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The door slammed with a deafening sound. Juan stared with bitterness after the departed Azucena, the flutter of skirts as ghostly as the thud of her footfalls hurrying down the stairs. That impish hoyden could not have found a worse moment to bring the light of knowledge into his comforting darkness. He turned his gaze upon the blighted portrait of his half-brother, studying the gallant therein with a cynical eye. Pride stamped that face; the innate sense of worth, a very high worth at that, bled through the prison of inks. He was defied and castigated all at once, looked upon with disgust, as though he were a maggot undeserving of even as little as the affection of his beloved.
What had she seen in that smug imbecile? What did she see in him still to devote herself so wholly to defending his honour? Juan gnashed his teeth against the hot red mist of fury laying claim to every corner it reached. His palms itched, his fingers curled; the only one to blame was himself. After all, Mónica could not be so very different from her sister and he had long known what that venal barefaced lightskirt claimed for her rank. It had been his conviction that had painted her in that softer, loving light, unable to accept the possibility that his wife was as duplicitous as her sister. More than even Aimeé, come to think of it; for that one never used the guise of an ingénue. And that one had not come to him an innocent, or as close to one as could be.
But Mónica had been like no other. The hard outer shell, part shyness, part delicacy, hid away the pretty pearl that was her passion. And she had allowed him a glimpse of that paradise; a coarse sailor, contemptible smuggler, no better than a filthy pirate in her eyes had had the good fortune to conquer that well-bred countess and believe himself capable of laying siege to as precious a thing as her soul.
He slammed the picture onto the table, disgust coiling into his stomach. Hatred burned in his chest, setting flame to those faint hopes he'd dared cherish. The very devil whispered in his ear. What a cool little liar his wife proved to be. She opened her arms, took him into her body and gave him every assurance of love and all the while her thoughts and worries were for another. Her heart beat for another. She dreamed of another man. Juan closed his eyes in anguish, biting the inside of his cheek to keep from screaming at the unfair hand he’d been dealt. For all he knew, his exemplar specimen of sainthood took every opportunity to seek refuge in that dream of impossible love, consoling herself with the sight of the lover so cruelly forbidden her. Mónica might even have been filled with thoughts of his brother as he laboured above her, loving her in the most honest way he knew, giving no quarter in his desperate battle to have her. Like an utter moron, he had worshipped her with every kiss and every caress, allowing her traitorous fingers to wrap around his heart, grateful for the chance. The fine cage of her hold maddened him.
Even so angry he could spit nails, part of him frantically sought even the slightest detail that would absolve Mónica. He wanted to take her in his arms and make love to her, affirm with their bodies what his mind desired. In equal measure, he wanted to wrap his hands around her throat and feel that delicate beat of life thrumming beneath her skin; hold her on that knife’s edge, Juan wanted her to know his pain. Most of all, he wanted back that certainty the world had so easily demolished. He wanted to know himself the sole reason for Mónica’s thoughts and hopes and worries. Once more, he suffered the torments of hell so that his brother might bask in bliss, having made away with the woman he loved.
The sole consolation left to him was that his wife’s infuriating modesty would not allow her to spread her legs for another, be it even the much-loved handsome prince of her dreams. The very mention of indiscretion discomforted her. As long as he drew breath, he would be the single holder of the privilege that was lying with his bride. And he would shore up her conviction with his vigilance; Juan would not allow her the chance to cheat him of his hard-won prize. She had sworn before the altar; the words rang mockingly in his ears. But she had spoken them and he would take her at face value; he would take her for everything she had and then some. Mónica would learn what it was to rouse his temper and goad his terribly irascible demonic nature. By God, he would hold her for every vow.
