Montbryce Next Generation 03 - Dance of Love

by Anna Markland

  She took a step away from him and spread her arms wide like the wings of an elegant bird. He took his lead from her and did the same.

  She snaked her arms teasingly in front of his face. He followed suit, grinning.

  She raked her hair off her neck and held it atop her head, offering the back of her gown. He fumbled with the laces, then eased the fabric apart, revealing her bare back. He put his hands on her swaying hips and she gasped when he bent to plant kisses along her spine from waist to nape.

  She let her hair fall, raised her arms and turned to face him. She touched her forehead to his for an instant, then twirled away. The front of her dress slipped lower and lower as she swayed her shoulders this way and that, until he saw the dusky tops of her areolas. They promised dark, dark nipples. He held his breath when she eased the fabric down to release nipples as brown as nutmeg. They were hard like the nut and as precious and rare as the spice. He thirsted to put his mouth on them.

  He helped extricate her arms, which she raised again, swirling away from him, the gown bunched around her waist. She glanced enticingly over her shoulder, her long, elegant fingers doing a dance of their own.

  She faced him again, brushing her nipples against his chest, then turned away. He tore off his doublet and shirt so quickly that when she spun back her soft breasts touched his bare chest, and for the briefest moment her mons whispered against his shaft.

  He groaned and clasped his arms behind her back, holding her to his body as they danced on, caught up in a rhythm only they could hear. Izzy had never before felt music in his bones.

  She pulled away and lifted the hem of her skirts, fisting her hands on her hips. The sight of her bare legs braced in an arrogantly suggestive posture, her beautiful breasts thrust forward in invitation, sent Izzy spiralling out of control. The time for dancing was over. He scooped her up and lay her on the bed, grasped the fabric bunched at her waist and eased it down over her hips. He lifted her bottom and the gown whispered over her legs. He tossed it the way of the shoes.

  She blushed under his gaze, but did not cover herself, allowing him to feast his eyes on her nakedness. “Farah,” he rasped. “My joy.”

  She put one hand over her scar, but he brushed it away and leaned over to lick the length of ad-Daula’s mark. “You need not cover it for me. It only adds to your beauty. I am your master now.”

  Her wide eyes darkened. She took a deep breath and stared at his lips. Her mouth fell open. He slowly touched his lips to hers, once, twice, thrice, nibbling a little harder each time. She moaned and raised her face to his, curling her arms around his neck, pressing her breasts against him. He kissed her hungrily then, thrusting his tongue into her mouth, savouring the warmth, the taste of her. She moaned into his mouth and sucked him, tentatively at first, then with a steady rhythmic pull. Soon their tongues were dancing together and he did not know where he ended and she began.

  Though it had been many a year since he had bedded a woman, he had never felt the fire in his veins that consumed him now. He wanted to put his mouth everywhere. He knelt on the bed and swirled his tongue around each rigid nipple in turn. She closed her eyes and pressed her hands to the sides of her breasts.

  “Dieu, Farah,” he growled, “you are beautiful.”

  He took one pouting nipple into his mouth and sucked, gently at first, then harder as his thirst increased. She keened his name, over and over, pressing her breast to his mouth. He changed to the other nipple, rolling the moisture of the first rigid nub between his thumb and forefinger, elated when she stroked his gnarled hand.

  “Your touch inflames me, husband,” she whispered. Her passion-filled voice sent more blood rushing to his loins.

  He had to get out of his breeches. He climbed off the bed, trailing kisses along her belly as he pulled away, and stood before her. “I want to feel your hands on me again. I have dreamt of it night after night. I promise I won’t fall asleep this time.”

  She smiled at his jest.

  “Undress me, Farah.”

