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

by Rebecca Paisley

  “Move, Russia,” he whispered into her ear. “Rock. Back…and forth. In. Out. Back…and forth. Slowly, smoothly. Feel the rhythm. Become one with it. One with me.”

  His words…the same ones he’d used while teaching her to ride… Remembering, Russia fell more deeply under his spell.

  She did everything he told her to do, glorying in her obedience to him. Moving to the slow and measured cadence he set, she became one with him.

  Pleasure skimmed inside her. Like some kind of flowing ribbon, it wound its way through her, missing no part of her.

  It was happening. It didn’t stop. She reached for it, touching it this time. She realized Santiago controlled it.

  Mastered it. It was at his command, and so was she. Her entire body, each of her senses.

  He guided her into it leisurely, moving slowly within her, never breaking the languid rhythm.

  Russia felt as if he were lifting her to the highest place that existed. She arrived slowly. He gave her time to savor each growing feeling, each deepening tingle of pleasure, before he lifted her even higher.

  She sensed the fulfillment was close at hand. It shimmered like light too bright to look at, but too beautiful to turn away from. It warmed her body, heart, and soul.

  Ecstasy bloomed. Intense, fiery ecstasy. Russia moaned as it spread through her in ripples that soon became swells and then giant waves that drowned her in feelings too wonderful to believe.

  When he felt her tremble beneath him, when he heard her soft whimpers of pleasure, Santiago knew a sudden and tremendous joy.. Her bliss became his own. “Russia.”

  Her name still lingering on his lips, he felt the sweetness of sated desire sweep through his rigid body. Pleasure he’d never experienced with any other woman melted through him. He held her tightly, never wanting to let her go.

  She said nothing to him. He said nothing to her. They remained quiet for a long moment, each absorbed in the magical and meaningful silence.

  Russia was the first to break it. “Santiago?”

  God, how he loved the sound of that tiny voice. “Dime, querida. Tell me.”

  “I—I didn’t think it’d happen.”

  “But it did.” He buried his face in the fragrant mass of her hair that lay spread beside her, waiting for her to come to the realization he so wanted her to discover.

  “Santiago, that…that somethin’ wrong with me. It ain’t wrong. There ain’t nothin’ wrong with me. Wirt—he stealed a lot o’ things from me, but he didn’t steal— He didn’t git ever’thing.”

  Santiago closed his eyes, so happy for her that it was a moment before he could reply. “No, Russia,” he whispered tenderly. “He didn’t get everything.”

  She pressed tiny kisses to his shoulder. “Will it—do y’think it’ll happen fer me again, Santiago?”

  “Whenever you desire, paloma mia.” He slipped from atop her and took her in his arms. “Whenever you desire.”

  Russia took his answer to heart. “Now,” she murmured.

  He smiled. “So soon?”

  “You said whenever I desired. I desire now. You ain’t a man who goes back on his word, are you, Santiago Zamora?”

  “No,” he murmured, his hand sweeping into her thick hair. “I’m not a man who goes back on his word. But, Russia, it’s your turn now, chiquita. Your turn…to please me.”

  Russia looked at him for a long time before she spoke. “Santiago…do y’mean—do you want me to—to do what I know how to do? What I—”

  “Yes. Yes, Russia, that’s what I want.”

  She thought of what she knew how to do, and was unable to decide if she should do it or not. “You ain’t gonna git—”

  “I’m not going to get mad,” he finished for her, knowing exactly what she was thinking.

  Supreme joy shot through her. She did know how to please a man. And he was actually prompting her to please him! Oh, how she would!

  Excited, she laid her cheek on his chest and took a moment to love the sound of his heart. Then, slowly, she began sprinkling his chin with tiny kisses while gliding her hand down his rippled belly. Lower, she went, lower still.

  Santiago groaned when she closed her hand around him. “Russia…”

  Her fingers claiming his masculinity, she touched her lips to his. Lightly at first, and then with growing demand.