He would teach her what it meant to belong to Juan del Diablo and repeat that lesson as many times as it took to hammer it into her head. With a snarl, he stood, roughly picking up the proof of her betrayal. She could love that milksop all she wanted, but her destiny was tied to his own. She would follow him as she’d sworn she would. Lips curling faintly, with bitterness, he turned that face away from him, to read again the words on the back, to torture his soul with those heartfelt vows of adoration his wife poured forth for another man. He imagined her, hounded by the fiends of hell which took great delight in wounding him, searching for her lost treasure, wondering where her precious memento had disappeared to. Worrying lest it be found; Mónica did so love keeping up the appearance of nobility and good-breeding, as he’d learned. She would not wish their private affairs exposed for the simple reason that it might cast a bad light upon her good name, and perhaps his own as well. That would soothe her, would it not? That she martyred herself on the altar of appearance and kept a pristine image in the face of the world.
He would rip away those saintly veils and shred her holy vestments until all that remained was his woman. And that woman he would treat as she deserved. Unbidden, the hate-filled face of the man he had sometimes called father came to him. Was that what Carmona had felt? Was that the torment which had boiled his blood and driven him to drink and ruin? By all the devils, he had thought himself wretched beyond measure when Aimeé forsook him; but this was worse. A thousand times worse did the pain pierce, wetting the fields of his soul with burning rage and agonising hatred, twisting and writhing like a mad sickness. He could understand, for the very first time, more clearly than ever, what rot had beset the man who raised him, what pain he must have endured. The mere thought of Andrés was more than enough to make him bristle; the knowledge that Mónica kept him in her heart, even if only as an untouchable dream, was to him worse than untenable. He had neither charity enough to soften the blow, nor courtesy enough to retreat from the field, even if it led to his doom, even in the face of his wife’s disapproval, though the thought had teased him for the briefest instance.
She would enjoy that, wouldn’t she? Wallowing in the tragedy of an unhappy marriage and an equally unhappy release; for she could never fulfil her girlhood illusions as long as her sister lived. Juan shoved the picture into the inner pocket of his jacket. She would have no satisfaction from him, he vowed that. All the days God or the enemy gave him, she would remain chained to him, without recourse but to do his bidding. His nostrils flared even as he struggled to find serenity.
Juan determined the only path forth was to confront his wife, force her to look into his eyes and admit to the treachery. From her lips the poison’s bitter bite might at least be mingled with sweetness.
Thus having made up his mind, Juan abandoned the small bedroom and rushed down the stairs with a heavy step, ignoring all in his path. Not even Segundo’s calls stopped him, though he heard them very well. Wincing as soon as the sun hit his eyes, Juan looked about, mortally offended that the world still had the temerity to go on unhindered and unchanged no matter one’s personal tragedy. But then what did the world care about Juan del Diablo’s heart? Scoffing at his own feelings of self-importance, he picked up the pace, hurrying along the dusty dirt path, half desirous to see the door of his home before his eyes, half wishing to never reach it. Torn asunder between two equally powerful impulses, his only recourse was to keep on walking. And in the end, he reached the very place he wanted and did not want to see before his eyes.
With a steadfastness he did not fully feel in the face of that horrible prospect that was understanding at length his wife’s heart, he pushed the door open, composed and resigned to do what needed doing.
A curious display met his sight. At once he saw not one, but two carrions gathered at his table, the flowers between the sisters much too cheerful for the occasion. He glanced briefly towards his wife, noting hope and anxiety alike in her eyes, then turned to Aimeé whose gaze twinkled with mischief and desire. “Well, well, the sisters have come together,” he noted, approaching the table. The pull of Mónica’s stare briefly tugged his attention back to her, the picture of innocence with those blushing roses in her hand. Almost he felt bad for her. But the regret swiftly disintegrated in the face of that worry. Her worry that him and her sister would make a mockery of his half-brother’s good name. And why not act on her worst suspicions; why not give her a taste of the pain that was betrayal?
Thus when Aimeé spoke her greeting, he gallantly rewarded her with his attention, asking after her well-being, complimenting her looks and kissing her hand lingeringly; all under his wife’s troubled gaze which he could feel burning against him. “And what brings you here?” he asked, playing along with the little flirtation he could see agreed with the other woman.
