by Jennie Lucas
Because what I wanted now, though beautiful as flowers, could poison my soul, and kill my heart. Just like the oleander...
“Please,” I breathed as I felt the roughness of his jawline brush against my cheek. It was all I could do, to keep from leaning into him, kissing him, pulling him hard and tight against me. I wanted him so badly, I could almost have wept from it.
He traced his fingertip very gently from my earlobe, along my cheek, to my full, aching lower lip. “Please?”
“Please...” I tried to remember what I wanted. Please kiss me. Please don’t.
But he didn’t give me time to gather my senses. Lowering his mouth to my ear, he whispered, “You are mine. Forever and always. My pleasure. My duchess. My wife. My lover...”
“No,” I whispered. “I can’t be....”
“I forgot.” He drew back, his eyebrows an amused slash over his heavy-lidded eyes. “You said you do not want me.”
“I don’t,” I said, praying he would believe such a lie.
“I see.” He ran his hand down the bare skin to my throat. “So you feel nothing when I do this....”
Trembling, I shook my head.
“And this...” His large hand cupped my breast over my blouse, the tip of his thumb rubbing over my nipple, which pebbled, aching and taut beneath the fabric.
I couldn’t speak. I looked up at him, my lips parted, my heart pounding.
“Give in. To me.”
“But I don’t love you,” I choked out, but what that really meant was Don’t make me love you.
“I do not ask for your heart. But your body—sí. Tonight...your body will be mine.”
And he lowered his mouth to mine.
His lips were gentle, even tender. One touch, and I was proved a liar. Of course I wanted him. Of course I did.
I sighed, as his kiss deepened, became demanding, hungry. My arms wrapped around his shoulders, pulling him close.
He slowly lowered me back against the enormous bed covered with rose petals. I gloried in the heavy weight of his body over mine, pressing me deep into the soft mattress.
He pulled off my blouse, kissing down my body as each opened button revealed more of my skin. He lifted me against him, to pull off my shirt. I felt the warmth of his fingertips trailing down my naked arms, down my back. With expert precision, he unlatched my bra with a single flick of his fingers, and my breasts hung free, full and heavy and aching for his touch.
I heard the hoarseness of his breath as he pushed me back against the bed. Cupping my breasts with his hands, he nuzzled between them, lowering his head to one taut nipple, then the other, pulling it gently into his mouth as I gasped with pleasure.
“Wait,” I choked out. “I want to feel you—”
Reaching for his shirt, I yanked it hard from his body. I was definitely not as careful as he’d been about the buttons. At least one ripped off entirely and scattered noisily against the floor in my desperation to feel the warmth of his skin. I exhaled when I could at last run my hands over his naked chest, feeling his hard sculpted muscles beneath the light dusting of dark hair. A low groan came from his lips, and he fell against me on the bed, ravishing my lips with his own.
Ohhhh... Deeper, deeper. The pleasure of his tongue against mine, his lips hard and so sweet, made me burn all over, made me lose my mind....
He kissed slowly down my bare skin, working his way to my belly button, which he flicked with his tongue. Unbuttoning my jeans, he rolled them with my panties down my hips, peeling the fabric inch by inch down my legs, kissing and licking and nibbling as he went, until I was naked and gasping for breath.
He kissed the hollow of my foot, then gently pushed my legs wide. From the base of the bed, he looked up at me, spread-eagled across the bed, naked for his pleasure. I quivered with need. If he tried to leave me now—my lips parted. In that moment, I would have done anything—begged, even—to get him to stay.
But no begging was necessary. With a low growl, he removed his own trousers and then fell hard and naked upon me. I felt the length of him, like steel, pressing between my legs. Looking up at his face in the flickering shadows of the firelight, I realized that he wasn’t in nearly as much control of himself as I’d imagined. In fact, he was barely keeping himself in check.
“You don’t have to hold back,” I choked out, pulling him down against me, my hips lifting of their own volition against his. “Please...”
