Bond of Blood

by Diane Whiteside

  His eyes glistened suspiciously. "And no friends."

  "Just my godfather, Tom McLean, the deputy sheriff who found me. He was a widower so he couldn't even be my foster parent. But he saw me on vacations, since I always came back to the group home. His father learned tracking from one of Cochise's last surviving braves," she added slyly.

  "And he taught you, which is how you could surprise me that first night!"

  She grinned triumphantly and laid her head back against his shoulder. "Seguro," she drawled.

  He kissed her hair. "Any idea of who your real family is?"

  Besides you? She roused herself. "There's no proof, only speculation," she warned him. He shrugged impatiently.

  "The cops think my mother was a showgirl, whose family threw her out when she started dating a Colombian drug lord's eldest son. He vanished when she got pregnant. The last time she was seen was in southern Arizona with another showgirl, who was also pregnant, a few months before I was found."

  "Why do the police think these people are related to you? ¡Ay, querida, forgive me if I tread on painful ground!"

  "It's not as difficult to talk about anymore," she assured him truthfully. "They think we're related because my height and coloring are a match for hers. My intelligence is said to be very much like my father's, as if I gave a damn about him!"

  "I could have him killed for you," Rafael suggested.

  She stared at him, frankly nonplussed. He met her eyes levelly and she was forced to take him seriously. "Not today, thanks," she declined, keeping her voice light.

  "If you insist." Rafael kissed her hand and she smiled at him a bit wryly, before going on.

  "My mother and the other woman were with a notorious Mexican drug mafia, which owned the tunnel where the police found me. During the raid, the police found that the smugglers had fled a few minutes earlier into a particularly deadly stretch of desert. A few bodies were recovered days later but never the women, nor any other babies."

  "Your mother saved your life," Rafael said slowly, considering her account.

  Grania had always hoped so but nobody else had ever agreed. "Why do you say that?"

  "A colicky baby is a very noisy one. A bad-tempered smuggler would have quickly killed anyone who threatened his escape. Your madre must have known that the only chance to keep you alive was to give you to the police."

  His arms tightened around her. "Take joy in the small pleasures of life, querida, in her honor. If your intellect comes from your father, then your hunger for life is hers."

  She stared at him, baffled. "What do you mean?"

  "Just once, when you're engaged in something intense"—his slumberous eyes hinted at carnal delights—"don't think, just enjoy."

  "Are you saying that I overanalyze?"

  "Not at all. Every approach has its benefits, as I have had the opportunity to learn." For an instant, his eyes looked inward and she shivered slightly at their coldness. "But sometimes, it's also good to try something entirely different."

  "Just wallow in the simple things?" Grania turned the concept over dubiously. "I don't know that I can. It sounds very passive, almost boring."

  "Is that a challenge?"

  Her head snapped up. "Oh, dear."

  "Precisamente."

  She eyed him suspiciously. "What are you thinking of?"

  "The day has already been an exciting one, Grania," he observed. "Perhaps a bath will make both of us feel more relaxed, and a massage as well."

  She couldn't deny that she needed to clean up but his tone sounded like he was plotting something. "A shower would be much more efficient."

  "Indeed it would," he agreed, standing up with her in his arms. She squeaked and clutched him. "Are you going to demand to be put down?"

  "Would it do any good if I did?"

  He pretended to consider her question as he opened the door. "Very little, I'm afraid. I have my heart set on seeing you relaxed and sweet smelling, as you emerge from a sea of bubbles."

  The image rendered Grania speechless. Her, in a bathtub like a 1950s Hollywood goddess? She opened and shut her mouth as he carried her all the way across the great hall with sweeping views and massive ceiling beams, then down the hall to a bedroom. This room was as simple and spacious as the others she'd seen, with an antique wooden bed, chest of drawers, and nightstand, plus crisp white bed linens under a Lone Star quilt.

  He pulled the door shut behind them, set her carefully down in an old rocking chair, and went into the bathroom. Water began to run fast and hard. Grania's head swiveled as she absorbed all of the room's details.