Smiling in that maddening way of hers, his half-brother’s wife made no effort to restrain herself. “I came to ask a favour of my sister. And yourself as well naturally.”
The sharp little breath exploding at his side embedded itself like a knife between his ribs. “But I have already told her it would be impossible,” Mónica protested, a tart note of anger in those words.
But he could not look at her. Not yet. Aimeé had unknowingly stalled the discharge of his ire and given him the perfect opportunity to get under her sister’s skin. “How may we help you?” He spoke over the end of his wife’s outburst. He listened patiently as Aimeé laid out her proposition, wondering to himself what he had seen in that shameless little baggage. She could not have been more obvious if she’d asked him to bed her then and there. Tension swelled. Juan would have liked to see the expression on Mónica’s face just then, as he accepted.
She did him one better though. She cried out her protest. Those innocent blooms in her hand came down violently upon the hard surface of the table. Juan felt it like a balm against his bruised heart. Nevertheless, he goaded her further. “You would refuse your sister such a small favour? Do not be spiteful.” He gave her his eyes then for the pure pleasure of witnessing the horror in her face. He pretended not to see the word of hurt when turning back to the uninvited guest. “You may count on it, Aimeé; you know well this house is yours.”
Aimeé’s barely restrained expression of self-satisfaction came with her heartfelt gratitude. “I thank you for your generosity, Juan, and I promise not take advantage above a few days.” He merely let her know, to her great delight, that she might stay as long as she pleased. Like the cat that got the cream, Aimeé faced her sister, “We will see each other soon, sister dearest.” She flounced off with even more parting words, “Beside, the oppressive heat at the estate would not let me live. But as soon as mother returns, I shan’t bother the two of you.”
They exchanged last lines at the door, with Juan closing it at the woman’s departure. His hand lingered upon the wood as a knot settled in his throat. With Aimeé egress, he was alone with Mónica; she was at his mercy. Her laboured breathing reached him over the short distance. Accusatory demands were not log in coming. “What is the meaning of this, Juan? How can you do such a thing, to me?”
That irritated him beyond measure. He turned on his heel, facing her with a somewhat sardonic expression in place. “What about you?” Juan countered, stalking forth. “How could you tell me you love me? When all this time you’ve been thinking about that imbecile?” She had the gall to look confused and pretend ignorance. But he would not let her escape so easily.”Drop that victim’s guise!” He exploded. “You are worse than you sister; she, at least, has the good grace not to hide what she is.” As he advanced upon her, she drew back, seeming to understand at long last her perilous position.
Fear crept into those ordinarily gentle blue pools. Good. She had very good reason to fear him. “Why are you talking to me this way? Have I displeased you?” Her retreated continued apace even as his approach, their dance carrying them towards the small alcove.
“Why did you have me believe you’d set aside your feelings for Andrés?” Juan challenged, feeling particularly predatory witnessing her flight. How far was she willing to take her little charade?
Blood leeched from her cheeks. “Because that is the truth!” There was no hesitation in those words and, infuriatingly enough, her eyes begged him to believe her, as though she had the right. It beggared belief.
Juan lunged for her. He gripped her upper arms and drew her to him. “Cast aside your hypocrisy, Mónica,” he ordered her. The rather pathetic offensive of soft blows as she struggled against him only served to fire his blood. “I could kill you with my bare hands!” He let her go, toying with her as a cat might with a mouse. “At the very least have courage to speak the truth!” And just as she was protesting that she’d not lied, he withdrew the picture from the inner pocket and shoved it in her face.
Like the devil before the holy cross, she froze for a moment, then swayed gently on her feet at his question of “What is this then?” His triumph came as she drew further away. “You are and will always be my only love,” he read the lines on the back scornfully. The romantic sentiment made almost made him physically ill.
“For the love of God, cease!” she yelled over his words. “This is a very old photograph.” Tears filled her eyes. But Juan had no intention to be so easily taken in.
“Then why have you brought it here? To console yourself when I am from home?” Contempt filled him as she pretended once more, trying to make him believe she had not been behind it. “Don’t lie to me! Azucena found it among your clothes.”
