The Wind Dancer/Storm Winds

by Iris Johansen

  “Again.”

  His thumb caressed her lower lip as he placed a morsel of meat on her tongue. Her lip began to throb and she instinctively jerked her head away from his hand. “Enough. I want no more.”

  “I think you do.” He smiled at her. “And I certainly want more.” He reached for a cluster of grapes, took one, and pressed it to her lips. “Something sweet and full.” His gaze moved over the low-cut bodice of her gown. “And firm.”

  She took the grape, and tart sweetness flooded her tongue. She should look away. The heat tingling between them was thickening in intensity. She realized with desperation that the soft linen of her undershift was abrasive against the sudden sensitivity of her nipples.

  She looked down at the table. That was a mistake, too. His big hand still held the cluster of grapes, and memories suddenly assaulted her of those broad, powerful fingers toying with the jade queen, outstretched before the fire encased in heavy leather gauntlets, jerking the neckline of her gown with frantic haste to bare her breasts.…

  “Your cheeks are flushed,” Lion said softly. “Are you warm, cara?”

  Not warm. Hot, melting. She felt as if the blood was running molten just beneath the surface of her flesh. She quickly picked up her goblet and drank deeply.

  “It’s a warm evening and will grow warmer. Another grape?”

  “No. Nothing.” She sat her goblet down and it was immediately refilled by the lackey. “Is it not time for the dancing to start again? It seems we’ve been at the table a long time.”

  “It seems a long time to me, too.” His hand released the cluster of grapes and dropped casually to his knee. “If we don’t leave the table soon I’ll have to find something to amuse me. Do you know what I have in mind, Sanchia?” His hand disappeared beneath the heavy damask cloth covering the table and pressed against her upper thigh.

  She went rigid, her gaze flying to his face. He was looking straight ahead, his expression bland, only the leaping pulse in his temple betraying his arousal.

  The warmth of his palm burned through the layers of velvet and satin, and her limbs began to tremble. Her hand was also trembling as she hurriedly reached for the wine goblet again. “Take … your hand off my skirt,” she hissed.

  “Why? It gives you pleasure. You’re quivering like a little bird. Shall I push the skirt of your gown up and touch your flesh, rub those soft, tight curls? No one could see. The table and the linen hides my hand. I could fondle you and bring you even more pleasure.” His palm was rubbing slowly back and forth. “Would you like that?”

  “No.” She could barely force the word past the tightness of her throat.

  “I think you would. Of course, you’d have to be careful not to cry out when your pleasure peaked.” His nostrils flared and a flush mantled his cheeks. “Why don’t we see if you enjoy it? Part your thighs, cara, and I’ll—”

  “The moresca!” Lady Caterina was on her feet, motioning to the musicians and guests. “Let us see if we can still manage to move after we’ve eaten and drunk so heartily.”

  The announcement was met with laughter and groans by the guests and the wild, spirited strains of the moresca from the musicians in the gallery.

  Bernardo was suddenly by Sanchia’s side. “May I escort you to the floor, Madonna Sanchia?”

  Lion’s hand on her thigh suddenly tightened. Warmth, strength, demand.

  A demand she must not answer. “Yes.” Her hand was still trembling as she set her goblet down on the table. Would Lion move his hand and release her? “I love the moresca. Did I not tell you?”

  Lion’s hand dropped from her thigh and he leaned back in his chair.

  Sanchia rose hastily to her feet and fled down the long table and the three steps leading from the dais to the floor. She had escaped. Or had she been permitted to escape? A hasty glance over her shoulder revealed Lion still lolling at the table, looking dark, sensual, and slightly sinister in his black velvet slashed jerkin. His expression was lazy, arrogant, as if about to command a performance expressly for his pleasure.

  Bernardo snatched four bracelets of bells from the overflowing tray the lackey was extending toward them and slipped one over each of her wrists and then his own. The hall resounded, shimmered, with the merry sound of bells and tambourines, music, and laughter.