  Now he would lead the dance.

  ~~~

  A tocsin of desire pulsed through Farah’s veins. When she had ministered to Izzy in his chamber at Giroux Castle she had been tempted to tear off his leggings and cast her eyes on his nakedness. She had been overtaken by a peculiar desire to cup his buttocks, press her hand to his male part, massage every tight muscle in his beautiful body.

  Now her mouth went dry. Izzy’s suckling had sparked a fire that spiralled from the vee of her thighs to her core. She knew what was to happen between them. Though she had been declared untouchable by ad-Daula, women in the harem boasted of their skills in the Governor’s bed. His favourites competed with each other. Farah had often thought many of the things they spoke of were physically impossible.

  But she was still an innocent. As a dancer she had been trained to be alluring, taught how to make herself attractive, but she would have to follow Izzy’s lead in learning about intimacy between a man and his wife.

  The moment of no return had arrived. She was about to see that most intimate part of him. Her heart was beating wildly. Even she heard it. She had felt Izzy’s hard length pressed against her and suspected that his phallus would be bigger than the withered members nestled atop the thighs of old crusaders brought to the Hospice. Those unexpected glimpses had solidified her disbelief in some of the tales she had heard. With eyes respectfully closed, she had carefully washed and anointed Georges’ limp manhood—but he had been dead, or near to it.

  She eased her thumbs into the waist of Izzy’s breeches at his hips. He sucked in his breath and combed her hair back from her face to hold it in a twist at her nape. She looked up at him and he smiled his encouragement, his eyes dark.

  She pushed down, baring his buttocks when her fingers slid into the back of the tight garment. But his erection jutted straight out, thwarting her efforts to disrobe him. She looked up at him again, feeling clumsy and unsure.

  “I don’t want to hurt you,” she murmured.

  He smiled. “You’ll have to reach in, and take me out. Don’t worry. You won’t hurt me.”

  She knelt at his feet, swallowing hard, tempted to close her eyes as she reached into his breeches. He was hot and heavy, soft and hard, delicate and strong. She pulled carefully and he aided her by pushing his breeches down his legs.

  She was glad she had not closed her eyes. Izzy’s manhood was like nothing she had seen before, nor expected to see. When she had heard tell of women putting a man’s male part in their mouths she had been repulsed. Now, she had an overwhelming urge to kiss him, right there on the swollen tip, to swirl her tongue around him, to worship at the altar of this male god she had been fortunate enough to marry. “You are magnificent,” she whispered.

  Before she knew it, she had licked him! He tasted sweet, spicy, masculine.

  “Farah!” His voice had deepened to a growl.

  He cradled her head, moving his hips back and forth in a gentle rhythm. She lessened her grip.

  “Is it painful?” she asked.

  “Only if you stop,” he replied, his voice hoarse. “Lick me again, Farah, please. Take me in your mouth.”

  Farah doubted if she could accept all of him, especially since he seemed to have grown bigger still. How on earth was she supposed to accommodate him inside her body?

  She sucked him, swirling her tongue across his tip, pulling on him. The more she sucked and pulled the more urgent became a pulling of her own, deep inside. A flood of warm moisture trickled from between her legs. She pressed her thighs together, partly from embarrassment, partly to ease the urge for him to touch her there.

  “Izzy,” she panted breathlessly, “I—”

  ~~~

  Basking in a maelstrom of incredible sensation, Izzy caught the scent of female arousal. Farah was wet for him. He wanted to plunge his fingers into her, caress her inner folds, arouse her diamond of desire to a fever pitch, then withdraw, and lick her juices from his hands. But if she recoiled at his tou
ch in that most intimate place—

  He lifted her and carried her to the bed. “You know what will happen this night, Farah?”

  Eyes wide, she nodded.

  “I need to be inside you soon, or I will spill my seed.”

  Again she nodded, apprehension plainly written on her face.

  “You will feel pain, at first.”

  He turned her on to her side easing her derrière to the edge of the bed. He put his hand on her bottom and opened her. The promise hidden in the dark wetness made his erection buck again. He pressed his legs against the bed and put the tip of his shaft inside her. She arched her back, bracing herself.

  She was afraid. If he had pleasured her with his fingers she would be more ready. But his need was too great now. “I love you, Farah,” he ground out as he gripped her hip and plunged in, feeling the membrane of her maidenhead rupture.