“Perhaps it had been placed there by mistake,” she pleaded, the frantic light in her gaze unabated. Her voice cracked and dipped with the weight of tears.
He remained unbowed. Women thought a few tears solved everything. Well, he would see her cured of such ludicrous notions. “I should believe you why?”
“Because it is the truth!” She made to escape him then, but Juan stopped her progress and pushed her back to her erstwhile position with relish. Mónica pressed herself back against the wall.
“Liar.” Despite having spoken the accusation with restraint, he was one hairsbreadth away from punishing her with brutality. So far had she pushed him with those deceptive ways. “As I must, I will tell you what the truth is. You still love him.” He’d whispered that poisonous knowledge, watching her squirm and deny it. “You made the great sacrifice of marrying a pariah like myself with the sole goal of protecting him.” Once more she attempted to lie her way out of the predicament with words and tears, but Juan swiftly cut her off. “You’ve always lied; because this is the only truth that matters.” He lifted the picture to her face with an aggressive motion, hand trembling with the need for relief.
Stepping back from her, he flung her precious memento at her, watching it hit her as she turned her face to the side, sobbing. He walked away, turning his back to her so he might gain some composure. Once a safe distance had been established, he turned to face her yet again. “I am a moron, a fool, for falling into the same trap.”
She stepped towards him with a sudden, “But, please, let me exp–“
He jumped away, as though she were a leper, keeping her at bay with a jab of his finger. “I need no explanations! There is nothing I want from you. If you thought you could make me dance to your tune, you’ll soon learn what sort of man I am.” With that foreboding claim, he abandoned her briefly, in search of that servant she had brought into his home.
But the kitchen held only Meche and Azucena. He learned what he needed to, however, and returned in search of his wife. She had fled the alcove, no doubt seeking refuge in their bedroom. He found her there sure enough, sitting on the bed with a hangdog expression firmly affixed to her face. “Do not dare leave this house unless you want me to force you back.” Despite her pleas, he was in no mood to humour her. And so he made clear. “You will do nothing. You deserve nothing. From this moment forth, you are not allowed to speak in my presence.”
And with that, he left her, seeking refuge in the only place he knew would take him in no matter what. He set Rosa the task of bringing him a drink after he provided Segundo with the details he needed to learn what exactly that new servant of his was up to and found his way to that chamber reserved for him and him alone. He flung his jacket away, letting it land where it would and dropped down into his chair, ripping off the suffocating neckcloth and dropping it on the table.
His drink arrived a moment after, along with a smiling Rosa. Her dark eyes sparked with invitation. Juan considered her. Why not take the comfort she offered? What good was it to pine after a woman who would never truly love him? He stood and walked towards her out of pure spite. “Stay with me a moment,” he invited.
Rosa’s smile widened. “Anything for you, Captain.” Her fingers fell to the buttons of his vest, undoing them one by one with obvious enthusiasm. He worked to free her of the thin blouse she wore. In tandem they managed to make it to the bed, losing clothes along the way.
Slightly roughed hands caressed his chest. Juan closed his eyes, feeling that supple form beneath him. He stroked her sides appreciatively. Rosa was warm and willing; but disgracefully enough, it was Mónica’s image that lingered behind his closed eyelids. It was his wife’s ecstasy that spurred on his desire, even as he gripped the waist of a different woman altogether. Never had he felt anything as lowering. But Juan persevered. He opened his eyes so that memories of his wife no longer tormented him, so that he would not remember her softness beneath him, nor have the ghost of her perfume tease him. Rosa smiled up at him, guiding one of his hands to her breast. His response was more instinct than want. He toyed with the offering through the thin corset she wore. Mónica would have had several more layers to protect her from his lust. Layers which he took great delight in removing.
