Gypsy Moon by Becky Lee Weyrich

against his palm, he jerked his hand away as if he had touched fire. Fire was, indeed, what he was dealing with here. The fire of passion fanned by soul-deep love—a love made more painfully exquisite by the inevitable fact that it would be denied him.
    He wanted her… oh, yes! He, too, remembered Phaedra’s graphic words and wondered what it would be like to possess this lovely, golden woman. If he dared, he might find out this very night. By the change in her breathing, he could tell that she was not unaffected by the intimacy of his hands upon her. Even in the dim starlight, he could see that her eyes were closed, her full lips pouted as if anticipating his kiss. It would be so simple to disarm her with his own lips while he filled his hungry hands with her tender breasts—stroking, kneading, taunting their velvety nipples to quivering surrender before his mouth possessed them. And then…
    No! he thought. I must not allow myself to think such things!
    “Have you finished with me, Mateo?” came her soft, innocent voice.
    He looked at her through eyes glazed with desire. She sat there, one breast still partially exposed—still tempting him with its ripeness. How could he let such a moment pass? He must fight these lustful demons to the limits of his endurance.
    “No, not yet,” he replied. “Proper herbs pressed to the wound will draw out the pain.”
    “But there’s no pain, Mateo.”
    Liar! she thought to herself. You’ve never known such pain in your life! Pain of heart, soul, and body. Only Mateo can ease it, and it will take more from him than his special herbs!
    Charlotte leaned on her elbows and let her head fall back, inhaling deeply, trying to slow the rapid rate of her heart. Her breasts strained forward, rising and falling dramatically with each breath. When Mateo returned with his poultice of sweet grasses for her wound, the sight of her stopped him in his tracks. Never had he seen such languid, sensual beauty—her pale gold hair cascading over her bare shoulders, eyes closed and face upturned as if star-bathing, her breasts at a proud jut with their crested peaks straining against the confines of her thin bodice.
    Mateo moved quickly, his feet, even in their heavy boots, as silent as if they were bare. Standing over her, he gazed down, keenly aware of the desire throbbing through his body—a desire that refused to be banished in spite of all his efforts to control himself.
    He dropped to his knees beside her and eased the blouse down to free her breasts, his fingers trembling against her bare flesh. She opened her eyes but made no protest.
    Charlotte could feel his gaze fondling her. The sensation centered in her breasts but massed and intensified in a lower region until her thighs quivered and her legs felt weak. When he leaned over her to press the cool, moist grasses on her wound, she could feel his breath, warm against her skin. She sighed his name.
    “Charlotte, my darling,” he whispered. “You are too beautiful! No man should be denied…” There was a long pause; then, in a husky whisper, he said, “I want to touch you.”
    She watched his hand in tingling fascination as it hovered, fingers splayed, above her naked breast. She nodded silently, looking now into his wonderfully solemn face.
    A long silence ensued. Charlotte closed her eyes and lay very still, hardly daring to breathe. His touch was feather-light. She barely felt it at first. But soon she realized with a burning certainty that his fingertips were cautiously exploring the very tips of her nipples. They stood erect for him, begging for more demanding caresses. Slowly, his fondling intensified. He stroked her boldly, masterfully, and white-hot fire raged through her. He squeezed, and the torment was exquisite. Charlotte was hard-pressed to lie still and complacent. When he cupped both breasts in his hands, circling their crowns with his thumbs, her hips, as if with a will of their own, thrust forward toward him and she