  Bernardo ran to the other side of the room to join the men, and Sanchia took her place with the women. Bianca was laughing excitedly and even Caterina’s dark eyes were glowing with exhilaration as she slipped the bracelets over her wrists, straightened her scarlet velvet skirts and signaled the musicians to start again.

  Sanchia lifted her arms over her head, the bells on her wrists jingling. She found herself laughing aloud with the same excitement as Bianca. No, it was not the same. Her excitement was not only with the dance but with the way Lion was looking at her, the way the blood was pounding in her veins, the feel of fabric touching her flesh as she twisted and turned and stamped and whirled. The torches on the walls blurred into blue-orange flame before her eyes, and the bells and the tambourines rang and echoed not only in her ears but in her heart and her body.

  The excitement was growing as they all joined hands and circled faster and faster and then broke and whirled by themselves again. The laughter bubbled up in her throat, and she felt almost too breathless to release it. The men and women in the hall were only streaks of violet, crimson, blue, and gold.

  A hand grabbed her wrist, pulling her out of the whirling throng and behind a stone pillar.

  “What.…” She gazed up dizzily to see Lion’s face above her. “No, I want—”

  His lips were on hers, parting them with his tongue, plunging deep inside with a low groan. His powerful body pressed her back against the pillar and she could feel the tension of his muscles, his arousal rampant. He lifted his head. “This is what you want.” He rubbed yearningly against her. “Isn’t it, Sanchia?”

  She clutched desperately at his shoulders as a wave of heat surged through her. She couldn’t think. The bells, the tambourines, the music, the blood singing through her veins were all too loud. “No, someone will see …”

  “They’re all dancing.” His lips pressed quick, hard kisses on her temples and cheeks. “No one can see us here. Open your mouth.” She didn’t realize she had obeyed him until his tongue filled her mouth, toying wildly with her tongue. “I wanted to do this at the table,” he muttered. “This is how I wanted to feed you.”

  She tried to stifle the moan trembling in her throat but he heard and lifted his head. “Come with me. You need me. I’ll give you what we need.” He was already pulling her toward the door.

  She shouldn’t go. But she found herself stumbling after him and could think of only one protest. “They’ll miss us.”

  “The moresca goes on forever, you know that.” They were out in the corridor and he was urging her up the stairs. “And what if they do miss us? They’ve suspected Marco of being Bianca’s lover for years. They’ll think it only natural that I take my pleasure.” He lifted her in his arms as he started up the steps. “It is natural, Sanchia. Natural and beautiful and right. Don’t you know that?”

  She didn’t know anything anymore. Her mind was whirling as if she were still dancing, and her heart was slamming against her ribs until she thought it would burst. She should resist Lion and this lust cascading through her. It was madness to lie pliant and helpless in his arms.

  But she wasn’t helpless. She could fight him if she chose.

  Yet she knew with a sudden despair that she wouldn’t fight him. Not tonight.

  She murmured his name and closed her eyes as she buried her face against the black velvet of his jerkin.

  Fifteen

  You appear to be looking for someone, my lady. May I be of some small service?”

  Caterina whirled to face Lorenzo. “You know very well who I’m looking for, you demon from hell. Where are they?”

  “Lion and Sanchia? I have no idea. How many hundreds of chambers does this huge c
astle contain? However, wherever they are I’m sure they’re in no danger of being disturbed. Lion is your son and would have provided against that possibility.”

  Caterina’s hands clenched into fists at her sides. “You saw them leave the hall?”

  Lorenzo nodded. “I spared a glance or two for them when I wasn’t looking at you. By the way, you do dance the moresca splendidly. Your vigor gave the steps a certain glorious—”

  “I should not have danced at all. I should have been more watchful. I saw what was going on between them earlier this evening.”

  “Do you really think you could have stopped Lion? You were fortunate he didn’t act sooner. We both know it was only a question of time until he broke free of the chains you wound around him.” He smiled faintly. “No, you should have done exactly what you did do tonight: smiled and danced and made us all happy to see your joy.”

