Moon Flower (Gone-to-Texas Trilogy) (9 page)

      
Recalling how good it had felt each time Rafael put his hands and lips on her, how secure and protected his lean powerful body made her feel, she gave herself a mental shake. Soon he would return, expecting to find a wife waiting for him, not some whimpering schoolgirl with the vapors! She ran the hairbrush through her waist-length tresses. Finally, putting the brush down, she inspected herself in the mirror. Too tall, not enough bosom or curve to her hips, she concluded critically.

      
Rafael lit a cigar, then threw it impatiently over the rail and paced for several minutes, repeatedly checking his gold pocket watch until he decided she had been allowed sufficient time to change. Any more time alone and she'd merely develop a worse case of bridal nerves. And he'd be so overwrought with sexual tension, he might well lose control and frighten her.

      
When he opened the cabin door, Deborah had not heard his soft knock. She stood in front of the beveled-glass mirror in a night rail so sheer it looked to be spun of gossamer. He could see her long silky flanks and uptilted pink nipples through its illusive veiling. The pale gilt curtain of her hair obscured most of her delectable derriere; but he imagined its firm, satiny roundness.

      
When she reached for the heavier silk robe that matched the night rail, he said softly, “Don't.”

      
Hearing the whispered command, she whirled in surprise and dropped the garment. “I didn't hear you come in,” she said inanely as he slipped the bolt on the door and then began to walk slowly toward her.

      
Rafael took her in his arms and then bent down to pick her up with effortless ease. As he carried her to the bed, he kissed her forehead, temples, and fluttering eyelids. Then, he slowly slid her down the length of his body, still holding her closely as he reached with one hand to pull down the heavy velvet spread. “Get in and wait for me,” he commanded.

      
Deborah scooted quickly beneath the covers, tucking them modestly up to her chin. She huddled in the center of the large bed, watching as he doused all the lanterns, leaving the dim golden glow of only one candle on the table. Then, he began to disrobe, shedding his jacket and waistcoat in a few smooth, swift shrugs. Walking casually over to the bootjack in the corner, he slipped off his boots and peeled off his hose. When he began to unfasten the studs from his shirt, revealing the hard dark expanse of his chest, Deborah remembered the wonderful scent when she had run her fingers through the dense black hair covering it. His silk shirt fluttered to the floor with a barely audible whoosh and then he was reaching for the waistband of his pants. Wide-eyed, she watched the play of lean muscles across his shoulders and chest as he began to unbutton his fly. Suddenly, it dawned on her what he was doing—what
she
was doing!

      
As if reading her mind, he looked up. Laugh lines crinkled the corners of his eyes and lips as he said, “Do not look away now,
Cherie
. I am just getting to the good part.” He watched her blush as she closed her eyes and sank beneath the sheets. With a low, hearty chuckle, he quickly stripped off the last of his clothes and strode over to the bed to pull the heavy covers back in one swift motion.

      
“You've watched me. Now I want to see you, my beautiful wife,” he whispered as he knelt on the bed beside her. Turning her averted face toward him, he said in a strangled voice, “You
are
incredibly beautiful.” His hands slid down her throat, grazing the peak of one breast, descending to the hollow of her slim waist, down to trace the curve of her thigh. Rafael's strong warm fingers continued to her ankle, reaching around the slender bones easily. Then, he retraced his path up her leg, pausing to caress her inner thigh through the sheer silk of her gown.

      
Feeling his light touch, Deborah had closed her eyes and drifted like a leaf on a warm summer breeze, reassured by his words of admiration and his gentleness. However, when his hand slid between her legs and began to stroke the sensitive flesh of her thigh, her eyes flew open. Wordlessly, he stopped, sensing her fears, realizing that he must proceed more slowly. He rolled down to lie beside her full length. “Shh, I won't hurt you,
Cherie
. Only relax and put your arms around me.”

