He took one pouting nipple into his mouth and suckled, gently at first, then harder as his thirst increased. She keened his name, over and over, pressing her breast to his mouth. He changed to the other nipple, rolling the moisture of the first rigid nub between his thumb and forefinger, elated when she stroked his gnarled hand.
“Your touch inflames me, husband,” she whispered. Her passion-filled voice sent more blood rushing to his loins.
He had to get out of his breeches. He climbed off the bed, trailing kisses along her belly as he pulled away, and stood before her. “I want to feel your hands on me again. I have dreamt of it night after night. I promise I won’t fall asleep this time.”
She smiled at his jest.
Now he would lead the dance. “Undress me, Farah.”
* * *
A tocsin of desire pulsed through Farah’s veins. Ministering to Izzy in his chamber at Giroux Castle, she’d been tempted to tear off his leggings and cast her eyes on his nakedness. She had been overtaken by a peculiar desire to cup his buttocks, press her hand to his male part, massage every tight muscle in his beautiful body.
Her mouth went dry. Izzy’s suckling had sparked a fire that spiraled from the vee of her thighs to her core. She knew what was to happen between them. She had been declared untouchable by ad-Daula, but harem women boasted of their skills in the Governor’s bed. His favorites competed with each other. Farah had often considered many of the things they spoke of physically impossible.
But she was still an innocent. As a dancer she had been trained to be alluring, taught how to make herself attractive. However, she would have to follow Izzy’s lead in learning about intimacy between a man and his wife.
The moment of no return had arrived. She was about to see that most intimate part of him. Even she heard the wild beating of her heart. She had felt Izzy’s hard length pressed against her and suspected that his phallus would be bigger than the withered members nestled atop the thighs of old crusaders brought to the Hospice. Those unexpected glimpses had solidified her disbelief in some of the tales she had heard. With eyes respectfully closed, she had carefully washed and anointed Georges’ shriveled manhood.
She eased her thumbs into the waist of Izzy’s breeches at his hips. He sucked in his breath and combed her hair back from her face to hold it in a twist at her nape. She looked up at him and he smiled his encouragement, his eyes dark.
She pushed down, baring his buttocks when her fingers slid into the back of the tight garment. But his erection jutted straight out, thwarting her efforts to disrobe him. She looked up at him again, feeling clumsy and unsure. “I don’t want to hurt you,” she murmured.
He smiled. “You’ll have to reach in, and take me out. Don’t worry. You won’t hurt me.”
She knelt at his feet, swallowing her nervousness, tempted to close her eyes as she reached into his breeches. He was hot and heavy, hard, delicate and strong. She pulled carefully and he aided her by pushing his breeches down his legs.
She was glad she had not closed her eyes. Izzy’s manhood was like nothing she had seen before, nor expected to see. She’d been repulsed by tales of women putting a man’s male part in their mouths. Now, she had an overwhelming urge to kiss him, right there on the swollen tip, to swirl her tongue around him, to worship at the altar of this male god she had been fortunate enough to marry. “You are magnificent,” she whispered.
Before she knew it, she had licked him. He tasted sweet, spicy, manly.
“Farah.” His voice deepened to a growl.
He cradled her head, moving his hips back and forth in a gentle rhythm. She lessened her grip.
“Is it painful?” she asked.
“Only if you stop,” he replied, his voice hoarse. “Lick me again, Farah, please. Take me in your mouth.”
Farah doubted if she could accept all of him, especially since he seemed to have grown bigger still. How was she to accommodate him inside her body?
She suckled him, swirling her tongue across his tip, pulling on him. The more she suckled and pulled the more urgent became a pulling of her own, deep inside. Her intimate place was warm and wet. She pressed her thighs together, partly from embarrassment, partly to ease the urge for him to touch her there.
“Izzy,” she panted breathlessly, “I—”
* * *
Basking in a maelstrom of incredible sensation, Izzy caught the scent of female arousal. Farah was wet for him. He wanted to plunge his fingers into her, caress her inner folds, arouse her diamond of desire to a fever pitch, then withdraw, and lick her juices from his hands. But if she recoiled at his touch in that most intimate place—
He lifted her and carried her to the bed. “You know what will happen this night, Farah?”