There he went again, thinking of his wife when he ought to be generous to the lover in his bed. But try as he might, it was still Mónica’s hands he wanted touching him. It was Mónica’s lips he wanted peppering kisses on his shoulders and chest. It was Mónica’s nails he wanted to rake burning paths in his skin. That obsessive need, thorny and pitiless, gripped him. He wanted more than anything to see blue eyes grow dark with desire. He wanted warm gold hair spilling on his pillows. He wanted to lose himself in his wife and forget his anger and her duplicity for even as brief an interlude as lovemaking.
Only the witchcraft in Mónica’s lips could quench his thirst. Her body alone could feed his hunger. Mónica and solely Mónica was the fever in his blood, driving him wild with want. That tender being, which had seemed to him an impossibly distant star until he’d held her in the palm of his hand, was without equal; it was the Mónica of his most cherished fantasies, loving and tantalising, soothing and fierce by turns, wholly giving herself to him. How well the real woman had matched the imagined with her stratagems. Juan wanted back his ignorance and bliss, the warm clasp of Mónica and her arms around him, her sweet cries in his ears. He wanted that heart of hers for his own, so he might shield it from anything and anyone which might cause her pain.
One of Rosa’s hands dipped lower and lower, down his abdomen and towards a surprisingly unmoved part of his body, breaking the spell. She had just hooked her fingers into the waistband of his pants when he grabbed her wrist and gently removed her from the vicinity of his member. Juan rolled off of her. His body had known what his mind had not; it was not Mónica beneath him, but Rosa with her dark, knowing eyes. Rosa who knew men inside out and who thought nothing of such touches; she could not satisfy his cravings. She was bold where Mónica was shy, a master of her craft where his wife had just begun to learn. But he wanted no canny thing to seek his bliss with and suddenly even the beautiful Rosa with all her guile seemed to him repugnant. Not as a person, but as a partner, as someone he might bed down with and find contentment within. Her flaw? She was not Mónica.
He shrugged his shirt back on, feeling the woman’s hands on him once more. She stroked his arm in a sensual gesture. Her touch left him cold. So Juan stopped her, his hand on her own. “Better not.”
She withdrew. The mattress dipped with every shift. Juan presumed she was sitting up, for her voice was very close to his ear. “Why not?” It wasn’t anger that coloured her words, but confusion.
Juan gave her a brief look. “Because I do not want to.” He stood and retrieved her clothing, offering both skirt and blouse to her. “Get dressed and return below.” A slight sliver of worry appeared in her eyes when she asked whether she did not please him. Female vanity, Juan assumed, and then, kindly, eased her as best he knew how. “It is not that; I am simply not in the mood.”
Segundo’s timely interruption saved him from further questions. His man had already learned what he needed to about that servant of his and Juan was beginning to understand how matters stood by the time his trusted man took leave of the room. Rosa, who’d been listening in on the pretext of still dressing up, applied herself to offering her services in a slightly different manner. Juan’s polite refusal set her to rights. But no sooner had he thought his troubles over that Segundo disturbed him a second time.
“Your wife is here,” were the unbelievable words that came out of his mouth.
For a brief moment, Juan was at a loss for words and could only ask, dumbly, “Mónica?” Guilt churned uncomfortably in his gut for what he had come very nearly to doing.
“Yes. She wants to talk to you,” his right hand man offered by way of explanation.
Preservation instinct, or madness, he knew only that she must never be allowed to expose herself as she had. “Tell her to leave! I forbid her to step foot into such a place again!”
“And if she refuses?” came the question.
“You let me know. Now go.” His order was followed directly. Juan gave Rosa one look thereafter. “Get dressed.” She accepted with meekness, hurrying to button up her top. He had pulled his vest on and was binding up the buttons when voices reached his ears from the other side of the door.
One was his wife’s, slightly raised in refusal. The other was Segundo. They were coming up the stairs he reckoned and before long came intelligible words. “Do not dare touch me! I will see my husband right this instant!” The door opened with a violent jerk and there stood Mónica, white and trembling, an eerie light in her eyes. The helpless Segundo shrugged behind her, as though asking for pardon. His wife stepped within, glaring daggers at Rosa. “You, leave us,” she addressed the woman, her voice deceptively calm. Rosa still looked to him for approval and would not budge until he gave it.