  The bathroom door thumped open and he beckoned.

  She followed him and sighed happily. Like the bedroom, this room was classic rural comfort and simplicity, albeit on a Texas-sized scale. Two—or three—adults could have washed in either the bathtub or the shower. Soft blue rugs covered the white tile floor, while blue tiles accented the crisp white walls.

  But he was more appealing to her eyes than any of those man-made attractions. Prowling like a great cat in his simple clothes, even his cowboy boots almost soundless, he tossed bath salts into the tub, then pulled towels from a hidden cupboard. Her heart twisted. She leaned against the doorway, trying to conceal her reaction to her man. This wasn't the time to talk, even if she knew what to say.

  "Did you want to wash off the worst in the shower or just jump straight into the tub?" he asked quietly.

  Grania straightened, eyeing the tub. It was a monster, which would take forever to fill. She moved forward, unbuttoning her shirt. "Shower first. What about you?"

  "I have already washed. But I need to give some orders first."

  He kissed her mouth gently, the relaxed greeting of a lover confident of his welcome. She responded willingly, her hand sliding up to his cheek to bring him closer.

  "Unbraid your hair, querida," he whispered into her ear.

  Instinctively, she started to object, thinking of the hours it would take to dry.

  He put his finger over her mouth. "Just pin it up loosely with these chopsticks. For me, por favor?"

  How could she refuse? She kissed his hand. "If you hurry back."

  His eyes flared with lust, sending a matching fire through her. She flushed, gazing at him. He kissed her hand and slipped out the door, his eyes never leaving her.

  She swallowed hard, all too conscious of her rapid pulse, then shook herself back to reality. She needed to pull off her boots first, so she could be out of the shower and into the bath before he returned. There was still enough of the orphanage-raised girl left in her that she couldn't stand naked before him, even if she was sleeping with him.

  She barely made it, leaping into the bathtub just as the door opened, splashing water across the floor. He raised an eyebrow as he propped his chin on his fist. "Did something disturb you, mi corazón?" he drawled. "Has an earthquake struck Texas that I should know about?"

  Grania crossed her eyes at him, bubbles safely up to her shoulders and her hair atop her head. "An earthquake, indeed. A very large, opinionated gentleman has walked into my bathroom, upsetting my delicate sensibilities." Was that the appropriate term? "He should wash himself immediately." She sniffed disparagingly.

  Rafael clucked his tongue. "Pésimo. It shall be taken care of immediately." He began to strip, unbuttoning his shirt first.

  Grania's mouth went dry at the sight of his magnificent chest, the strong muscles and dark mat of hair, which narrowed to disappear behind his silver belt buckle, like an arrow pointing to further delights. The warm gold of his skin, surmounted by the darker copper nubs of his nipples on his chest. Those wonderful, sensitive clues and triggers to his sensuality… Weeks of being his lover seemed to have only whetted her appetite for him. She sighed, eating him with her eyes.

  His trousers swelled behind his fly, as he slowly unbuckled his belt. He was barefoot now, having discarded his boots and socks in another room. "Calor de mi vida, do you wish me to join you?"

  "Right away,"
she sighed, memorizing every movement of his strong fingers as he unbuttoned his jeans.

  "It will be to wash you," he warned. "You will need to yield yourself utterly to me and your body's needs."

  Yield utterly? But if it was to him… "Will you be in the tub with me?"

  "St." Laughter underlay the single syllable and a dark masculine certainty.

  "Very well. Just hurry up, please."

  He bowed to her, his eyes as rich and caressing as dark chocolate. In a single smooth movement, he divested himself of his jeans and tossed them aside. His cock was full but not rampant as he stepped into the tub. He sat down next to her and tucked her against his side.

  She stiffened, startled. He caressed her arm lightly, humming an old folk tune.

  After a few moments, she started to run her fingers down his chest and over his stomach under the water. He stopped it immediately, his grip ruthless on her wrists. "No, querida. Just soak."

  She was appalled. "Soak? Without touching you?"

