Sam's Creed. Sarah McCarty

his hand. She paused, absorbing the uniqueness of the sensation. It wasn’t unpleasant. That had to be a good thing in light of what she was planning.

      “But you were a bit serious?”

      “Just wondering what’s going on in that head of yours. Good women don’t just go throwing away their innocence.”

      Ah, his conscience needed soothing.

      “Maybe in my eyes it would not be a throwing away.”

      “Uh-huh.” His lips grazed her again. She shivered from head to toe and the ache in her womb swelled.

      “So.” He smiled against her temple before repeating the caress. “I take it you’d consider it too much of a sin to touch yourself like this for me?”

      “This” was a slow draw of his finger upward from the well of her vagina to the hard point above, before wandering back down again.

      Did she? Her face felt as if it were burning, the muscles so tight she couldn’t form the words. His finger pressed against her opening, gentle in its demand. She clutched at his shirt and nodded, as for the first time, her muscles parted to take a man. She cried out as the tip of his finger entered in a tiny consummation. Digging her nails into his shoulder, she arched, inviting more.

      He froze. “Damn.”

      The curse buffeted her temple. Heat transferred from his skin to hers, summoning an answering heat deep within her core. A heat that melted all that it touched. A foreign wetness invaded her flesh. He tested it with a light press. His finger slid deeper, easier.

      “Maybe I should take over, then,” he rasped. “Just to spare you the burden of penance.”

      Embarrassment twined further with desire, giving birth to doubt. “You are católico?”

      For some reason it would feel better sinning with a member of her faith.

      “No, but I’m familiar with the breed.”

      The moisture spread as his fingers glided higher before slipping back down. Horror blended with an agony of embarrassment. Her time of the month had just finished. It could not be that. How did one ask if such a thing were normal? She stalled, searching for the way.

      “You are a heathen?”

      “Pretty much.”

      A shiver went through her, and his smile grew. “You like the thought of that?”

      How did he know the wildness in him attracted her? He couldn’t know. He was just guessing. She licked her lips again and clenched her fingers against the probe of his balm-covered ones. “Of course not. It is wrong to enjoy the misfortune of others.”

      His fingertips worked between her legs in smooth glides, always ending at that shallow well, always ending in that erotic stretching as he forced her to take that first bit. Always her body welcomed the intrusion. Always her mind struggled with the reality.

      Was she as swollen as she felt? Could he feel the unnatural wetness? O Dios, please do not let him mind.

      “But maybe I’m happy being a heathen.” His drawl deepened until it was almost a growl. “Maybe you’re happy I’m a heathen, not bound by restraint and ‘must nots.’”

      He removed her hand completely, placing it on her thigh while she was paralyzed with a dread that felt a lot like anticipation.

      “Maybe,” he continued, “you like the thought that I’ll do what I like with you without one thought to proper.”

      Maybe he was right.

      The thrust of his finger was a shock, driving deep between her thighs when he’d trained her to expect a tease and withdrawal. The burning ache whipped along her nerve endings, flaying them with the rapture caught in the bit of pain. It was too much, but she didn’t fight, just accepted the burn and the pleasure. Accepted it because she’d asked for it. Accepted it because it felt right.

      “Ah, duchess,” he growled in her ear before catching the lobe between his teeth, “I do think you like my heathen self.”

      She did, and the proof was in the moan that accompanied the withdrawal of his finger.

      “Now, that was a sweet sound.”

      She thought it was a humiliating one. She wanted to be as in control as he was. Nothing made it clearer that that wasn’t going to happen than the slow reinsertion of his finger. Searing heat shot from her groin outward, jerking her muscles taut. She would have fallen off the horse if his arm hadn’t wrapped around her waist, trapping her arms at her sides, holding her for the pleasure he insisted she experience.

      “Like that, sweetheart?” he asked as if he expected her to be able to answer. “Do you like it like that or do you prefer—” an equally slow retreat followed immediately by a shallow thrust “—that?”

      The thrust was harder to take, but it delivered such sweet joy.

      “Both,” she managed to gasp. “I prefer both.”

      He chuckled. “Greedy, too.”

      The urge to turn her mouth to his was almost irresistible. “You asked.”

      “So I did. Hold on, now.”

      She already clung to him as if the bottom was about to fall out of the world. His teeth nipped her ear. His fingertips grazed her hungry flesh. She thought the rough callus might hurt, but right now it merely provided an intriguing drag. A tingling ache followed in the wake of the caress. Instinct drove her hips up the fraction it took to renew the contact. It wasn’t the same, though. It wasn’t enough to get the goodness back.

      Sam’s chuckle could have been mocking. She recognized his experience the same way he had to recognize her inexperience. But it wasn’t mocking. Neither was his tone as he circled the hard nub at the top. “So nice and wet for me. I like that.”

      When Isabella opened her eyes and checked his expression, she found merely an openness that comforted. Sam was enjoying touching her. Enjoying the effect of his touch on her. It gave her the courage to ask, “The wetness is normal?”

      “When you’re having a good time, yes.”

      He made another pass with his finger. The tingles flared to fire. She caught his hand, stilling the caress. There was something she had to know. “It does not repulse you?”

      The arm supporting her back shifted, sliding up her back until his big hand cupped her shoulder. Her torso naturally shifted into the hollow created by the curve of his arm. She might be innocent, but she recognized desire when it stared at her, and Sam desired her.

      “If you weren’t such an innocent, I’d show you just how much I’m not repulsed.”

      She didn’t know if she could survive it. Sam clearly came from a different world than she. She’d always been pampered and sheltered from the coarser side of life, tucked away from reality, whereas Sam clearly kept his boots firmly planted in daily life. He was as earthy as he was dangerous, and, madre de Dios, he appealed to her.

      Sam changed the angle, forcing her to lean back. Off balance, she felt her thighs splay farther, his hand cupping her more fully.

      It was as if another person possessed her. A wanton woman who burned for the stroke of his fingers, who lived to see the satisfaction in his face when she pleased him. A woman who yearned to burn at his command.

      She just didn’t know how to burn, but looking up into Sam’s face with his sensual mouth set above that square jaw and strong neck, she bet he knew how to set the fire. She licked her lips. If she was brave enough to hand him the sulphur.

      His hand cupped her cheek. He held her now cradled against him, anchored at her most vulnerable points—her face and her groin. Again, she should feel threatened, and yet again she just felt…cherished. His thumb tilted her chin up.

      “Tell me something.”