And this time, there was no question what I wanted. But he would not let me control him or set the pace. Shrugging off my grasp, he slid down my body, then parted my legs with his shoulders at my knees. I felt the heat of his breath against my inner thighs. I gasped, reaching my hands out to grip the white comforter beneath me.
Pressing his large hands against my thighs, he spread me wide. He lowered his head and took a long, languorous taste.
My hips bucked beneath his tongue. The pleasure was almost too much to bear. I tried to move away. But he held me fast. He stroked me, licked me, leaving me wet and in the agony of almost unbearable pleasure. His sensual tongue flicked against my taut core, and I held my breath, tilting my head back, my eyes rolling back in my head as I lifted higher, and tighter.
The moment before I would have exploded, he pulled back. I whimpered. I heard his low laugh as he changed position, returning his mouth to where it had been, but pressing his hands beneath my backside to hold me hard against him. Spreading his mouth wide, he worked me with his tongue, going wide, then deep, then wide again. I felt his tongue thrust inside me, and cried out. My back arched against the mattress as he forced me to accept the pleasure, and as he proved to me, against my will, how much more of it my body could endure.
With a single ragged breath, I lifted higher, and higher, but again, just as I was about to explode, he lifted his mouth. He smiled down at me.
By this point I was starting to turn to a mindless mess, somewhere between blubbering and wanting to resort to physical violence, because I knew he was teasing me, forcing me to soar, to coast, then soar higher still.
Abruptly, he lifted my legs to wrap around his tight, trim hips. Rose petals flew up from the bed as he moved me, the flowers leaving a sensual, heady fragrance as they fell back to earth, sliding first against his body, then mine. I felt him pressing hard and stiff and huge between my legs. I exhaled, pressing my fingers into his back, nearly weeping with need.
Again, he started to pull away, but this time, I wouldn’t let him go. My fingernails dug into the skin of his back, and I gave a low growl. “Bien, querida,” he panted. “Bien.”
He positioned his hips, and in one rough movement, he shoved himself inside me, hard and thick and enormous, ramming himself to the hilt. That very first thrust made me explode from the inside out. I saw stars as waves of bliss shook through me. I heard a rising animal cry and realized to my shame that it came from my mouth. I fell back against the soft mattress, as if from a far distance, landing a limp heap on his bed.
He froze, still deep inside me in that first thrust.
“You can go on...” I panted, trying to catch my breath. “I already...”
“More,” he said, eyeing my face hungrily. “Do it again.”
Again? Was he crazy? I shook my head. “I can’t...”
“Again,” he said grimly.
He slowly pushed inside me, this time letting me feel every inch. He made me stretch for him, as I felt him deep inside. It felt good. But he was holding himself back for no reason. I knew there was no way I could...
Drawing back, he slowly filled me again, and then again. Gripping my shoulders tight with his hands, he rode me. To my amazement, a new tension began to build deep inside me. Different this time. Even deeper. With a gasp, I wrapped my hands around him, feeling the clench and unclench of the muscled cheeks of his backside, feeling the sweat on his skin as he
fiercely held himself in check.
His thrusts became rougher as he rode me harder, faster, our sweaty naked bodies sliding against each other. He held my shoulders tight enough to bruise, as he pounded me hard, hard, hard. Deep, deep, deep. My back started to arch again. Seeing that, he sucked in his breath and lowered his lips to mine, kissing me. I felt the flick of his tongue against mine as he rammed into me so deep, and that was it—the brutality and force and lust shook me into an explosion so great I screamed into his mouth.
His self-control evaporated. With a low guttural growl, he shoved into me one last time, and with a gasp and groan, he spent himself inside me.
He collapsed, his body heavy over mine on the bed.
It took long moments for me to return back to earth. When I did, my eyes flew open.
“We forgot to use a condom,” I blurted out. I expected him to look horrified. He did not.