  "Relax and listen to your heart and your body. The sound of the waves as they lap against the walls of the bathtub. The feel of our wet skin sliding over each other. The scent of the herbs and the water's warmth."

  She worried her lower lip with her teeth, wretchedly disappointed and all too aware of his closeness.

  His eyes widened briefly, staring at her face as if he'd never seen her before. He quickly recovered himself and kissed her cheek. "The rest will follow, querida. Trust me; you will be more than satisfied."

  "If you insist." She sniffed in disbelief and began to silently recite multiplication tables to relax. He continued to gently pet her, as he hummed under his breath.

  The room's peace slowly seeped under her skin and into her bones. She began to take longer and longer between steps in the multiplication tables. Her eyelids drooped. Her recitation slowed and finally stopped, as her breathing matched itself to the gentle waves in the tub.

  She barely stirred when Rafael began to wash her hands, his touch as light as the herbs' scent. He cleaned her feet and legs, then her face. She murmured, when he rearranged her so he could attend her torso. She quirked a lazy eyebrow when he washed between her legs. But his touch was so gentle and deft, if remarkably thorough, that she closed her eyes again without speaking.

  She muttered against his shoulder when he lifted her out of the tub. "Are you showing off again? Doing that big, strong he-man thing?"

  He wrapped her in layers of warm, fluffy towels. "Precisamente."

  "Good." She went back to not thinking.

  He laid her facedown, still swathed in towels, on a thick rug. A minute later, he peeled a towel off her shoulder. Warmth immediately poured over her, either sunlight or lamplight, and his strong hands gently rubbed a light oil into her skin. Instinctively, Grania purred like a kitten.

  More towels were replaced by the light, more warmth and oil entered her skin under those big hands. His calluses and scars were simply a delicious contrast to the oil's smoothness, enabling him to work the moisture in deeper. She was supple under his hands, entirely his, alive in the moment.

  His touch shifted. He worked a spicy oil into her now, finding and inciting every pleasure point. He twisted and tugged, even used his teeth gently, as he worked down her back. Fire awoke in her, sparking through her veins, and flickered along her nerves. Her core clenched, bringing liquid heat to life deep within. She arched under him, her body twisting and writhing to follow him.

  He stroked and nibbled her ass and thighs, the sharper touch arousing her as she'd never thought possible. Sharp spurs of lust darted from his teeth to her breasts and her clit. She twisted and rubbed herself against the rug, moaning. Cream rose, seeking him. She whimpered and tried to clench her thighs around his hand.

  He slid his fingers slowly through her folds, harvesting her cream. He rubbed it into her skin together with the oil, his dark voice telling her in Spanish how richly it made her gleam, like a goddess of the bedroom. She moaned, more excited by the image than she would have thought possible.

  When she knew she'd die if he didn't finish her, he stopped seeking out her cream and returned to working only oil into the long muscles of her thighs and legs. He kissed the backs of her knees, arousing every sensitive, delicate spot, holding her legs down, until she sobbed and begged him for more.

  He rolled her over gently, so she was barely aware of the movement. Then he rubbed her feet and worked oil into them, until her legs lolled open and she could barely breathe for sheer boneless bliss as he worked up her shins.

  When he oiled her shoulders, her head dropped back against the rug. His first touch on her breasts was innocent enough, with only the slightest attention paid to her nipples. Then he swirled the oil around and around, plucking and twisting, until she moaned, shuddering in unison with every movement of his hand.

  Another big hand slid through her folds again and began to delicately tease her clit. She gasped, arching up against him.

  "Ay, querida, you've the knack of it now. Just give yourself over to the pleasure," he crooned. The words slipped into her, bypassing her brain. She sighed, tightening her legs around his hand as her hips began to rock.

  A minute later, he oiled her breast again, kneading it in exactly the fashion that sent Shockwaves surging to her core. She moaned again and again, heat building within her until her skin seemed barely able to contain it, writhing and twisting, her body still supple under his touch, as he worked first one breast, then the other.

  The first orgasm, a sweet one, took her when he rubbed her clit in her favorite stroke. It rippled through her body, relaxing her like fine wine.