  Unbelievable desire soared through Santiago when she deepened the kiss. She explored his mouth in the way he had hers. Lazily, and then urgently. It seemed to him she sought everything she could from the kiss, didn’t wait for him to give it, but instead seized it herself. He was shaken by the intensity of the pleasure her capable control gave him.

  He could feel her soft, searching fingers delving into the thick mat of hair at his groin. Closing his eyes, he could see them, too. White on black. Vivid. Stark.

  Her kiss lightened then, but her lips never left him. She kissed the side of his mouth, gradually moving upward to his scar. There, on the pale and jagged line, her kisses resumed.

  The poignancy of her actions so affected Santiago, he felt his eyes begin to sting. Her soft, sweet lips…kissing the mark he hated so terribly. The mark no beard would cover, the mark there for all the world to see and fear and look away from.

  Russia caressed it. With her mouth. With her warm breath. As if she thought it beautiful, she loved it for many long and touching moments.

  And Santiago knew then that he would never hate the scar again.

  Potent emotion streaming through him, he widened his eyes when she took her kisses down his torso. He inhaled sharply when she took him into her mouth. He felt engulfed by sensations too powerful to name, and he could barely lie still and let them continue.

  But he did.

  Listening to his uneven breathing and soft moans, Russia smiled inwardly, knowingly. Unwilling to allow him to find ecstasy without her, she rose and straddled him. One look at the tense expression on his face told her she hadn’t stopped a second too soon.

  Her hands on his chest, she slid downward, taking him into her body and feeling exquisite joy as she watched pleasure pass over Santiago’s dark features. She leaned down to him, closer to his face. “Rock,” she whispered. “Back…and forth. Easy, Santiago. Steady, smooth, slow. Move. With me. To my rhythm. Back, yes…and forth. Stay with me, Santiago.”

  Her sensual commands, the echoes of his own to her, caused him to shudder with a sudden jolt of demanding desire. He felt those special muscles of hers close around him, squeezing him in that intimate way she’d done before. Her sensual embrace drove him wild. With every shred of strength and willpower he possessed, he tried to resist the rising pleasure for a moment longer.

  Russia wouldn’t let him. He felt her hips turning, pressing into him, away from him, circling rhythmically. He grew harder. Began to throb and pulse with pleasure too great to contain any longer. “Russia.”

  “I know, Santiago.”

  Her timing was perfect. She took him to the peak and then beyond it, remaining with him, feeling every sensation he felt, relishing each burst of ecstasy with him.

  “Again,” Santiago groaned, his lips at her ear. “You, Russia. Again.”

  She didn’t understand when he continued moving against her. Puzzled, she lifted her head and peered down at him.

  He recognized the confusion in her eyes. There was no time for words, however, and so he let his body do all the explaining, hoping her own body would hear and comprehend. His palms at her hips, he circled her slowly upon him, his own hips joined with hers. Command was back in his hands.

  Before Russia even realized what he was trying to do, her body accepted the sensual and unexpected gift he offered. A second tremor of pleasure flowed through her.

  Santiago smiled. His hands now caressing her back, he felt her grow limp in his arms. “Russia?”

  It was a long moment before she could answer. “It happened two times. That’s three times already tonight.”

  “Would you like to go for four?”

&nb
sp; “Cain’t.”

  “Why?”

  “I feel like I was borned tired and suffered a relipse.”

  “A what?”

  “A relipse. You know—that thing you git after you’ve done had it once.”

  “A relapse.”

  “Whatever. Santiago?”

  “Tell me,” he urged softly.

  “Jist wanted to thank you,” she said, slipping from his chest to lie next to him. “Jist wanted to tell you what it meaned to me to finally— Thanks to you. You’re the only man who ever taked the time. Who ever cared enough. The only one, Santiago. I ain’t never gonna fergit…what you done. I’ll remember all of it, Santiago. Always.”

  Lying quietly in his embrace, she sighed deeply, pondering the man who held her so tenderly. He had no fine and elegant carriage. He didn’t smell of bayberry. He’d never read or mentioned a single poem to her. Not once had she seen him in a fancy suit. His hands were colored with the stains of hard and endless work.