  She gazed at him, startled. “Happy?”

  He looked surprised himself. “Did I say that? How very common of me.” He thought about it. “But perhaps it comes closest to what I was feeling as I watched you.”

  She frowned suspiciously. “Do you seek to distract me?”

  “Have I ever lied to you?”

  “No,” she said slowly. “Never.”

  “Nor shall I ever.” He turned. “And now I’m going for a walk in your lovely garden. Would you like to follow me or do you intend to tear through the castle, searching chamber to chamber for your missing offspring? It would do no good and make you look exceedingly undignified.”

  She hesitated, glancing around the crowded room.

  “They will not miss you as long as the wine is flowing and the musicians play.” He added softly, “And I will miss you if you don’t join me, Caterina.”

  He turned, walked away from her and was soon lost to view in the throng.

  Caterina stood very still. The hall was suddenly too hot, the music too loud, the company far too boring to tolerate.

  He would miss her if she did not come to him. Lorenzo had never before indicated her company was important enough to him to miss.

  She started slowly across the hall, nodding and smiling as she skirted the dancers on her way to the garden where Lorenzo waited.

  Lion set Sanchia down before turning and slamming the chamber door. He was breathing heavily, his chest rising and falling as he leaned back against the door. “Dio, I think my heart may burst. You’re heavier than you look.”

  She gazed at him in astonishment and then burst into laughter. Those blunt, unvarnished words were so typical of Lion. “You didn’t have to carry me up those thousands of stairs. We must be at the very top of the castle.”

  “We are.” He turned and shot the bolt. “This is the tower where we keep the Wind Dancer.” He turned to face her. “And I was afraid if I made you walk up all those stairs you might change your mind.” He crossed to the stone fireplace and knelt to light the logs laid in readiness. “You’re already having second thoughts, aren’t you?”

  The wood caught, flared, revealing the broad, strong planes of his cheekbones, the glittering darkness of his eyes as he turned to look at her. She drew a deep breath. “I don’t think I had a first thought. I wasn’t thinking at all.”

  “That was my intention.” He stood up and came toward her. “And I shall endeavor to make sure you remain in that state.”

  She took a hurried step back. “Lion, this is not—”

  “It is.” His hands cupped her cheeks and he tilted her face up to look into her eyes. “Trust me, cara.”

  She could see in his eyes twin flames reflected from the fire. She felt helpless in her fascination.

  “Is it so difficult to trust me?”

  “Yes. I … I think I’ve had too much wine.”

  “You’re not drunk.” His lips feathered her temple. “In vino veritas.”

  But was that the truth? There was only chaos in what she was feeling. She was hot, tingling, as dizzy as when she was dancing the moresca.

  “I like your gown. I knew you’d look wonderful in that color.” He pushed her away from him and took a step back. “Jade queen, shall we start our play?”

  “But you always win.”

  “Not this time.” He took off his black velvet jerkin and threw it aside. “This time we both win. Do you remember when I had you undress for me in the barn?”

  She felt a tightening in her chest. “Yes.”

  “You were frightened.” He took off his fine white linen shirt and dropped it on top of the jerkin. He stood before her in only steel gray hose and calf-length black boots whose soft leather molded his legs with the same delineation as the hose. “I wanted you to be frightened. I wanted you to be so afraid that you’d never forget you belonged to me.”

  The dark hair thatching his chest looked soft and springy and she felt a tingling in her hands. She wanted to touch him, run her fingers through that curly mat, explore the powerful muscles cording his chest and shoulders.

  He took off his boots and began to untie the points of his hose. “You don’t look frightened now.”

  But she was frightened. More frightened than she had been in the barn when she had acted on his command. Because she suddenly knew he wouldn’t command her now. What she did would be by her own will.

  The steel gray hose were gone now and he was naked. “Come to me, cara.”