  "Grania, mi corazón," he whispered.

  He continued to knead her, skillfully working her breasts and her stomach with one hand, while the other played first with her clit, then worked finger after finger inside her. Orgasm after orgasm washed over her, shaking her, arousing her until she no longer knew where the boundaries were between normal and the heights of pleasure: Only that her beloved knight had brought her here.

  A moment later, a kneeling Rafael lifted her hips and his cock slipped easily and deeply into her. Even his enormous cock head only evoked a contented grunt from her now. His big hands stroked up her legs, placing them on his shoulders. Then he gripped her carefully, around the ribs, and began to thrust.

  She groaned happily, immensely pleased by just how completely stuffed she was. Her body was now one long, sleek sheath for him, hot and wet and gripping him passionately. She was hot for him, and so full of him that every movement excited her oversensitized nerves. Fire raced and blazed through her nerves as he thrust. Liquid heat, the wonderful sound of their bodies slapping together, his grunts of effort made lust clench her body again until insanity and ecstasy were the only solution.

  She grabbed his forearms, clawing him as she climaxed. "Oh god, Rafael!"

  Still kneeling, he dropped her legs off his shoulders and pulled them around onto his hips. He pulled her onto his cock again, holding her by her hips, filling her to the hilt again. She shuddered, tremors racing from her clit up her spine as if she'd never been satisfied. The chopsticks were long gone and her hair was a tumbled mass around her head and shoulders.

  He growled her name and began to thrust in earnest, patience gone as he watched her face. She stroked the scars on his chest, teased his nipples—his wonderful nubs stabbing her fingers and palms with his arousal. Her eyelids drooped as she lost herself in the delicious sensations shattering her, thanks to his big cock in her pussy, her man making love to her. She was a being of pure sensation, ready to fly. Only the feel of his arms under her hands kept her connected to earth.

  He shifted subtly within her, finding a new spot. She arched, her hair tossing wildly, and sobbed his name as she orgasmed again, the tremors shaking her.

  Then Rafael knelt up over her, still joined to her, his arms braced on either side of her head. He kissed her in a passionate tangle of their lips and tongue—before his hips began to r
ock. Soon he was pistoning into her, as if they'd only begun. She wrapped her legs around him, locking her ankles in the small of his back to hold him closer.

  His chest rasped against hers, her breasts stabbing at him as if desperate to catch him and hold him. She dug her nails into his shoulders and sobbed his name, her breath as harsh and agonized as his. He stiffened, bit her, and climaxed, spilling himself into her.

  Grania screamed and bucked, as the last and greatest climax swept into her with his come, shaking her to the bone.

  In the aftermath, she lay sated and limp under him. For an instant, she felt his heartbeat as her own, blood flowing through his veins as if it was her own. The brilliant glow of warmth flowing through him from where he'd tasted her orgasm. The final drops of semen rising from his cock. The masculine satisfaction of sexual pleasure achieved, for himself and his lover.

  Her man, her lover, her knight. In this life and any other.

  Blanche dozed lightly in the mid-afternoon sunlight, as she listened to her daughter Inez tell the familiar story. Behind her stood the beautiful chapel, dedicated to San Rafael Arcángel, that Fernando had built in his father's honor. It was framed by the beautiful Galician mountains with their tall, verdant forests. "And that is how your Abuelo Rodrigo—"

  A young boy's voice interrupted her fiercely. "No, mamá, it was not like that! Abuelo Rodrigo first parried left, then thrust right to defeat the French champion. Is that not so, abuela?"

  Blanche opened her eyes and smiled at Rodrigo, Inez's youngest son. Like the rest of his eight siblings, he was gathered in the herb garden on the chapel's south side, waiting for the arrival of their Aunt Beatriz and her family. Fernando and his family would arrive tomorrow, in time to celebrate the feast day of San Rafael Arcángel on the next day, the twenty-ninth of September. They always tried to come together at this time of year, as they had when the chapel was dedicated, to pray that Rodrigo would have a safe journey home and be healed of all his wounds.