“Off you go then.” He indulged Mónica out of morbid curiosity. How would she react to what she’d seen? “What do you want?” he questioned as soon as their audience had left.
She choked upon a breath and had to struggle before her tongue obeyed. “I just wanted to see it with my own eyes.” If it had been his goal to hurt her, he had clearly managed it, but Juan took no pride in the blow he’d dealt her, deserving through she might be. Her whole body was shaking, turning him inside out; he wanted to comfort her and clasp her to him, but he could not. That would mean he forgave her the perfidy.
“And, are you satisfied now?” He threw his arms out, as though inviting her to elaborate. Mónica gasped softly. She started and looked about her, taking in the rumples sheets. Then her eyes slid to him, meeting his gaze. Juan cocked his head to the side, stamping down the tendril of pity threatening to reach for his heart.
“Yes,” she rasped hardly, the blue of her eyes hardening. “Fully satisfied.” Her chin lifted a notch. “I came to tell you how that picture found its way into our home. Aimeé put–“
“Aimeé again, how convenient,” he chuckled. “You interrupted me for this?”
She flinched, but doggedly pursued her path. “Yes, her. Lupe told me everything. She put that old picture between my clothes when she brought them over.” Her lower lip quivered. “I haven’t betrayed you. I did not lie to you.” Her gaze drifted to the bed once more. “But you–“ She cut herself off.
“Servants always say what their masters command,” Juan pointed out, watching Mónica’s shoulders slump. “If that is all, you had best return home. You are never to come here again.”
“You fiend! You black-hearted scoundrel! I am your wife and not some random woman to be sent from your side as pleases you. Yet you won’t even believe me; after all, what is the point?” She was right; he did not believe her. But that did not lessen her charm in his eyes and if she did not leave, he might forget himself long enough to seek his release with her. Juan reached out, intending to guide her out the room and take her back home. She hopped out of reach and her eyes chided him for that bit of impertinence.
Pressing his lips together in a firm line, he shook his head. “Get out of here and leave me to my business. Go back home.”
“Your sin, you mean,” Mónica snapped.
“Have it your way,” Juan sighed. “Leave now, unless you would rather take Rosa’s place.” Her face reddened. Such an insulting offer she would never accept as best he guessed. Satisfied that he had driven her away, Juan turned his back on that troublesome wife of his and sat himself in one of the available chairs.
“No, I refuse!” Her voice carried. When he turned, it was to see Mónica ripping the quilt from the bed, along with the sheets, kicking them away. She had flung away her pretty straw hat, leaving it free to land where it would. “I will not be sent home like an errant child when I have done nothing to be ashamed of. And if you think I will let you dishonour your vows any further, you have another thing coming.” She straightened herself and sent a quelling look his way,
But Juan was no lily-livered creature and her ire fired him. His blood was well and truly up. He stood, caught her by the shoulders and shook her, “You understand what you are consenting to, Mónica?”
“I am consenting to upholding my wedding vows,” she replied tartly.
Upholding her wedding vows indeed. Juan drew her to him and kissed her with passion, somewhat surprised that she would accept his touch given the circumstances. He would push her a bit and see how far along she was willing to play, and once she’d had enough, he would take her home. She kissed him back for all that she was worth, throwing her arms around him and hanging on for dear life. Each desperate press of lips, each tiny moan, each little jolt seeped into him, worming their way into his heart. Eager fingers found purchase in her skirts, tugging the layers upwards. A bucket of icy water poured over him could not have roused him quicker from the trance. He could not make love to his wife in a tavern with all the drunks below listening to her lilting cries. That glimpse of paradise was his and his alone.
Reluctantly, he pulled his mouth from Mónica’s. Without another word or look, he retrieved her hat and handed it back to her, then put on his jacket and dragged her out of the room and down the stairs, taking her into the streets, deaf to all of her protests. Then it struck him; Satan was closest and unmanned at the moment. Inspired, he changed course and led them briskly towards the little ship.
