. I’m naked.”

  Trust me, babe, I’ve seen all your secrets.

  “Did you seduce me?”

  His answer was a grin, which prompted her to punch him in the stomach—his cue to take a break.

  The water was deliberately hot to ease muscles aching from a long night of deliciously energetic lovemaking. Now that she’d lost her shyness once again—thank you, God!—they were feeding each other strawberries dipped in champagne, which a surprisingly considerate Naomi must have left after the wedding ceremony.

  He stretched out his legs, ignoring the creaking of his abused knees, and poked his big toe against one of Cynthia’s sweet spots. She had lots of them, he’d discovered through their endless wedding night. He anticipated the chore of locating more. Chore? Ah, a man’s work is never done.

  Cynthia arched a brow at him and stretched out one of her own long legs, tweaking him in one of his own sweet spots. His favorite, actually.

  Peter perked up.

  That was when all hell broke loose.

  “The Mafia’s coming! The Mafia’s coming!” Naomi shrieked, running into the bedroom. She stopped dead in her construction worker boots and let out a squeal of embarrassment at viewing them in the tub through the open bathroom door.

  “Go away,” he ordered.

  A beet-red Cynthia sunk deeper into the bubbles.

  Naomi turned her back on them but didn’t budge. “Get out of the tub, P.T., and forget about your damn libido for once.”

  “I’m going to kill you, Naomi, I swear I am.”

  “You’ll have to stand in line, big boy. The Mafia has first dibs.”

  The Mafia?

  He and Cynthia exchanged a puzzled frown and rose as one, like two dolphins, sloshing water over the side. Unfortunately, they had only little hand towels with which to dry themselves.

  Ever practical, Cynthia stomped proudly into the bedroom, a buck-naked goddess. She trailed a stream of water in her wake right in front of Naomi, whose gasp could be heard all the way into the bathroom.

  “You’d better be careful you don’t stain that Oriental carpet,” Naomi griped to her back. “It’s worth—”

  He spat out a really foul expletive that shut his stepsister up…for the moment, at least.

  Angrily, Cynthia pulled the top sheet off the rumpled bed, quickly dried herself with it, then stomped back to the bathroom to hand the damp linen to him. He started to suggest that she go back and get a dry pillowcase or two, got one glimpse of her clenched jaw and changed his mind.

  Fifteen minutes later he was dressed in the red Elvis suit with black sequins and Cynthia was wearing the purple spandex bimbo dress while Naomi fumbled to unlock their chains. They were finally going to escape the castle, but not in any way he’d ever imagined.

  They had exactly two hours to flee the castle before the Cosa Nostra arrived.

  To his amazement and consternation (anger would come later), Naomi had tried to negotiate her own deal for the stock offering…with the Mafia, of all things! Then she’d changed her mind. Apparently one didn’t change one’s mind with the Mafia. This had to be the dumbest, most dangerous thing Naomi had ever done.

  “Naomi, this is the dumbest, most dangerous thing you’ve ever done.”

  She clamped her lips tight and said nothing—a clear sign of how scared she was. He was beginning to get a little scared himself.

  The metal links of the dog collar that had been wrapped around his ankle clanked to the floor. He took the key from Naomi’s trembling hands and proceeded to release Cynthia’s manacle, as well.

  “Tell me again, how do you know that they’re coming after you? Could it be a joke? Maybe you misunderstood. Are you sure they’re the Mafia?” he demanded.

  “They probably sent her a horse’s head,” Cynthia quipped.

  He shot her a scowl of reproval. She was not taking this situation seriously enough.

  “There was a telegram delivered this morning,” Naomi replied. “I checked all the rooms, and there was no horse’s head.”

  Gawd! She had to be kidding. “You checked all one hundred and three rooms in this crumbling heap? For a horse’s head?”

  “Yes, I checked every room in this castle, you creep. Can you think of anyone else who would have been willing to do it for me?”

  When no one answered, Naomi went on, “The telegram said: ‘Deliver signed stocks. Noon. Alternative: Sleeping with fishes.’”

  “How does a good girl from Hoboken get involved with the Mafia?” Cynthia asked, continuing to shake her head with confusion.

  Naomi shrugged. “They approached me.”

  “Where?” P.T. snapped.

  “At the hardware store in Newark.”

  He groaned and raked his fingers through his hair. “Why would the Mafia be interested in a shoe company?”

  “Actually, the Mafia has been attempting to infiltrate
a lot of companies lately, even brokerage firms,” Cynthia informed him. “Money laundering, drug fronts…that kind of thing.”

  “Now you tell me,” he growled.

  “I told you to let me handle this for you,” Cynthia scolded Naomi, who was, unbelievably, making the bed, muttering something about not wanting to leave her castle in disarray.

  “You knew about this?” He straightened to glare at the strawberry-blond traitor.

  “Well, Naomi hinted that she was going to sell off a large block of stock to break some trust fund, and I advised her—”

  “How could you, Cynthia? Behind my back?”

  “Now wait a minute, I’m not the guilty party here. I just—”

  “Your own husband? You would stab your own husband in the back?”

  “You weren’t my husband at the time. Hell, you’re not my husband now, either—”

  “Don’t be so sure about that,” Naomi yelled from the bathroom. She was draining the water from the tub and picking up the damp towels and the sheet. With a snort of disgust, she regarded the puddles on the tiled floor.

  “Don’t be so sure about what?” he and Cynthia asked at the same time.

  “The marriage.”

  “Huh?” he and Cynthia said, like twin parrots.

  “Elmer showed me some legal documents last night. I think…now don’t get all shook up…I think he might be an honest-to-God, licensed preacher.”

  “A real marriage?” he and Cynthia exclaimed, instantly recognizing the implications. They glanced at each other with horror. At least she appeared horrified. He was feeling a little thrum of pleasure that he was actually married to the woman he loved. And, yes, he was still in love with the Wall Street shark. Elmer’s love spell hadn’t worn off yet, and he was beginning to hope it never did.

  “You swore he wasn’t a legitimate minister,” he accused Naomi, who was done with her housewifely chores and approached them rather hesitantly. “You said it would be a sham.”

  He immediately wished he could bite back the incriminating words.