  But she knew in her heart he was every inch her Prince Charming.

  She knew, too, she would never love another man. Only him.

  Only Santiago Zamora.

  * * *

  For days Santiago led the way toward Calavera, keeping Quetzalcoatl at a laggard pace. Russia had her mare follow in the same unhurried manner. Both knew the reasons for traveling to Calavera were important ones, but neither wanted the journey to end.

  The nights seemed endless as well. Beneath the light of the moon, Santiago held Russia in his arms and eased her slowly into heaven. Every dawn she leisurely took him back again.

  With each dallying moment that passed, Russia dwelled more intently on her love for him. It grew with a passion so deeply fulfilling to her, she was at a loss to understand how she had ever lived without it.

  She soon lost count of time and wondered uncaringly if it was going by at all. Santiago kept the horses at a slow walk, spending long hours teaching her to ride. When the lessons were over, he’d stop and dismount to pick flowers of all kinds for her.

  She accepted each ragged bouquet and held them until the blossoms sagged over her hands. Then she tucked them into her book of fairy tales. The book soon grew thick with them.

  “Look at these, Russia,” he said to her one bright morning after having found yet more flowers.

  She took the wild marigolds from him. They dripped water onto her skirt, but she didn’t care. The brief rain shower that had fallen earlier had left the landscape cool and fresh. Getting wet had felt wonderful.

  Smiling, she settled herself into a thick, moist bed of clover, crossed her legs, and withdrew her book from her bag. Upon opening it, she saw that she’d turned to the story of Cinderella. She knew what story it was because of the fingerprint smudges on the pages. They’d come from Santiago’s hands. His dirty hands.

  Those hands she loved. The ones that worked hard all day, and sometimes at night, too. The ones that did such lovely things to her. The ones from which she received all the wildflowers.

  The ones she wanted to hold forever.

  Looking down at the smears on the white pages, she fingered the golden blossoms Santiago had just given to her, then closed the book around them, unaware that he was watching her.

  He joined her, thinking how pretty, how sweet she looked in her pink gown, encircled by the emerald clover. “There’s a rainbow behind you, chiquita.”

  Eyes wide, she turned and smiled when she saw the colorful bands arching across the clear blue sky.

  Santiago painted her image in his mind at that moment, memorizing each detail about her and her surroundings and knowing this was the way he would always think of her. With her soft lips parted and tilted as if she were about to say something happy. With her tattered book of wishes in her lap, that blue-green magic in her eyes, and a splendorous rainbow glowing behind her.

  “You’ve been keeping the flowers in your book,” he commented, then sat down beside her. “I didn’t know that.”

  She opened it to Cinderella again. One lone line written at the bottom of the last page of the story caught her attention. “I know what this says, Santiago. ‘And they lived happily ever after.’” Sighing, she leaned over her crossed legs and placed her elbows on the cool, damp ground, cupping her chin in her hands.

  “Happily ever after. Kinda makes you think o’ Little Jack Horner, don’t it? Wonder how’s he’s gittin’ along with his wife. I still miss him sometimes, y’know.”

  Santiago slipped his arm around her waist and bent down with her. “You’ll probably always miss him, but you did what you believed was right.” Inhaling her fragrance of peppermint, he sprinkled her cheek with feathery kisses.

  She sighed again, with both the pleasure of his kisses and what he had told her. “Yeah, I done real good, lettin’ him go the way I done, Santiago. It’s like I said the day I done it. ’Member I tole you about doin’ what’s best fer people you love? ’Member I told you that even if it—even if it hurts to do it…”

  When she didn’t finish her sentence and he saw her features darken, Santiago turned her face toward his. “What’s the matter?”

  Her mind was reeling with sudden and painful realizations. She sat up and looked at her book again. And they lived happily ever after. That last line on the page seemed to leap off directly at her, like some shooting, fiery arrow that knew its mark and found it successfully.

  “Russia?” Santiago prodded, baffled by her sudden silence.

  She closed her eyes for a moment, dwelling on the reasons she’d let her ox go. She’d wanted the best for him, had wanted him to be happy.