Mónica followed him aboard and allowed herself to be led into the familiar space of his tiny cabin with its plain berth. He gave her little enough time to accustom herself before he pressed his wife for more kisses. She gave them freely still. She let him undo the buttons holding her dress in place and worked on unhooking him in turn. Her corset found itself upon the ground as swiftly as her dress had been discarded, but the shift beneath he would not divest her of. Should anyone return and find them there, he had no wish to expose his wife to as much as an impertinent gaze. Ushering Mónica upon the berth, Juan crawled atop her, meshing their bodies together, the cramped space forcing them deliciously close.
He kissed her throat and fondled her breasts through the thin chemise. Mónica scratched her nails down his back hard enough to break skin. He did not mind her brand upon him, for he left his own on her, suckling those sensitive spots on her throat until they reddened brightly.
It was a moment’s work to push all cloth out of the way. What had not responded to Rosa’s skill certainly made an enthusiastic appearance for Mónica’s sake. In an echo of her predecessor, his wife slid her hand between them, but hesitantly, down his abdomen, wresting a grunt from his tightly clenched lips. Her fingers found him ready and willing. She stroked her hand along the length of him, fingers curling around the rod gingerly. Juan shuddered and bucked his hips with mindless instinct. Much more of it and he would spill himself like a greenhorn. With some difficulty and no small measure of regret, he pried Mónica’s fingers from him.
One swift thrust was all it took to slide home. His wife’s body had prepared itself accordingly, giving him the sought after accommodations. “Juan,” Mónica panted in his ear with a note of urgency.
“Mónica,” he answered, hips juddering. “Mónica. Mónica. Mónica.” Her name was a prayer on his lips, taking on unimaginable proportions. His whole world had been reduced to her and him, together in the ancient dance which propelled life since the dawn of time. Delightful, alluring Mónica wound herself tightly around him, the silken ripples pushing him to greater heights. He took his pleasure, powerless against the siren’s song that was his wife’s generous affection.
In that moment, he would have been willing to accept anything she said to him; even her claims of love did not seem entirely unreliable. Their bodies melded together, all boundaries melting away. He sought out her mouth, swallowing the sounds of delight issuing past her lips. Mónica’s fingers pressed against his nape, almost as though she were trying to pull herself against him.
But the crisis passed and with its passing something like common sense gripped him. He was no callow youth, enamoured with a pair of pretty eyes. And she was certainly no innocent little thing, as she so eloquently proved. Still, he could not deny the great enjoyment he found in her, nor his inability to replicate that with another. Juan cursed silently, pulling himself away from her. To make love as she did yet love another in her heart seemed impossible. Mónica even stretched after him, as though she could not bear to be parted just yet. He moved further to the side, standing to full height. Juan looked her over; tousled and rumpled and still lovely beyond words, she moved him like no other.
Mónica shifted as well, tugging cotton and silk so it might corroborate the impression of demureness one could not help but have when looking upon her. She rose to a sitting position, eyeing him with something quite foreign in her gaze. “Please, Juan; you must believe me.”
His mouth twisted in a bitter half-smile upon hearing her words. “Is that why you let me have you?”
“Don’t be coarse!” Mónica stood from her perch upon the berth. The horror in her face very nearly convinced him she’d not even known a woman could use her affection to such a purpose. “I let you,” she trailed off, glancing away with a sudden blush. Then her chin firmed. “I let you do that because you are my husband. And I’d much rather be dragged by wild horses before I allow anyone from Aimeé to a common harlot to come between us.” She swallowed convulsively. “Were my heart the least bit engaged with thoughts of another, I would deserve all the contempt in the world and I would deserve the sting of your retribution.” Her impassioned defence gave him pause as did the fact that she caught his arm in a pleading sort of gesture. How he wished he might fling her away and sail to a faraway place until peace was restored to him. “Juan, please.”
He only wished he could make up his mind one way or another.