      
Deborah obliged him instantly, holding tightly as if she were drowning. She wanted to please him, wanted to recapture the rapture she had felt that day of the rainstorm. When he began to run his hands up and down her back and kiss her face and throat, she returned his caresses, marveling at the difference in tone and texture of their skin. He was hard and dark, with crisp black hair across his forearms, chest, and down lower where a steady prodding pressure told her untutored body that he was well prepared to consummate the act. But he held back, instinctively knowing that she needed time to assimilate all these new sensations.

      
Rafael could feel her gradually accelerating response as she touched and kissed him, tasting and exploring in unpracticed natural curiosity. He rolled over her and lowered his head to capture her lips. Now, she eagerly opened to his invading tongue, recognizing and welcoming the pleasure. Slowly he guided her, showing her how to use her lips, teeth, and tongue to tease and arouse him as she kissed him back.

      
When she was breathless from that exercise, he broke away and lowered his head to her collarbone, running his tongue along the ridge of the delicate bone while he untied the ribbon at the neckline of her gown. She gasped in pleasure when his fingertips circled one upthrust breast, then the other. He could feel her arch her back as the tingling mounds strained against his palm. Her nipples became hard buds beneath his hand and then he caught one in his mouth. The hot wet feeling of his lips enveloping and suckling on the sensitive tip broke down the last of her inhibitions. Deborah let out a low keening moan.

      
She was breathless now, unthinking, awash in thrilling, new sensations. His questing mouth moved down her belly, trailing after his hands as they peeled the gauzy night rail down, then slipped it over her hips and finally discarded it.

      
Rafael levered himself up and admired the view of her alabaster and rose-hued flesh. When he pulled her up to him and kissed her, she responded with a whimpered cry, fastening her fingers in his hair and pulling him back onto the pillows with her.

      
As they kissed, he ran one hand slowly down between her legs and began to stroke the soft hot core of her body. She opened to him, unconsciously arching against his skillful fingers. When he felt her wet, eager response, he withdrew his hand.

      
Deborah was afire with hot rippling waves of pleasure. She responded shamelessly. Then when he suddenly pulled away, she let out a low cry of protest; but before she could do more, his hand had grasped her slim wrist and guided her fingers to him.

      
“Now, touch me,” he panted, as he fought to hold himself under control. He placed her hand around his shaft, steeling himself for the raw jolt of ecstasy when she complied. Then he guided her, showing her how to stroke him, but only a few times, fearful he might explode. Once he had caught his breath, he guided her hand, still closed around his pulsing phallus, until it was pressing directly between her legs.

      
Slowly, he rotated the tip against her wet pink flesh, now hot and eager to receive him. She moaned, calling out his name like a plea. Then, he pulled her hand away and entered her, gently, until he felt the barrier of her maidenhead. Pausing to kiss her lips and to murmur an apology, he completed the penetration in one fast, careful stroke.

      
Deborah felt a sudden, unexpected stab of pain, but it was over quickly and just as quickly forgotten. Rafael set a slow, steady rhythm that she quickly followed until she lost all sense of time. She knew something wondrous was happening to them both, but his reactions were keener, quicker. She could feel him tremble and begin to shudder suddenly; then he gave several hard, long thrusts in rapid succession and collapsed on top of her, gasping in satiation. Radiating waves of pleasure washed over her, paradoxically mixed with want. Unwittingly, she felt her hips still grinding and straining when he slowly withdrew.

      
Crooning to her in French, he stilled her frantic movements and pulled her close to lie beside him. “I am sorry, my love. You see, I've wanted you for so long, I could not wait, not yet.” He caressed her burning flesh and soothed her, until she began to uncoil, relaxing against the solid comfort of his body. Finally, she slept.

      
Rafael watched her delicate features, so beautiful and innocent in sleep. Lord, but she had passion! He could sense her need and desperately wanted to fill it, to fill her with all his love, body and soul.
His love!
He lay very still, amazed at the sudden flash of insight and more than a little alarmed at the realization that he would be forever bound to this slim Yankee girl who slept so securely at his side. He kissed her softly on the lips and pulled the covers over them, settling down to drift off himself.

