2a748f08-49ec-41d8-8e72-82e5bc151bc0-epub-67710b16-8d2a-4caa-be30-f5ebeb130f9c

by Rebecca Paisley

  Russia moistened her lips, pondering the past years. “I’ve give it a lot o’ thought, what I do. It used to confound me that I could do it at all. But y’see, I can sorta take myself away, or somethin’. I cain’t really explain it, Santiago. The men come, do what they want to me, but it’s like they ain’t really doin’ it to me. I give ‘emever’thing they want, but my heart ain’t never in none of it. I don’t never feel nothin’ a’tall. That’s why I was so plumb nelly confused when you and me first— Well… With you, Santiago Zamora, I feel.”

  He knew precisely what she meant. He’d been with countless women, all of them whores, but he’d never felt anything beyond physical release. As Russia had explained, his heart was never in any of it.

  Like her, he’d taught himself to become distanced from the act itself. He’d been successful at doing so until she’d swept into his life, into his arms. With Russia… God, with Russia, things were different. With Russia Valentine, he felt.

  And she would, too, he vowed. She would feel more than she ever had before. He would give her those feelings tonight. The ones she’d never experienced because of the way she took herself away from them. Because of the wall she’d built between them and herself.

  The wall would come down. Bit by bit, he would tear it down himself. There was an innocent girl inside Russia Valentine, one who had never been touched by any man. He longed to introduce her to that girl, yearned to prove to her once and for all that although Wirt had stolen many, many things from her, the bastard hadn’t taken everything.

  God, it was so important for her to realize that. Santiago knew with all his heart that once she understood it, much of the anguish she carried inside her would begin to fade.

  But what if she refused him? he wondered anxiously. What if, after having relived her nightmare, she couldn’t bear to be touched?

  He lay there silently for many long moments, trying to decide what to do. “Russia,” he whispered.

  She heard dismay in his whisper and felt tension in his body. She tried to think of a way to brighten the mood of the evening. “All them things I jist tole you? Well, that night with Wirt happened a long time ago. I can usually fergit about it. So we ain’t talkin’ about it no more, hear? Instead, we’re gonna talk about cheerful things. Have you ever thinked about happy stuff that other people prob’ly don’t notice? I do that sometimes. Let’s do it now, Santiago. You’ll be surprised at how fast sadness goes away when you fill your mind with happy stuff.”

  Wanting to accommodate her, he tried to think a happy thought. “The stars are all out tonight.”

  She wrinkled her nose. “Yeah, there they all are, but ever’body in the world can look up and see that. You gotta think of odd stuff, Santiago. Things like…um…like puttin’ your hand under your pillow at night and feelin’ how cool it is. Don’t you do that sometimes? Ain’t you never laid there, gittin’ kinda hot, and then you put your hand under your pillow and finally go to sleep because the coolness makes you happy?”

  He smiled. “Yes. I’ve done that before. I didn’t know other people did it, too.”

  “And what about whippin’ egg whites? I used to watch Mama do that, and I always thought it was like some kinda miracle when them thick, slimy whites finally turned fluffy and light. Sometimes she’d let me try it, but I couldn’t never git my wrist to turn good like she did.”

  “How about the squeak you hear on clean plates?” Santiago offered. “Lupita and I used to wash dishes in a stream near our house. Sometimes we had soap, sometimes we didn’t. But we always had sand. I loved rubbing the sand over the dishes. And when I washed it off and ran my thumb over the dish, it squeaked. Then I knew it was really clean.”

  “What about suckin’ on a jawbreaker and countin’ the hours it takes fer it to finally dissolve?” she suggested. “You ever done that, Santiago? Y’gotta swear not to bite down on it, y’see. It has to melt away by itself. Lord, them things take ferever to git gone. And even though it’s sorta silly, you feel real proud o’ yourself fer not givin’ in to the temptation to bite ’em.”

  He nodded in total agreement, recalling all the times he’d accepted the challenge a jawbreaker presented. Grinning, he thought of another happy feeling. “Being able to wiggle your toes after having worn tight boots all day.”

