Page 60 of The Truth About Myths
Arching her back, she splayed her hands over his thighs, and her legs opened, revealing her sex. Henrique groaned, brushing his thumbs over her labia reverently. Having her in his arms, pliant, fragrant, uninhibited, unleashed something within him, a pleasure so acute it bordered on pain. She panted, her pelvis undulating. Her response electrified him. Plans be damned. He wanted to feel her pulsing against him.
Henrique licked rain from her skin, tasting her sweetness, and hand trembling, pushed a finger inside her. Her inner walls contracted, milking him, but her barrier curbed his penetration. Curse the blasted membrane. Some age-old instinct screamed for him to open his trousers and shove himself deep, claiming her as his. With a firm leash on himself, he curbed the impulse. Her pleasure would have to be enough for both of them.
Her hair tumbled down her shoulders in perfect disarray. She shuddered, and a glorious cry escaped her parted lips.
The orgasm transformed her. She was a goddess, and he, a mere mortal who dared touch her. Her bliss was his ache. And he would gladly sacrifice his needs at her altar.
Henrique savored the last waves of pleasure on his fingers and withdrew. Breathing heavily, he leaned his forehead on her breastbone, disoriented, not ready to put into words what had happened. What they shared went beyond the physiological consequence of friction, skin, and moist membranes. A fanciful bastard like Dio would start linking their experience with a mythical joining, earth meeting sky, and such nonsense. Henrique would have to observe and collect data and devise a replication model. Yes, experimentation and method—that's what he needed.
She dropped her face on his neck. Her breaths fanned his earlobe. He was painfully hard, but held still, listening to her heart, caressing her back with long, long movements. He liked her draped on his chest, the mythical princess exhausted by his lovemaking. He liked the sweet scent of her arousal mingling with the wet earth.
His mind raced, thinking of plausible ways to keep her in the shag. If he chopped wood, he could build a nest around the old blind. He would teach her all about pleasure. Just the two of them, no foppish prince, no string of courtiers.
Minutes or hours passed, he lost count. She stirred and splayed her hands over his shoulders. Now she would kiss him again, ask him to take her, to extend this. He wouldn't be strong enough to say no.
She pecked his cheek as if he were an aunt, not her lover. "We should go. If we hurry, the guests won't notice our absence, and we can change before dinner."
Using him for balance, she rose.
Guests? Dinner? Henrique stared as she primped herself into a semblance of order. She didn't meet his eyes. Without her straddling him, he became aware of the mud surrounding them, of his ruined coat and the bulge inside his trousers.
"I'll give you a moment to recompose," she said.
Grumbling to himself, he pushed to his feet.
She took her muddied skirt in her hands and whirled to leave. Then she stopped. "Henrique?"
He shot to attention. "Yes?"
A mischievous smile played at the corner of her lips. "Thank you for the lesson."
Chapter 20
"Wise men speak because they have something to say; Fools because they have to say something."Plato
Isabelobservedclumpsoffoam forming and ebbing in her bath. Heat climbed up her limbs, condensing around her neck and bottom lip. Her skin felt so sensitive… As if her consciousness had shifted from within her to the surface of her body.
Sophie hummed softly, arranging the fresh towels on a stool. When she left the bathing room, Isabel parted the foam until she could see her woman’s mound. Holding her breath, she gazed at the tuft of hair, then allowed her knees to open. The pink flesh and the little hood blinked at her.
Should she feel guilty? Ashamed for allowing Henrique liberties? Isabel swirled her fingers over the water and sighed. She had been wrong about pleasure, wrong about relationships. All her life, she believed only men enjoyed mating. By Athena, the closeness of it, the absolute delight. It was dangerous. Her mother had taught her so, and her governess and her confessor. But was it? Why must women be kept from it? Nothing seemed transparent. Suds had found their way into her mind, clouding her thoughts.
The dinner bell rang, intruding on her musings.
How would she speak with Henrique now? Isabel covered her face with her palms and sputtered when soap stung her eye. He made her feel too much—worry, confusion, elation, irritation, jealousy… She shouldn’t find him so appealing.
Did Henrique experience the same with other women? Had he been doing this with Rafaela? Her chest ached at the thought of him touching her cousin intimately. He must be glad she accepted his vow of no consequences, of a simple lesson. That she didn’t fuss or ask for more of him. She could not bear it if he mocked her as he did on the beach. Still, his gaze had been so unguarded... She had been about to pour her own feelings when fear clogged her throat. No, it wasn't cowardice but royal restraint. She rose abruptly, and water sloshed out of the rim.
With brisk movements, Isabel dried herself and covered her nakedness with a robe.
When she entered her bedchamber, Dolly flung herself over the bed. Hiding her face, she moaned. “My life is over.”
Isabel hurried to her. “What is it? Did Mr. Whitaker hurt you?”
Dolly shook her head. “Not him. The ducks.”
Isabel had forgotten about the bite. “Let me see.”
Shuddering, Dolly lowered her hands.