      
Deborah awakened after a couple of hours, still excited by all the new experiences the evening had brought. She could feel the warmth and weight of her husband as he lay with his hard body pressed full length against hers. One arm was thrown possessively across her waist and one leg entwined with her own. He slept on his stomach with his face turned toward her. She considered the strongly chiseled features in repose. With those unsettling obsidian eyes closed, she felt more at ease as she studied him. He was like some Grandee from a Goya painting. His face was classically perfect, even beautiful, in a virile way. Her eyes traced the arched brows, thick lashes, and high cheekbones. His mouth was wide and the jaw cleanly squared. She could see the beginning shadow of his beard. He must have to shave often. She fantasized about how it would be to watch him shave, then reached up to run her fingertips lightly across his cheek.

      
Suddenly, his arm tightened and pulled her closer to him. “Madame Flamenco is no longer sleepy, mmm?” He spoke in a silky, suggestive whisper, then kissed her languorously as she melted against him. They rolled across the bed until he was flat on his back with her lying directly on top of him.

      
“Like sweet ripe melons,” he murmured in French as he slowly kneaded her buttocks. While his skillful fingers were busy tracing patterns up and down her spinal column, teasing a breast, caressing her derriere, his mouth ravaged hers with increasingly fierce and bruising kisses. Where before such harsh caresses had frightened her, now she returned them, matching his passion with her own.

      
Rafael continued the devouring kiss, feeling her excitement build as they rolled back and forth. Finally, he reached between her legs, stroking the quivering eager flesh until she was on fire, mindless with fierce, hungry wanting.

      
When he raised over her and spread her legs, she opened eagerly to him, arching up to meet his swift entry with no preliminary testing necessary this time. As if her body knew a secret her mind did not, Deborah found herself straining with every glorious thrust he made. He held her hips to slow their frantic movements and prolong the ecstatic torture until he could sense her cresting. Her eyes, closed in concentration an instant before, flew suddenly open as her nails sank into his back and she emitted a strangled sound of surprise.

      
“That's it,
ma petite
, just let it happen,” he breathed, feeling her body's long, slow release as the velvety walls that sheathed him contracted over and over. When he could hold back no longer, he joined her, pulsing his seed deep inside her in great shuddering waves, then collapsing on top of her.

      
They lay still, unwilling to break the communion of their joining. Finally, he raised on his elbows to allow her easier breathing. The pale skin across her throat and breasts was delicately stained with rosy splotches and her eyes were wide in wonder, open windows to the love that she ached to confess to him.

      
Deborah looked into his eyes, for once not dancing with mirth or accusing in anger, but alight with a tenderness she had never seen in them before. “I love you, Deborah,” he said simply.

      
She kissed him softly. “And I love you, Rafael, more than I ever imagined I could love anyone.”

      
For a moment suspended in time, neither one spoke. Their eyes and their bodies said everything for them. Then, a sharp rapping on the door broke the spell. “I believe that's our supper,” she said.

      
Rafael rolled off her with a quick kiss, scooped up his pants by the bedside and said with a devilish grin, “Are you hungry?” Before she could reply, he added with a wink, “You ought to be. I know I am.”

      
Deborah blushed furiously as Rafael opened the door only wide enough to take the tray from the steward while she remained huddled beneath the covers on the bed. After setting the lavish repast on the table, he walked over to the armoire and ran long dark fingers across the various gowns. Finally, he found a robe of deep violet velvet, which he removed.

      
“Here, this will be warmer than silk. Save that for when we get free of this accursed North Atlantic chill.” He held the robe for her to slip into, noting her shyness and hesitation. “You have a lovely body, meant only for me to see,
Cherie.
Come,” he coaxed softly.

      
She slipped from the bed and slid into the robe, grateful for its warmth. When he wrapped it around her shoulders, she put her hand over his and drew it to her lips, kissing his fingers. “You don't like our New England cold, do you?”