  Her body went rigid. She clenched on him. He stroked her back, slowly pulling part way out. It was sweet torture. She was hot, and tight. “I have to move, Farah. I cannot be still.”

  She turned her face into the linens, shoulders hunched. He splayed his hand on her hip, pushing in and pulling out slowly, willing her to relax.

  Gradually he felt the tension leave her body. She clenched him again, then released, then clenched again. Soon she matched his rhythm, keening a high pitched cry of need, and he was lost. He slammed into her over and over until the white heat of his seed spurted from his body into her womb and euphoria stole his wits completely. Still standing, embedded in her wet warmth, he swayed as the room tilted around him, trembling with the force of what had happened. He became aware in his half stupor that he had left the imprint of his hand on her bottom. It looked like an ordinary, normal hand. He stared at his deformity, unable to reconcile the two images.

  ~~~

  Farah’s frantic breathing was slowing down when she heard and felt a sigh shudder through Izzy. Had she not pleased him? She wrestled with the worry gnawing at her heart.

  Joining her body with Izzy’s had rocked her to the core. Despite the gossipy titters of the women in the harem, the reality of the monumental sense of fulfilment that the dance of love would bring had never occurred to her. The dizzying bliss of feeling her husband’s manpart thicken inside her had left her heart throbbing. His guttural yell of completion when his hot seed erupted into her womb had reverberated through her bones.

  There had been pain, but other intense sensations had quickly rendered it insignificant.

  It was not the momentary discomfort of losing her maidenhead that bothered her, but a fear something had been missing. She held her tongue, not knowing what to say. Her husband had lain with other women. Had he found her lacking?

  Izzy scooped her up and moved her further onto the bed, then curled his big body into her back, his arms tight around her, one leg wrapped around hers. She felt his heartbeat. He nuzzled her neck. “You are mine now, Farah. You belong to me.”

  She chewed her bottom lip, hesitant to say anything. “Does that please you?”

  He sat bolt upright and turned her to face him. “Please me? Dieu, woman, that was the most incredible—”

  A tear trickled down her cheek. She wiped it away quickly, but he had seen it. He frowned. “Why do you weep, Farah?”

  She turned away from his intense gaze. “You seem displeased.”

  Izzy let out a long breath and gathered her into his arms. “Farah, I am a coward. I could have given you much more pleasure, but I was afraid.”

  She nestled her head against his chest. “I don’t understand. Afraid of what?”

  He put his palm on the curls at her mons. “Of touching you here.”

  She gasped, feeling her face redden. Dare she speak of her longing? “I wanted you to touch me there, Izzy. My body cried out for it.”

  “I could not have borne it if you had recoiled at my touch.”

  She pulled her head away and braced both hands on his chest. “Do you not yet trust me? No part of you is abhorrent to me, Izzy.”

  Driven by a need building in her loins, she brushed her thumbs over his dark male nipples and opened her legs. “Touch me now.”

  His body warmed and his manhood grew before her eyes. He kissed her, nibbled her neck, then kissed her again as his fingers moved to the wet folds of her womanhood.

  Arrows of desire shot through her body as he traced smaller and smaller circles, closer and closer to the part of her that screamed to be played with. She kissed him urgently, placing her hand over his.

  He growled, leapt off the bed, turned her onto her back and pulled her to the edge. He took hold of her feet. “Spread your legs, wide.”

  She obeyed, her heart hammering in her chest, nipples tingling unbearably.

  Izzy knelt beside the bed and used his thumbs to open her inner folds. The love in his reverent touch took her breath away. He gazed at a part of her body she had never seen, but the awestruck look on his face eased her fears. Suddenly, his tongue was there, licking, sucking, teasing. She screamed out her pleasure. He pulled away. She rose up on her elbows. “Don’t stop,” she pleaded, grinding her heels into the mattress.

  He grinned. “Lay back. Put your hands on your breasts. Squeeze those magnificent nipples.”