Eyes wide, she nodded.
“I need to be inside you soon, or I will spill my seed.”
Again she nodded, apprehension plainly written on her face.
“You will feel pain, at first.”
He turned her on to her side, easing her derrière to the edge of the bed. He put his hand on her bottom and opened her. The promise hidden in the dark wetness made his erection buck again. He pressed his legs against the bed and put the tip of his shaft inside her. She arched her back, bracing herself.
She was afraid. If he had pleasured her with his fingers she would be more ready. But his need was too great now. “I love you, Farah,” he ground out as he gripped her hip and plunged in, feeling the membrane of her maidenhead rupture.
Her body went rigid. She clenched on him. He stroked her back, slowly pulling part way out. It was sweet torture. She was hot, and tight. “I have to move, Farah. I cannot be still.”
She turned her face into the linens, shoulders hunched. He splayed his hand on her hip, pushing in and pulling out slowly, willing her to relax.
Gradually, the tension left her body. She clenched on him again, then released, then clenched again. Soon, she matched his rhythm, keening a high-pitched cry of need, and he was lost. He slammed into her over and over until the white heat of his seed erupted from his body into her womb and euphoria stole his wits completely. Still standing, embedded in her wet warmth, he swayed, trembling with the force of what had happened. He became aware in his stupor that he had left the imprint of his hand on her bottom. It looked like an ordinary, normal hand. He stared at his deformity, unable to reconcile the two images.
* * *
Farah’s frantic breathing was slowing when she heard and felt a sigh shudder through Izzy. Had she not pleased him? Worry gnawed at her heart.
Joining her body with Izzy’s had rocked her to the core. Despite the gossipy titters of the women in the harem, the reality of the monumental sense of fulfillment that the dance of love would bring had never occurred to her. The dizzying bliss of feeling her husband’s manhood thicken deep inside had left her heart throbbing. His guttural yell of completion when his hot seed erupted into her womb had reverberated through her bones.
There had been pain, but other intense sensations had quickly rendered it insignificant.
It was not the momentary discomfort of losing her maidenhead that bothered her, but a fear something had been missing. She held her tongue, not knowing what to say. Her husband had lain with other women in his youth. Had he found her lacking?
Izzy scooped her up and moved her further onto the bed, then curled his big body into her back, his arms tight around her, one leg wrapped around hers. His heartbeat thrummed through her as he nuzzled her neck. “You are mine now, Farah. You belong to me.”
She chewed her bottom lip, hesitant to say anything. “Does that please you?”
He sat bolt upright and turned her to face him. “Please me? Dieu, woman, that was the most incredible—”
A tear trickled down her cheek. She wiped it away quickly, but he had seen it. He frowned. “Why do you weep, Farah?”
She turned away from his intense gaze. “You seem displeased.”
Izzy let out a long breath and gathered her into his arm
s. “Farah, I am a coward. I could have given you much more pleasure, but I was afraid.”
She nestled her head against his chest. “I don’t understand. Afraid of what?”
He put his palm on the curls at her mons. “Of touching you here.”
She gasped, feeling her face redden. Dare she speak of her longing? “I wanted you to touch me there, Izzy. My body cried out for it.”
“I could not have borne it if you had recoiled at my touch.”
She pulled away and braced both hands on his chest. “Do you not yet trust me? No part of you is abhorrent to me.”
Driven by a need building in her loins, she brushed her thumbs over his dark male nipples and opened her legs. “Touch me now.”
His body warmed and his manhood grew before her eyes. He kissed her, nibbled her neck, then kissed her again as his fingers moved to the wet folds of her womanhood.
Arrows of desire shot through her body as he traced smaller and smaller circles, closer and closer to the part of her that screamed to be played with. She kissed him urgently, placing her hand over his.
