Page 112 of The Truth About Myths
After their marriage, she had regained her popularity and even increased it. "Thank you."
"I'm not finished." He bit her earlobe. "I love a juicy scandal. If you wish to make a Godiva-like tour around the palace, I will be in the front row as you cycle buck naked. But I don't want you to do anything that makes you uncomfortable."
How did he do it? Make her love him even more? Her heart was about to burst with love already, yet he surprised her at every turn. Be it by making her laugh when she felt gloomy or supporting her when she didn't know she needed support.
"I love you."
He grinned. "Does that mean you will bicycle in the nude? For my eyes only?"
"Not a chance," she said against his lips and brought him in for an open-mouthed kiss.
He circled his arms around her and cupped her derrière. The absence of petticoats and crinoline made contact much more satisfying. The new clothing certainly had its merits. Isabel moaned as his hardness connected with her core and ground against him, letting her body speak its needs.
He removed the breeches, and soon they were both naked and straining against each other. He threw her playfully on the bed. With a dramatic sigh, he jumped by her side, shaking the mattress and scattering the pillows.
"Come, wife, let's see how you ride. You will need to awe the ladies into adopting the bicycles. Or at least not to fall flat on your arse."
Isabel bit his chest.
"What?" He caressed her curves, tugging her atop him until she straddled him. "I'm terribly fond of your royal rump."
She lowered herself to his hardness. Pulling her hair over her shoulder, she splayed her hands over his chest, relishing his rippling muscles.
He lengthened inside her, and her mouth opened as languid pleasure sluiced inside her. She nibbled his bottom lip. He groaned, and his hands traveled from the indenture of her waist to her hips. He caressed her derrière with a light touch, sending tingles dancing down her spine, and then he touched where their bodies were joined.
Holding her hips, he pressed her down, forward, and backward. Her mouth opened in a wordless O, and he traced her lips, his touch like a drop of water in the desert. She closed her lips and sucked his fingertip.
He lifted his hips. "Move, Isabel, take all your pleasure. I'm yours."
Isabel did.
Slowly at first, getting used to him. His broad chest and taut abdomen were too close for her to resist, and she leaned over him, caressing his nipples. She closed her eyes as the heat of him pulsed inside her. She could lose herself with him, drop her mask, and be Isabel. Her hands grabbed her own breasts. They were swollen and heavy, and she delighted in his heated looks. But it was not enough. She increased the tempo, grinding against him. Perspiration covered her brow, and she whimpered in frustration.
He touched her mound and spread her outer lips atop his hardness. She watched him, mesmerized by the place where their bodies joined.
"This is—it feels as if I’m conquering the world."
Henrique grinned, the rakish smile she loved. “I like it, too. I lay back and enjoy my bounty.”
“Yes, my reposing rake.”
Henrique frowned, grabbing her waist, and pressing down. "Reposing? Rampant is more likely. Perhaps it's time we changed our epithets… I don't think Prudish Princess will do, not for a lusty wench like yourself. What do you feel about Hungry Heroine?
Isabel laughed. "Comes to mind a paunchy Athena."
"I have the perfect one." He flipped her and came on top. "Love of my life."
When she started to tremble, he increased the tempo of his thrusts. His body loomed above her, and she embraced him, marveling at his strength. Only her hands felt like her own, exploring the ridges and sinews of his spine. He kissed her, a warm, open-mouthed kiss that murmured tenderness into her throat. He drove inside her, one, two times, and she burst, pleasure consuming her. The bonds that connected them turned strong and stronger still. Then he shouted his love so loud the Olympian Gods must have heard him.
Epilogue
Lisbon, Fall of 1873, Ajuda Palace, Prince John's Baptism
"The challenge which Hercules faced is still with each of us today – to wrestle with our limitations and the monsters within us, to overcome our flaws and failings and then, like Hercules, to go on and become something extraordinary." Philip Matyszak
Henriqueledtheall-maleprocession, exiting the palace’s vestibule and emerging on a sunlit courtyard. The deafening cheer pierced his ears. Lisbon had come out en masse to fete their prince. They started gathering after the first cannon blast yesterday. And by the time the hail had reached ten, the salute reserved for a male firstborn, the streets became a revelry. The housemaids, the tanners, the shopkeepers, the port traders, the bakers, the sweeps. They all came, one after the other, some shyly, some loudly, some drunk, some sober, some gracious, some pushing, some bragging, some laughing.
Isabel had attended Queen Maria Pia’s labor all night. By the message she sent him, the queen would have loved to witness the crown’s renewed popularity. However, while she had recovered, she could not attend church as she was still impure, whatever that meant. Henrique couldn’t understand the intricate costumes involved in a child’s baptism. All to give the baby a name, and since it was born in a royal crib, it would be a mile long, and after the priest uttered it once, it would be forgotten.