“I forgot nothing.” He gave me a heavy-lidded smile. “I want to get you pregnant, Lena.”
Shock went through me as I stared at him with wide eyes. “But we...”
“I will fill you with my child, mi esposa. Try to fight me if you must,” he whispered, then his smile lifted to a grin. “It is always a pleasure to battle with you.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
SUNSHINE WAS SPILLING from the windows, across our naked, intertwined bodies spread across the bed, the white cotton sheets twisted and tangled at our feet. My first thought when I woke was to think it all had been a dream. Then I saw Alejandro, still sleeping in my arms, a soft smile on his chiseled face.
I caught my breath. My heart beat faster, in a rhythm like music, because joy—pleasure—everything I’d ever wanted had all come true at once.
Slowly, Alejandro opened his eyes, and his smile widened. His expression was open, and young, and he, too, seemed to be shining with happiness. “Buenos días,” he whispered, leaning forward to kiss me tenderly on the forehead, “mi corazon.”
“Good morning.” I blushed, looking away, feeling oddly shy.
Reaching out, he lifted my chin and kissed me, until all thoughts of shyness disappeared beneath the mutual hunger building anew between us.
How was it possible? We’d made love three times last night—three times!—and yet he was still brand new. I gloried in his touch, in the feel of his naked, hard-muscled body against mine, his arms holding me as if I were truly the precious names he’d called me. My pleasure, my duchess, my wife. My lover.
And now something more. Something new he’d called me for the first time.
My heart...
We made love once more, hot, hard and fast—and good thing about that last bit, because thirty seconds after we’d both collapsed in a sweaty, gasping heap on top of each other, I heard an indignant cry from the nursery.
We looked at each other and laughed.
“I’ll get him,” I said, starting to rise from the bed.
“No.” He put his hand on my shoulder, pressing me back against the soft sheets, and rose from the bed, pulling on a white terry-cloth robe over his hard-muscled body. “You got up last time. Relax. Go take a shower. Take your time.”
I came out, hot and clean and pink-cheeked and happy. I got dressed in a soft pink shirt and skirt, and fed the baby as my husband had a shower in his turn.
This was just as I’d always dreamed. No. It was better. Just the three of us...
For now.
My hand slowly fell on my belly. I want to fill you with my child. Was I afraid? Yes. But did I also want, desperately want, another baby? Also yes.
So much had changed since the last time I was pregnant. Instead of being a fearful fugitive, I was married now. Settled. With a home.
Would it be so wrong to just let myself be happy? Alejandro was a good father. He was proving to be a good husband. He wanted to take care of me forever. He wanted us to be a family. And the way he made love to me... I shuddered at the memory of ecstasy.
Would it be so forbidden, so foolish, to trust my husband with my heart?
If only I knew the lie he was telling me, or had told, or would tell. He said he’d been faithful to me for a year, that he’d never be disloyal.
Of course, that could be the lie....
My lips pressed together, and I grimly pushed the thought away. I told myself that, since he’d shared so much of his body, surely he’d soon find it irresistible to share the secrets of his heart. And then I forced myself not to think about it.
Denial is a beautiful thing. A woman in love can be very good at focusing on the rose and ignoring the thorn—at least until it draws blood. Over breakfast, I kept smiling at Alejandro over my plate of eggs and jamón, my coffee diluted with tons of cream and sugar. And instead of treating me like a lovesick fool, as I no doubt looked like, Alejandro, the dark, dangerous, ruthless duke, did the unthinkable.
He kept smiling back.
“I’d like to take you around the estate today,” he said, sipping his black coffee and reading the morning newspaper, “to meet my tenants.”
“What?” I nearly dropped the baby rattle I’d been holding out for Miguel, who was sitting in my lap. Chortling, the baby grabbed it in his fat little fist and triumphantly began to shake. “I thought I’d meet them at the wedding reception.”
