moaned.
“Charlotte, oh, my sweet Charlotte,” he crooned, lowering his head to let his lips scorch a trail down the steamy valley from her throat.
The next moment explosions of delicious sensation erupted through her. His hard, pointed tongue stabbed the tender tip of her breast, then flailed wildly, battering her aching nipple into a supple mound of surrender. He left off his attack at that moment, permitting his victim to relax her defenses. But when she allowed a satisfied sigh to escape her lips, her loving tormentor struck once more, sucking the tender nipple into the hot, moist darkness of his mouth. He licked, he probed, he suckled until she thought he would draw the very soul out of her body.
Charlotte cried aloud with the magnificent feeling, throwing herself on his tender mercy. But her pleading only encouraged Mateo’s tongue to bolder insinuations. Carefully, he imprisoned the throbbing nipple between his teeth, breathing in and out deeply so that the sensations of cool and warm, moist and dry, titillated her with each breath he took. She writhed and thrashed beneath him until he released his hold. Capturing her lips, he quieted her with his eager mouth and the hard, throbbing pressure of his body.
One of Mateo’s strong arms encircled her waist and he pillowed her head against his shoulder. Charlotte felt his other hand touch her bare back. It began its tantalizing progress downward. Gooseflesh covered her as his fingers slithered along her backbone. At the band of her skirt, his hand stopped, resting for a moment. Then his widespread palm cupped her buttocks, bringing her firmly against his thighs. Charlotte stiffened, feeling the throb of his desire even through her skirts. But she forced all reserve from her mind. This was not Kentucky! Her Mateo—her husband-to-be—wanted her as much as she wanted him. Why should she force him to wait? Already their souls were married by their love for each other.
His lips moved from hers and rasped, “Fate be damned! I want you now, Charlotte Buckland! Nothing else matters anymore. Not the familia, not even knowing you belong to Petronovich!”
His words slashed her with deadly aim and inflicted far more pain than his dagger. The sudden shock shattered her mesmerized state. She pushed him away, pounding at his chest when he tried to hold her.
“Charlotte, what’s wrong?” he begged.
“Everything, Mateo,” she answered as she stood up on shaky legs and adjusted her blouse. “Everything in the world! What do you mean, I belong to Petronovich?”
He looked angry and confounded. “It is our custom. The wife belongs to the husband. He pays the brideprice and she is his property from then on. It has always been so!”
Charlotte stared at him, unbelieving. Hadn’t she heard Mateo ask Queen Zolande for permission to marry her only an hour ago? True, it had been a strange conversation between them and Mateo had yet to ask her to be his wife, but still…
She wanted to scream and tear her clothes as the Gypsy in the song had done. Mateo stood so tall and handsome before her, with the stream forming a silver ribbon backdrop. She could still taste his mouth on hers… still feel the tingle where his gentle hands had caressed her flesh so lovingly. But now he was beyond her reach.
Was he so different from other men that she had mistaken his words of love? Had his actions been spurred by lust alone? Her mind whirled. Suddenly, all she could think of was escape. She spun away from him.
“Where are you going?” Mateo called.
“I’m leaving!”
“Wait!” He ran after her, catching up in a few long strides. He grasped her arms and pulled her to him, not roughly, but with a certain undeniably masculine command.
His lips captured hers once more, and their breath mingled, weakening Charlotte’s resolve. Holding her close with one arm, he sought her breast with his free hand, stroking new sparks to flame.
“You forced me to admit my love tonight. I would
“Charlotte, oh, my sweet Charlotte,” he crooned, lowering his head to let his lips scorch a trail down the steamy valley from her throat.
The next moment explosions of delicious sensation erupted through her. His hard, pointed tongue stabbed the tender tip of her breast, then flailed wildly, battering her aching nipple into a supple mound of surrender. He left off his attack at that moment, permitting his victim to relax her defenses. But when she allowed a satisfied sigh to escape her lips, her loving tormentor struck once more, sucking the tender nipple into the hot, moist darkness of his mouth. He licked, he probed, he suckled until she thought he would draw the very soul out of her body.
Charlotte cried aloud with the magnificent feeling, throwing herself on his tender mercy. But her pleading only encouraged Mateo’s tongue to bolder insinuations. Carefully, he imprisoned the throbbing nipple between his teeth, breathing in and out deeply so that the sensations of cool and warm, moist and dry, titillated her with each breath he took. She writhed and thrashed beneath him until he released his hold. Capturing her lips, he quieted her with his eager mouth and the hard, throbbing pressure of his body.
One of Mateo’s strong arms encircled her waist and he pillowed her head against his shoulder. Charlotte felt his other hand touch her bare back. It began its tantalizing progress downward. Gooseflesh covered her as his fingers slithered along her backbone. At the band of her skirt, his hand stopped, resting for a moment. Then his widespread palm cupped her buttocks, bringing her firmly against his thighs. Charlotte stiffened, feeling the throb of his desire even through her skirts. But she forced all reserve from her mind. This was not Kentucky! Her Mateo—her husband-to-be—wanted her as much as she wanted him. Why should she force him to wait? Already their souls were married by their love for each other.
His lips moved from hers and rasped, “Fate be damned! I want you now, Charlotte Buckland! Nothing else matters anymore. Not the familia, not even knowing you belong to Petronovich!”
His words slashed her with deadly aim and inflicted far more pain than his dagger. The sudden shock shattered her mesmerized state. She pushed him away, pounding at his chest when he tried to hold her.
“Charlotte, what’s wrong?” he begged.
“Everything, Mateo,” she answered as she stood up on shaky legs and adjusted her blouse. “Everything in the world! What do you mean, I belong to Petronovich?”
He looked angry and confounded. “It is our custom. The wife belongs to the husband. He pays the brideprice and she is his property from then on. It has always been so!”
Charlotte stared at him, unbelieving. Hadn’t she heard Mateo ask Queen Zolande for permission to marry her only an hour ago? True, it had been a strange conversation between them and Mateo had yet to ask her to be his wife, but still…
She wanted to scream and tear her clothes as the Gypsy in the song had done. Mateo stood so tall and handsome before her, with the stream forming a silver ribbon backdrop. She could still taste his mouth on hers… still feel the tingle where his gentle hands had caressed her flesh so lovingly. But now he was beyond her reach.
Was he so different from other men that she had mistaken his words of love? Had his actions been spurred by lust alone? Her mind whirled. Suddenly, all she could think of was escape. She spun away from him.
“Where are you going?” Mateo called.
“I’m leaving!”
“Wait!” He ran after her, catching up in a few long strides. He grasped her arms and pulled her to him, not roughly, but with a certain undeniably masculine command.
His lips captured hers once more, and their breath mingled, weakening Charlotte’s resolve. Holding her close with one arm, he sought her breast with his free hand, stroking new sparks to flame.
“You forced me to admit my love tonight. I would
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