  “Yeah, and diggin’ up earthworms, then buryin’ ‘emagain and knowin’ they ain’t suffocatin’ like a person would.”

  “Finally getting out whatever’s stuck between your teeth after having worked at it for a long time.”

  She giggled, understanding his sentiment. “And bein’ on a horse. If not fer you, I wouldn’t know how much fun it is. Scary, yeah, but there’s somethin’ really nice about sittin’ up there and knowin’ the horse can carry you around. I wish I could ride good, Santiago. I really wanna learn.”

  “It’s mostly practice.”

  “Can we practice tonight?”

  He glanced at the horses, unwilling to disturb their rest. Still, he mused, looking at Russia’s saddle, there was a way. A way for Russia to practice.

  A way for her to practice riding…and other things as well.

  He slipped his arms beneath her, rose, and carried her to a fallen tree. Its thick trunk hadn’t broken completely in half but was merely split, so that the tree swayed about four feet off the ground.

  Russia saw her saddle hung over it.

  Santiago lifted her into it, loving what he saw.

  Her white nightgown flowed over the thick, dark brown leather of the saddle. A bit of frothy lace bubbled around the cold iron stirrup. Russia’s smooth, pale leg looked beautiful next to the rough and blackened bark of the tree.

  And her hair… Santa Maria, the way it fell! The way it streamed all about her, all down her back, all over the part of the tree behind her. The way it caught the soft silver shine of the moon. He was struck by its glory.

  “Santiago?”

  Her voice pulled him gently out of his trance. “Put your feet in the stirrups.” He kept his hands around her waist, steadying her.

  “Y’want me to ride a tree?”

  “I do.”

  She put her feet in the stirrups. “Giddy-up, tree.”

  “I’m going to let go of you now.”

  “You sure you wanna do that? I might take off at a full gallop. Good Lord, I might not ever git this tree to stop.”

  Smiling, he removed his hands from her waist. She continued to “ride” the tree, and he knew immediately that her actions were going to cause the saddle to slide to the ground. He caught her promptly when the tack fell.

  The sheer strength of him caused her heart to beat a little faster. “That tree throwed me off,” she told him, tantalized by the easy laughter she saw dancing in his eyes.

  “I’ve told you to press in with your knees. You don’t do that, and that’s why you fell off your mare so many times today. Practice doing it on this tree.” He placed the saddle back on the tree trunk.

  “This is dumb.”

  He realized he was going to have to convince her to cooperate with him. “It worked for me. I rode a fence before I ever felt a horse beneath me. Your saddle isn’t attached to the tree, Russia,” he explained. “It’s only lying over it. Because of that, you’re going to have to find your balance to stay on. Believe me, if you can do that on this tree trunk, you’ll find it easy to do while sitting in a saddle that’s actually strapped to your mount.” He lifted her into the saddle again.

  She squeezed with her knees. “Satisfied?”

  Satisfied? he repeated silently, savoring the sight of her softly parted lips. God, he hoped she would be satisfied. Before the night ended.

  The fulfillment, however, wouldn’t actually come from riding a mounted tree. He was merely using it as a device—one he hoped would lead Russia gently and fearlessly into the mood he was about to set. He realized there was little connection between a saddle on a broken tree trunk and lovemaking, but if he had his way, the two would go hand in hand.

&nbs
p; His sable brow arched high. “You haven’t learned how to move your body yet.”

  She watched something come into his eyes. Something that hadn’t been there before. It spoke to her, as if with words, though she heard no sound.

  Instead, she felt it. The mood had changed. The air grew warmer. The atmosphere became sultry and filled with mystery. A secret Santiago would soon reveal to her.

  His eyes told her all those things.

  “Learn, Russia,” Santiago commanded quietly. “Learn to move your body.” He placed one hand on the small of her back and the other over her lower belly. Slowly, he pushed her bottom back and forth. “Move with my hands, Russia. From the waist, move the lower part of your body while keeping the top part still and straight. Move your hips. Move with my hands.”

  His hands felt so warm, she thought, tingling. So big. They held her with such strength. She wanted to feel them roam all over her.

  “Russia, you aren’t moving.”