  Did Santiago, the man she loved beyond reason, deserve any less?

  Pain tore through her. She hated her train of thought, wanted to erase it from her mind, and tried to think of something else. Something happy.

  Happy. And they lived happily ever after. The line seemed congealed in her brain, frosting over everything else she tried to think of.

  “Russia.” Santiago lifted her face again. “Open your eyes, querida. Look at me.”

  She kept them closed for a few seconds longer, knowing that when she opened them, sorrow would completely overcome her. She’d see him. Her prince.

  And who would he see? Not the virtuous woman of his dreams, but a whore. Worse, a whore who could never bear him the children he’d professed to want.

  He would not see his princess.

  “Russia?”

  Slowly, she raised her eyes to him. “This,” she murmured, “is the story of Cinderella.” She couldn’t seem to think of anything else to say.

  He saw her hand smooth across the page. She couldn’t read, so how did she know what story it was? Moreover, why were her beautiful eyes brimming with sorrow? “How do you know that’s Cinderella?” he asked softly.

  She looked at the book, pointing to the dark smudges on the page. “These come from you. From your hands.”

  He saw the black marks and stiffened.

  She bent her head lower, relieved when her hair cascaded around her, veiling her face, concealing the tears that fell despite her efforts to keep them back. “Where is…Calavera?” she whispered, her heart in her throat. “Is it very far away?”

  His mind spun. In seconds, his thoughts all came together, forming a solid and icy block of frigid comprehension. “Anxious to get there?” he asked, his voice as cold as his realization.

  Her head still bowed, she made herself nod. “How soon will we git there? We been goin’ so slow, and— We gotta find Wirt. We—we need to hurry.”

  “And why is that, Russia?” he bit out. His jaw clenched tightly. He already suspected the reason behind her wish to hurry, but some dark and morbid thing inside him wanted to hear her say it.

  Russia cringed inwardly, knowing the words she was about to say would haunt her forever. “We gotta hurry,” she whispered, “because—because we got lives to git on with. Yours…out there in that big ole world, Santiago. And mine? I—” She broke off, trying desperately to i
nvent grand plans for her future.

  “Settle down,” she exclaimed shakily. “That’s what I aim to do, y’see. Once Wirt ain’t in the way no more, I ain’t never gonna be on the run again.”

  “And where will you go?” To his own ears, his question had the sting of a thousand whips.

  She couldn’t look at him. He’d see her tears. “Go?” God, where would she go? she wondered, frantic to give him some feasible answer. “I— Um…Whisperin’ Oaks,” she blurted out suddenly, the town the only one she could think of. “Yeah, Whisperin’ Oaks. That’s where I’ll go.”

  His body rigid with fury, Santiago rose. He’d hoped so hard that she’d forget Ben Clayton. That what they’d shared would make a difference in their relationship. He’d begun to think it had. He’d allowed himself to believe it had.

  He knew now it hadn’t. Glancing quickly at her book, he saw the black marks on the white pages. He saw, too, the dirt beneath his nails.

  “Mount,” he ordered, his voice harsh with rage, scalded with hot bitterness. “We’ll ride fast and arrive in Calavera by late this afternoon.”

  * * *

  Calavera. From a distance it seemed to push out of the ground like some ugly thing from hell. As Santiago watched it come closer, his finely honed instincts warned him that the devil himself lay in wait within it.

  He cast a quick look back at Russia. She lay low over her mare’s neck, and he knew she was exhausted.

  He’d pushed the horses hard and fast. She hadn’t fallen off once. Not once. No doubt it was her desire to get all of this over and done with that had kept her in the saddle, he seethed. After all, she had a wedding to attend. A happily-ever-after to live in Whispering Oaks.

  With her dear Prince Charming.

  He twisted back around in the saddle, urging Quetzalcoatl into an even faster gallop. The stallion’s pounding hooves sent sharp pebbles and hard clods of dirt everywhere. Viciously, they peppered Santiago’s face. He didn’t resist the pain of the stings. It was far less brutal than the horrible pain in his heart.