  Her mouth fell open. Icy heat raced up and down her spine, but she obeyed, the cravings becoming uncontrollable. There was something more—something she had wanted before, but what was it?

  His rough thumb brushed the throbbing nub and she knew. Then his tongue took the place of his thumb. A thousand shooting stars danced behind her eyes as she fell from the sky into bliss. Someone was screaming Izzy’s name over and over.

  His finger slid into her, sending another jolt of molten pleasure straight into her womb. He pushed in and out, in and out, then slid another finger inside. It was not the same as his manhood, but it was heaven. She wanted to beg him to enter her, “Come—” but the words stuck in her passion-constricted throat.

  He needed no words. His thick manhood plunged in, thrusting hard. He drew her legs around his hips and she locked her ankles behind his back. He cupped his hands under her bottom and lifted her hips. She trailed her fingertips up and down his muscled thighs, behind his knees.

  He groaned, panting hard as his need and his manhood grew. “Hold on, Farah. This is going to be a wild ride.”

  If their first coupling had rocked her, the second was cataclysmic. She matched his frenetic rhythm stroke for stroke, the delicious heat building inside until she convulsed in a frenzy of ecstasy. She clenched on his shaft and felt his release shudder through him as he cried out her name.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  Izzy drifted back to the world, his eyelids heavy. Someone was stroking his hair. He peeled open one eye. He was lying on top of Farah, drooling!

  He rose up on his elbows. She smiled. “I’m sorry, Farah. I’m too heavy to put my full weight on you.”

  She shook her head, twirling her finger in his hair. “I can bear your weight, Izzy de Montbryce.”

  Her voice seemed even sultrier now she had been well bedded. He traced his finger along her bottom lip, elated at the memory of sliding his blighted fingers inside her. She had loved it!

  “What do you want me to call you now, wife?” he asked lazily. “Are you María Sancha, or Farah?”

  She frowned. “I have been thinking on that. My whole life I have been Farah. Only my mother, and now my brother, has called me María Sancha. It is name that honours my father and the royal house of Jiménez.”

  He stroked her nose. “Mayhap I should call you princesa?”

  She tickled his neck and he cringed. “Stop, I’m ticklish. It was a jest.”

  She pressed a forefinger to her lips. “Hmm! I’ll have to remember that!”

  He took her hand and kissed it. “Seriously, to me you’ll always be Farah, the exciting, exotic creature I fell in love with as soon as I laid eyes on her.”

  She smiled, sending ripples of pleasure down his spine. Then she gr
ew serious. “But when Georges de Giroux arranged for me to be baptized after we were freed, it was in the name my mother chose—María Sancha.”

  “I have a suggestion,” he said. “You will be known as María Sancha de Montbryce, but in bed, when we make love, you are Farah.”

  She laughed. “I like the sound of that.”

  He lay back, staring at the elaborate ceiling, his hands behind his head, feeling more peaceful and content than—well, than ever before!

  Farah sat up beside him. Her eyes fell on the salver. “Oh, the scroll. I suppose we should see what my brother has granted for my dowry.”

  She reached to grasp it, waving it under his nose. “Who knows, you may be a rich man!”

  He snatched it from her with a grin. “I am already rich. I have you.”

  He unfurled the parchment and held it over his head, angling it to catch the dawn’s early light. He frowned. “It’s in Aragonese.”

  She tried to take it from him, but he resisted. “Just a minute. I’ll figure it out. Let’s see…“By the Glory of God…in the year of Our Lord One Thousand One Hundred and Seven…in the third year of the reign of Alfonso, King of Aragón…blah…blah…”

  He read on a further, not sure he had understood the meaning of the words that followed. His heart lurched. He read it again, crumpled the scroll angrily and thrust it in her face. “Did you know about this?”

  Her look of horrified incomprehension assured him she had not been part of Alfonso’s scheme. He dropped the scroll in her lap and climbed off the bed. “Read it.”

  ~~~

  With trembling hands, heart-sick at the sudden change in Izzy’s demeanour, Farah smoothed out the parchment. “…of the reign of …I, Alfonso, King of Aragón, do hereby grant to my half-sister, Princesa María Sancha Tarazona…”