“Abuela told me it will take her two months to plan the reception. We cannot wait that long.” His eyes met mine. He seemed to sense my fear, because he gave me an encouraging smile. “You are my wife. It is right that I introduce you to the tenants on the estate. That is the merest good manners.”
“But...”
“Besides. Knowing Abuela, the reception will be a lavish affair, to impress acquaintances and friends. I want the first introduction to be private. Personal.” He paused. “Many of them have been farming this land for generations. They might have heard rumors. They might think that having a baby first, and getting married second, is a little...”
“Modern?” I supplied.
“Yes. Modern. I don’t want them to wonder if this is a real marriage, or if we’ll stand the test of time.”
“Will we?” I whispered.
“We will,” he said seriously, looking straight into my eyes. “And I want them to have no doubt you are here to stay.” Leaning forward, he took my hand in his own. “I want them to think well of you, as I do.” He looked at me. “Will you meet them?”
Having Alejandro look at me with his deep dark eyes, and hold my hand, and ask me something, in his husky voice, there was no possibility of resistance. No matter how the thought of trying to impress a bunch of strangers and convince them I would make an excellent duquesa filled me with dread. What if they thought I wasn’t good enough? What if they had such deep doubts, Alejandro changed his mind about me and decided to find some other wife more worthy? “All right,” I said hesitantly. “If you think it truly necessary.”
“I do.” Alejandro’s eyes softened as he looked at our baby. “I’d like Miguel to come, as well. Because he is their future. And they are his.”
I bit my lip, trying my best not to look nervous. “Right. Four hundred years on this land, right? So it’s in Miguel’s blood.”
“Something like that.” Alejandro put down his napkin and rose to his feet. “We’ll see the Widow Ramirez first. She was my governess, once.”
The thought warmed my heart. “She taught you as a child?”
“Both me and the...housekeeper’s son.”
“You mean Miguel,” I said softly. “Your friend.”
“Yes. We played together as children, studied together, fought. It didn’t matter that one of us was a future duke and the other just the housekeeper’s son. We studied the same subjects, lived in the same house. We both loved Abuela. We were friends. Until Miguel died that day.”
“And you survived,” I sa
id gently, touching his shoulder.
“Yes. I survived.” He turned away. “I’ll get the keys.”
I finished my breakfast and my orange juice. When Alejandro returned, he said, “Señora Ramirez is no longer as sharp as she used to be, but she still has a lot of influence with the other tenants.”
“No pressure,” I muttered, my heart suddenly cold with fear. I looked down at my pink shirt and floppy cotton skirt. “Maybe I should change.”
He barely glanced at me. “You’re fine.”
“I want them to like me....”
Alejandro laughed. “Fancy clothes won’t make them like you. In fact, if you showed up in a designer dress and five-inch stiletto heels, they’d like you less. The farmers respect honesty, hard work and kindness when it’s called for. Bluntness when it’s not.” His dark eyes gleamed. “You should get along just fine.”
“Oh, all right,” I sighed, sure he was wrong.
A half hour later, the three of us were in his estate vehicle, a black, open-air Jeep, headed over a dirt road that crossed the wide fields and hills belonging to the Castillo de Rohares.
The Widow Ramirez’s house was a snug little cottage on the edge of the estate, where she grew organic peaches and persimmons, aubergines and artichokes, and raised goats that produced milk and cheese. Frail and wizened, barely as tall as my shoulder, when she answered her door she looked at me with critical, beady eyes. But by the end of the visit, she was smiling and pushing more of her homemade butter cookies toward me.
“Eat, eat,” she pleaded. “You must keep up your strength if you are to give your husband more children.”
I felt Alejandro looking at me, and blushed.
“Gracias, Pilar,” he said, putting his hands on my shoulders. “We wish for more children very much.”
“Of course you do,” she said, pouring him tea. “I know it was always your desire to have a larger family, growing up so lonely, up in that huge castle, with your older sister off working in Granada. And your mother,” she sniffed, “working night and day, when she wasn’t distracted by the duke....”