Authors: Shirl Henke
Scrape. Scrape. The raspy sound was low and incredibly erotic. She had never seen a man shave before and would never have dreamed it could be sexually arousing.
It was. His strong brown hands plied the blade in long clean strokes, leaving behind pathways of smooth tanned skin. When he ran the razor up his throat, tilting his head to one side and pulling the skin taut, she swallowed audibly. The urge to run her fingers down his jaw, to feel the contrast after the scratchy beard had been removed, was overwhelming.
If she had not already been on the floor, she might well have ended up there. Her knees were so weak they would never have held her upright and her breathing had grown swift and shallow. He put down the razor and reached for a towel, briskly wiping the last traces of soap from his face.
“Care to try again?” he asked, prying one hand from its tight grip on the edge of the tub and placing it against his smooth cheek.
Could he read her mind? Before she could answer the question, he leaned out of the tub and swept his damp arm around her waist, pulling her toward him. His mouth met hers suddenly but there was no savagery in this kiss. Rather, it was incredibly gentle, light as the touch of an evening breeze, warm and soft. His lips brushed, stroked, then he rimmed the edges of her mouth with the tip of his tongue, outlining it. By now she was holding his face cupped between her hands. Her eyes closed as she drank in the delicate, delicious sensations, eager for more.
Nicholas obliged her, probing softly at the seam of her slightly parted lips, darting inside for swift little sweeps when she opened for him, then retreating, coaxing her to do the same. She learned quickly, daring to dart her small sweet tongue against his, to taste of his lips, to follow inside his mouth and meld with his tongue as the kiss grew slowly in intensity.
Her hair hung down her back in a fat shiny plait. He unfastened the ribbon holding it with his free hand, then combed his fingers through the golden masses. Freeing the curtain of silk to fan across her shoulders, he stroked it and buried his hand in its lush thickness, then massaged her scalp, cradling her head as he slanted his mouth across hers at another angle.
Mercedes was lost to everything but this man who was wooing her with such patient skill. She ran her hands back around his neck and pulled him nearer, holding on to him like an anchor in a storm. And the storm was building slowly, like the rise of a desert wind that starts in small cooling eddies and then grows into a howling inferno that drives mountains of sand in its scorching wake.
Nicholas knew he was losing control. If he did not stop now he would pull her into the tub and rip off her clothes again. And he knew that was not how he wanted it to be this time. She trembled against him, clinging, kissing him back with such sweet fierceness that his heart nearly burst from the joy of it. Slowly he broke off the kiss, pressing his lips softly to her eyelids, cheeks, then trailing his mouth down her throat.
Mercedes could barely make out his low whisper over the beating of her heart and the short panting breaths she struggled to draw. He murmured against her throat, “Not in here, not this way. Upstairs, in our bed.”
Chapter Fifteen
Nicholas slipped from the tub and dried off in haste, then slid his maroon silk robe over his nakedness with unconscious grace. They walked hand in hand across the courtyard, pausing briefly at the well for him to rest.
“Are you certain—the fever?” her voice was breathless and tentative.
He smiled with his eyes. “I'm certain,” was all he replied as he stood up and they resumed their walk into the house.
When they reached the bedroom, Mercedes became suddenly quite shy and self-conscious. She had been out riding for a short time and surely smelled of horse. Yet here she was, walking into their room with the deliberate intention of making love in broad daylight, while outside their chambers a house full of servants would be going about their chores.
Nicholas could sense her reticence as she stopped at the edge of their big bed, staring down at the newly made up covers. Silently he locked the door, then walked up behind her and placed his hands on her shoulders. He brushed her hair aside and his lips nibbled softly at her nape. He murmured against the side of her throat, “It's all right, Mercedes. No one will interrupt. Lupe's finished her morning cleaning.” He smiled against her skin, adding, “Of course, we're going to mess her beautifully made up bed.”
“Father Salvador is tutoring Rosario at the other end of the hall,” she replied, mortified.
He did chuckle softly then, unable to help himself. “Then I'll just have to place my hand over those sweet lips when you become too noisy.”
Her cheeks were fiery but he was standing so close, doing such maddeningly wonderful things to her body that she could think of nothing to retort.
He continued whispering seductive reassurances as his hands reached around her waist to the small covered buttons of her jacket. In a moment it fell open down the front and he slipped it off her shoulders. Beneath it she wore a sheer under blouse that revealed her small perfect breasts through the gauzy fabric. He cupped one in each hand, lifting them, his thumbs working tight magical circles around the nipples until she moaned.
Nicholas turned her in his arms and unhooked the waistband of her heavy skirt, letting it drop to the floor. Then he stepped back to look at her, clad only in sheer white cotton undergarments and her riding boots.
“I feel rumpled and dusty,” she said uncertainly, seeing that old familiar hunger in his eyes yet wondering what it was about her that now made her so attractive to him.
“You're incredible.” His eyes devoured every curve of her body, made all the more alluring by the scanty covering. “Sit down on the chair so I can remove your boots,” he commanded.
Silently she obeyed, perching on the edge of the seat with her feet tucked demurely beneath the chair. He knelt in front of her and took one leg, raising it and pulling off the boot, then massaging her instep with those amazing hands of his. When he repeated the process on the other foot, she laid her head back against the chair and said throatily, “That feels wonderful.”