  She tried to do as he asked, moving her hips back and forth.

  “You’re too stiff. Relax your back. It’s not supposed to be a jerky motion, Russia, but a smooth one. Rock. Back and forth. Slowly, smoothly. Feel my hands, paloma. Feel how they move you.”

  She felt his hands move her again. Back. Forward. Again and again. The motion was so sensual to her. She tried to picture herself upon her mare, but her imagination grew wings. She was moving. Beneath him. Beneath Santiago. He moved with her. Rocked into her, out of her, filling her, leaving her, then coming back to her again. Back…and forth. Slowly. Rhythmically. Without realizing it, she moaned softly.

  Santiago smiled knowingly. “Good,” he murmured when she picked up the slow rhythm. “Yes, Russia. That’s it. Back…and forth. Move your body. Think of the horse. Think of the gentle rocking feeling. Back, Russia…and forth. Hips in…hips out. Slow, slow. Yes, like that, paloma. Like that.”

  “Santiago,” she whispered.

  “Move, Russia. Move for me. Let me see you move.”

  His velvet voice and sensual requests sent vivid desire coursing through her. She lost count of the times she moved. Rocking. Slowly. Rhythmically, with his hands coercing her, caressing her, bringing her pleasure alter pleasure. “Santiago.”

  He heard everything she felt in the sound of his own name. “Feel the rhythm, Russia. Become one with it.”

  She heard her own moaning. His suggestive commands, spoken in that soft, sexy voice… She could stand the torment no longer. Twisting sideways, she slipped from the saddle, directly into his waiting arms.

  His ebony gaze never leaving hers, Santiago set her down. “The lesson isn’t over yet, paloma mia.” He dropped his hands to her bottom, cupping it firmly. “I told you to feel the rhythm. Told you to become one with it. Back…and forth. In…and out. Slowly. Smoothly. Like this. Like this, Russia.”

  He pressed his hips to hers, then withdrew them. Slowly, smoothly. Repeatedly. He kept her firmly to him, forcing her to feel his desire for her. He moved against her unceasingly, demanding that she understand this was no riding lesson.

  She began to move with him. Her hands clinging to his broad shoulders, her breasts against his wide, warm chest, she matched his rhythm, meeting his hips with her own.

  “You learn quickly, palomita,” he said huskily, his lips at her ear.

  She leaned further into his sinewy form and turned her face to his.

  Their lips touched lightly. Neither of them moved. They felt each other’s heat, heard each other’s breaths, and saw each other’s desire.

  “Russia,” Santiago whispered.

  Her knees buckled when he covered her mouth with his own. She felt his arms tighten around her, crushing her to him.

  She opened further for him, moaning when he accepted the invitation and deepened the kiss. He sought, found, and explored every part of her mouth, kissing her as he never had before. She gave him her complete surrender.

  He knew he had it the second she gave it.

  The time had come…

  Chapter Eighteen

  Steadying her, he reached for the front of her nightgown and tugged on the satin ribbons that held it together. With one smooth motion, he slid it off her shoulders.

  She felt it skim down her body, and then his hands took its place. They glided down her back, over her bottom, around her hips, and up her belly. He closed them over her breasts, teasing her nipples into stiff, pouting crowns that ached sweetly for more of his touch.

  And the kiss went on, becoming almost savage in its intensity. She returned it with mindless abandon, wanting everything there was to have from it.

  It ended only when he lifted her into his arms again. She felt him carrying her, but didn’t care where he took her.

  He laid her down on the bed by the fire. In mere seconds he was as naked as she.

  Santiago Zamora, she thought. He stood before her in all his splendid male glory, the mellow firelight glowing richly upon his dark, bronzed skin. Trembling with need, she held her arms open, anxious for him to fill them.

  He ignored them and knelt beside her. With one hand on her hip, the other on her shoulder, he turned her over so she was on her stomach. “Close your eyes.”

  She had no idea what he would do, but whatever it was, she wanted it. She closed her eyes and felt excitement spin through her.

  Santiago placed something very soft on her back.

  She felt it moving lightly on her skin. It tickled. It felt wonderful. It deepened desire.