  She couldn’t move. Her gaze traveled down his chest to the tightness of his muscular belly. Then down …

  “You can’t be shy.” Lion stood with his legs apart, blatantly aroused, the essence of bold masculinity. “Attack, Sanchia, I stand defenseless.”

  “But not weaponless,” she murmured, her gaze fixed on him in total absorption.

  “Then let me sheath my weapon.” His eyes were suddenly glinting with humor. “You have the means. Do I have to come to you?” He held out his hand. “Cara?”

  She took one step forward, then another, and suddenly she was directly in front of him.

  He took her right hand and raised it slowly to his lips. He kissed her palm lingeringly, his gaze never leaving hers. “Square one, jade queen. Not so hard, was it?” He moved her hand to his chest and she felt the pounding of his heart beneath her palm.

  “I belong to you.” He said softly. “Say it.”

  Her eyes widened. “What?”

  “It’s true, you know. I belong to you, just as you belong to me. Say it.”

  “You … belong to me.”

  “Forever.”

  Stunned, she gazed speechlessly at him.

  He pressed her palm harder against his chest. The beating of his heart seemed in some mysterious fashion to beat within her. “Forever, Sanchia.”

  “It cannot be.”

  “We will talk of it later.” He slid her hand slowly down his body to clasp it around his manhood. He held it there as a shudder racked through him. “Dear God, I can’t wait any longer. Will you take me into you?”

  His face was drawn as if in pain, and she felt a sudden surge of tenderness that swept away her last reservations. Why was she hesitating when she had known when she left the hall she would not be able to stop herself from yielding? “I think I … must.”

  “Thank the saints.” He took her hand from him and stepped forward, his hands on her gown. He stopped. “Remove it quickly or I swear I’ll have to push up your skirts and take you as I did on that pile of hay in the barn. Cristo, what I’d give for a bed at this moment.”

  There was no furniture at all in the chamber, she realized as she glanced around dazedly, only a rug thrown down before the hearth.

  “Hurry, I cannot wait long and my hands are shaking so that I can do nothing but fumble.”

  Her hands were trembling, too, but she managed to strip off the gown and undershift. She was reaching down to take off her slippers when she felt his hands on her waist lifting her. “Clasp me,” he muttered. “Your legs …”

  Her limbs encircled his hips and he was pressing against her, into her, with frantic u
rgency. He sank home.

  Her neck arched back as she gave a low cry. Ridged fullness. Deep. So deep.

  His palms cupped her buttocks and held her to him, forcing her to take all of him. She heard him mutter something beneath his breath. A curse, a prayer … She could not tell which it was.

  “Hold on.” His palms kneaded the rounded flesh of her buttocks as he stood still, his eyes shut, his nostrils flaring with each breath. “Tighter.”

  “I cannot …” Still, she tried, and heard him groan deep in his throat as if he were in agony.

  Then he was sinking to his knees on the floor, lowering her so that her naked back rested on the rug as he plunged in and out of her body in a rhythm both primitive and forceful.

  Completion. Joining. Sanchia bit her lower lip to keep from screaming as jolt after jolt of sensation rocked through her. His hands were petting her, his fingers pressing, rotating. “Sanchia, it must …” His hips moved back and forth in a flurry of short, hard thrusts. “May I give to you? Please let …”

  He was entreating her. The knowledge filled her with wonder. He moved with raw, blind sensuality, taking, giving and yet he was pleading with her for acceptance.

  “Give … to me.” Her words were little more than a whisper as her limbs tightened strongly around his hips. “Give!” She arched up helplessly as the pleasure burst through her, spasming, exploding.

  He pulled her upright on him again, crushing her close as his own pleasure peaked and then soared.

  He rocked her back and forth, breathing low, whispering love words into her ear. His lips moved yearningly across her cheek to the corner of her lips. “Sanchia, did I not tell you? We must have this. How can we live without it?”

  At the moment she didn’t think she could live without it. She was part of him. He was part of her. Pleasure … possession … passion … Nothing had ever seemed more natural than having Lion within her, having his hands caressing her naked back, having his lips on her lips.