“Only wait. It'll get much better,” he promised.
And it did. His hands slid up the curves of her calves, stroking her quivering thighs through the sheer folds of her slip. Then he rose and offered her his hand.
“I'm not sure I can stand,” she admitted. “My legs are trembling.”
But she did stand, eager for him to continue his ministrations. He loosed the drawstring and slipped the under blouse over her head, tossing it aside, then put his mouth to her breasts, one at a time. She cried out softly, arching her back, offering them to his suckling lips. She even helped him peel her slip and pantalets from her hips, stepping out of them and into his arms, reveling in the feel of the smooth silk of his robe against her heated nakedness. His hard erection probed her belly as they melded their bodies together, their kisses swift and breathless. He guided her hand down between them at the opening of his robe and placed it around his pulsing phallus.
How hot and smooth it felt as she stroked the length of it under his guiding hand. Her own boldness amazed her, she who had never dreamed that she was capable of fondling a man's private parts. When he gasped and murmured choked love words in her ear, a heady sense of power came over her.
He slid the robe off with a fluid shrug, then growled low, “Best we get in bed before I lose control, beloved.” Leading her to the bed, he pulled back the covers with one hand and climbed onto it, never letting go of her hand. She followed, meeting him as they knelt together in the center of the large soft mattress.
Her fingertips skimmed gingerly across his injured shoulder. “You might reopen your wounds,” she whispered, kissing them softly.
“You'll have to take care to be very gentle with me, beloved,” he murmured, smiling as he positioned her back on the bed and leaned over her, lying on his side. Then he worshipped her with his hands and mouth, from the crown of her head to the soles of her feet, caressing, licking, nipping, exploring every nuance of her responsiveness, now that she had at last given herself permission to enjoy the pleasure he offered.
And he offered much. Each breast was molded in his lean, long-fingered hands, offered up to his mouth, which then traveled to her belly where his tongue made small feathery forays into her navel. He kissed her quivering inner thighs, the sensitive skin behind her knees, the curve of her calf and the arch of her instep, then retraced his way back up until his hands found the soft golden curls of her mound.
When he touched her there, Mercedes came up off the mattress. The jolt of sensation was even greater, more acute, than it had been the last time. She would never have believed it possible. An ache, so keen, so tightly stretched, built deep in her belly, radiating down her thighs as he teased and caressed her, avoiding that central locus of her pleasure until now.
“Oh! Please,” she cried raggedly, begging for surcease, knowing now that he would provide it with his body.
Nicholas watched her toss her head back and forth. Her eyes were closed, her back arched. She dug her hands into the sheets, clawing at them, on fire. At last she wanted him as desperately as he had wanted her from the first time he took her.
“Yes, love, yes,” he crooned, positioning himself between her thighs, preparing to slide deep inside. She opened for him and he plunged into the slick wet heat, throwing his head back in triumph as he buried himself completely. “Hook your legs around my back,” he commanded as he began to stroke.
Mercedes obeyed, arching to meet each thrust, crying out small whimpering, mewling noises, less than speech yet communicating more than mere words ever could. Her hands slipped up his arms which were braced on either side of her. Carefully avoiding his injuries, she locked her hands behind his neck and drew him down to her, eager for his kiss.
Nicholas obliged, resting his weight on his elbows and taking her eager mouth with his, his tongue thrusting in sync with his hips.
Make it last, long, slow, as good as it can be.
But he had reckoned neither on her fiery arousal nor on his own still weakened body. All too soon he could feel her reaching the crest just as sweat began to sheen his flesh. He grew dizzy and her lovely face blurred before his eyes as he watched her convulse in orgasm.
Mercedes had thought nothing could equal the sheer physical thrill of the last time but this exceeded it—so prolonged, so tenderly built up to, it was the most exquisite sensation she could imagine. Wave after wave washed over her yet she waited, wanting him to join her, to feel the thrill of recognition when he stiffened and his rod swelled and spilled its seed deep within her.
“Please, husband,” she whispered against the curve between his shoulder and throat.
Her soft entreaty was all it took to drive him over the brink and send him spiraling into the dark sweet whirlpool of release. Feverishly his body convulsed in unison with hers until the last tremors finally died away, like ripples in a clear lovely pool that became glassy and smooth, tranquil once more.
He felt ready to black out again and fought it, not wanting to fall on her as he had the last time. Carefully, he rolled onto his side, taking her with him, keeping her flesh joined with his.
They lay that way for some time, holding each other in silence, he too weak from his exertions to speak, she too overcome with the newness and depth of the experience to gather her scattered thoughts.
When he finally withdrew from her and rolled onto his back, she felt a sense of loss.
He 's bound me to him irrevocably now.
All thoughts of whether or not he was Lucero fled her mind. The wonder of their newly discovered love displaced them utterly. Especially when he took her hand and raised it to his lips, murmuring, “I love you, Mercedes. You do know that, don't you?”
She stared at him, stunned, for she had not expected him to voice the words aloud. His expression was open, vulnerable. The expectant tension between them grew palpable as he waited for her to return his declaration, this man who had become the center of her life, turning her well-ordered existence upside down from the moment he had ridden into the courtyard of the big house all those months ago.
This stranger.
Yet how could he be a stranger when he knew the secrets of her body so intimately...and even those of her heart?