  “What did I draw?” he asked, his voice as hot as the nearby fire.

  “Draw? Um…”

  “I drew a flower, Russia, and I did it with this.”

  She opened her eyes and saw that he held a delicate sprig of red-orange lantana. He’d pulled all the leaves off; only the thick cluster of flowers remained on the slender branch. When he grazed them across her cheek, she caught their pungent scent and felt their satiny smoothness. Their bright petals looked wonderful against his dark fingers.

  Santiago smiled at the smoldering look in her eyes. “Russia,” he murmured. “Chiquitita mia. Turn over now.”

  No power on earth could have kept her from obeying his tender command. She rolled onto her back, then saw him lower the spray of flowers to her breasts and swirl them around her nipples. She’d never felt such exquisite desire, such anxious yearning.

  “Soft,” Santiago whispered. “The flower. You,” He brushed the fragile blossoms down her belly, stopping them between her thighs.

  Russia gasped. Moaned. Opened.

  Santiago smoothed the silky flowers downward. “Soft,” he murmured to her again. “So soft.” He twisted the stem.

  She moaned once more when she felt the flowers spinning upon her femininity. Santiago barely allowed the petals to touch her. The feather-light caresses made her wild with need. She arched her hips, giving him more of herself, hoping for more from him.

  “Ya, palomita. Easy, little dove,” he responded, his voice fluid with sexiness, heavy with desire.

  She looked at him. He was sitting beside her hip, his knees bent up to his chest, twirling the thin branch of flowers as if it were the most natural thing in the world for him to do to her.

  The flowers kept whirling intimately upon her.

  She saw how he watched them move. His dark eyes reflected firelight, concentration, and brooding sensuality. He blinked lazily. Slowly.

  The blossoms continued moving. Round and round. Down and up, touching her enough to bring pleasure, but not hard enough to fulfill her.

  Her every sense was aroused. She smelled fire. Earth. The flowers.

  Santiago.

  She heard the fire crackle. From somewhere a coyote howled. The whine of the night wind came to her. She could have sworn she heard Santiago’s heartbeat.

  The air she breathed had a flavor. Strange as it seemed, she could taste the night. It made her think of dark burgundy wine, bursting with sharpness, yet spilling with smoothness, too. The kind of wine that came from an old
, dusty bottle.

  She saw everything. Even things that weren’t there. Like the aura surrounding her, surrounding Santiago. It was like colored mist. It seemed to settle over her. Over him. It was warm, almost hot.

  “Hot,” she whispered.

  The flowers stopped moving.

  But the feelings they had created persisted. Grew. “Santiago, will you?”

  He knew what she wanted. Hoped she would find it. Now. Tonight.

  He moved above her and lowered his body slowly down to hers.

  She felt his masculinity slide between her thighs. It burned. She wanted it to catch her on fire.

  He slid into her only slightly, then withdrew completely.

  She saw the blossoms in his hand. He raised them above her face, then glided them across her lips. She kissed the tiny petals, highly aroused by the memory of what Santiago had done with them.

  He moved his hips forward.

  When she raised hers, he withdrew again. “Santiago?”

  In answer, he smiled.

  She pushed at his bottom.

  He was stronger than she and resisted her feeble attempts.

  She could feel only the tip of him, but strange yet wonderful feelings were coming. It seemed to her that every sense she possessed was aware of it. “Somethin’s happenin’,” she whispered. “Santiago, somethin’s—”

  “Then let it.” He pushed into her again, but only halfway before withdrawing.

  She felt the flowers on her face once more. Their spicy perfume mingled with Santiago’s scent. That masculine scent that was uniquely his. She felt washed away on a raging river of pure sensation.

  “Querida,” he wooed her quietly. “Palomita mia. Chiquitita.”

  His whispered Spanish sang through her, like a beautiful and haunting melody. The pleasure grew inside her. It was stronger this time than it had ever been before. “It’s gonna happen.”

  “But, Russia, we’ve only just begun.” Gently, he kissed her, his lips barely touching hers.

  His kiss was so soft, so tender, so unhurried, she was completely unprepared for the sudden and powerful thrust that filled her completely.