He growled, leapt off the bed, turned her onto her back and pulled her to the edge, gripping her ankles. “Spread your legs, wide.”
She obeyed, heart hammering in her chest, nipples tingling unbearably.
Izzy knelt beside the bed and used his thumbs to open her inner folds. The love in his reverent touch took her breath away. He gazed at a part of her body she had never seen, but the awestruck look on his face eased her fears. Suddenly, his tongue was there, licking, suckling, teasing. She screamed out her pleasure. He pulled away. She rose up on her elbows. “Don’t stop,” she pleaded, grinding her heels into the mattress.
He grinned. “Lay back. Put your hands on your breasts. Squeeze those magnificent nipples.”
Her mouth fell open. Icy heat raced up and down her spine, but she obeyed, the cravings becoming uncontrollable. There was something more—something she had wanted before, but what was it?
His rough thumb brushed the throbbing nub and she knew. Then his tongue took the place of his thumb. A thousand shooting stars danced behind her eyes as she fell from the sky into bliss. Someone was screaming Izzy’s name over and over.
His finger slid into her, sending another jolt of molten pleasure straight into her womb. He pushed in and out, in and out, then slid another finger inside. It was not the same as his manhood, but it was heaven. She wanted to beg him to enter her, “Come—” but the words stuck in her passion-constricted throat.
He apparently needed no words. His thick manhood plunged in, thrusting hard. He drew her legs around his hips and she locked her ankles behind his back. He cupped his hands under her bottom and lifted her hips. She trailed her fingertips up and down his muscled thighs, behind his knees.
He groaned, panting hard as his need grew. “Hold on, Farah. This is going to be a wild ride.”
If their first coupling had rocked her, the second was cataclysmic. She matched his frenetic rhythm stroke for stroke, the delicious heat building inside until she convulsed in a frenzy of ecstasy. She clenched on his shaft and felt his release shudder through him as he cried out her name.
The Dowry
Izzy drifted back to the world, his eyelids heavy. Someone was stroking his hair. He peeled open one eye. He was lying on top of Farah, drooling.
He rose up on his elbows, smugly pleased to see her smile. “I’m sorry, Farah. I’m too heavy to put my full weight on you.”
She shook her head, twirling her finger in his hair. “I can bear your weight, Izzy de Montbryce.”
Her voice seemed even sultrier now she had been well bedded. He traced a fingertip along her bottom lip, elated at the memory of sliding his blighted fingers inside her. She had loved it.
“What do you want me to call you now, wife?” he asked lazily. “Are you María Sancha, or Farah?”
She frowned. “I have been thinking on that. My whole life I have been Farah. Only my mother and brother have called me María Sancha, a name that honors my father and the royal house of Jiménez.”
He stroked her nose. “Mayhap I should call you princesa?”
She tickled his neck and he cringed. “Stop, I’m ticklish. It was a jest.”
She pressed a forefinger to her lips. “Hmm! I’ll have to remember that.”
He took her hand and kissed it. “Seriously, to me you’ll always be Farah, the exciting, exotic creature I fell in love with as soon as I laid eyes on her.”
She smiled, sending ripples of pleasure down his spine. Then she grew serious. “But when Georges de Giroux arranged for me to be baptized after we were freed, it was in the name my mother chose—María Sancha.”
“I have a suggestion,” he said. “You will be known as María Sancha de Montbryce, but in bed, when we make love, you are Farah.”
She laughed. “I like the sound of that.”
He lay back, staring at the elaborate ceiling, his hands behind his head, feeling more peaceful and content than—well, than ever before.
Farah sat up beside him. Her eyes fell on the salver. “Oh, the scroll. I suppose we should see what my brother has granted for my dowry.”
She reached to grasp it, waving it under his nose. “Who knows, you may be a rich man.”
He snatched it from her with a grin. “I am already rich. I have you.”
He unfurled the parchment and held it over his head, angling it to catch the dawn’s early light. He frowned. “It’s in Aragonese.”
She tried to take it from him, but he resisted. “Just a minute. I’ll figure it out. Let’s see...“By the Glory of God...in the year of Our Lord One Thousand One Hundred and Seven...in the third year of the reign of Alfonso, King of Aragón...blah...blah...”
He read on, not sure he had understood the meaning of the words that followed. His heart lurched. He read it again, crumpled the scroll angrily and thrust it at her. “Did you know about this?”
Her look of horrified incomprehension assured him she had not been part of Alfonso’s scheme. He dropped the scroll in her lap and climbed off the bed. “Read it.”
* * *
With trembling hands, heart-sick at the sudden change in Izzy’s demeanor, Farah smoothed out the parchment. “...of the reign of ...I, Alfonso, King of Aragón, do hereby grant to my half-sister, Princesa María Sancha Tarazona...”
She looked up at Izzy pacing the chamber, terrifyingly splendid, a naked, angry warrior. Her heart stopped.
“Read on, princesa,” he insisted, glaring at her. “I want to make sure I have not misunderstood.”
The tears welling in her eyes made it difficult to read. She wiped them away and swallowed hard, concentrating. “...ten thousand livres of gold, money of Paris—”
She gasped. It was a fortune.
Izzy left off pacing to poke a gnarled finger at the parchment. “Read the rest. What he gives with one hand he takes away with another.”
She stared at the words, but Izzy’s anger held her in its thrall. He tore the scroll from her grasp and continued reading. “...of gold, to be held in dower for her marriage to Gerwint Isembart de Montbryce, Knight of Normandie...”
He glanced at her, his anger still evident. She struggled to comprehend. “I don’t—”
He held up his hand. “...provided that said Knight accompanies his wife on a pilgrimage to the Shrine of Santiago de Compostela, for the purpose of seeking a miracle, that is the healing of the scar inflicted upon the face of la princesa María Sancha by an infidel dog.”
He threw the parchment onto the bed and stalked away, trying unsuccessfully to clench his rigid fingers.
She stared at the document that had suddenly torn away her happiness. She recognized it for the lie it was. The pilgrimage was not to seek a cure for her, but for Izzy. Alfonso had known he would never agree to go for his own sake.
Her husband was struggling into his clothes. “Does he think I am bothered by your scar? I am a better man than that. He insults me with his patronizing
arrogance. Does he believe I have to be bribed with an outrageous sum to take my wife to a shrine to seek healing for her? Am I a pauper with no means of my own?”
She remained silent. If he guessed the truth he would think she had suggested the pilgrimage, repulsed by his affliction. She longed for him to be rid of his pain, but would he understand that was her only reason? He would judge her mad if she told him she had received a message from the spirit of her dead father.
* * *
Izzy stormed out of the chamber, his shirt loose over his breeches. Decorum be damned! He thrust open the outer doors, alarming the guards. “Where is his Majesté?” he demanded.
The soldiers looked at him open-mouthed, seemingly unsure if they should brandish their ceremonial halberds or not. One of them made a pointing gesture with his hand. “Huesca, su Majestad. Anoche. Huesca.”
Izzy raked a hand through his hair. “Gone to Huesca? Last night? Why am I not surprised?”
They shrugged, their incomprehension evident.
He strode back into the chamber. Farah still sat on their bridal bed, naked and trembling, hugging herself. He was instantly contrite. Why had he taken his anger at Alfonso out on his beloved wife? He knelt on the bed and gathered the linens around her, cradling her to his chest. She seemed to be holding her breath, but then a long, ragged sob broke from her throat.
He rocked her. “Forgive me, Farah, my joy, I am not angry with you. My temper got the better of me. I am too proud. Beware a man whose pride is bruised.”
She wept softly for long minutes, then became strangely silent. Had she fallen asleep? He rested his chin atop her head, inhaling her fragrance. Spicy, satisfied.
What to do next? He had already been too long away from Giroux. The chances of becoming the Seigneur now seemed remote, but he had hoped to return there as quickly as possible. Completing the pilgrimage to Santiago would add weeks to their absence.
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