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That was the paradox of Joaquin. That was what she’d battled with all these years, longing to go and find him again despite knowing she couldn’t have him. There had been the freedom of this island that summer and she had loved not having to live with security forever within sight. But the real truth was that she’d never felt more free in all her life than when this man held her in his hands and brought them both all this pleasure, more intense and beautiful than anything else she had ever known.
Even though she had known that she could never love him in return, no matter how she felt inside. No matter what she wanted.
The only thing she had ever been allowed to love was Ile d’Montagne.
Amalia felt it again now, that tidal wave of sensation, so vivid and bright that it was hard not to squirm where she knelt. She pressed her thighs together, though it was never enough—not when he was near and she knew what he could make her feel. And even though this time, she had five years of longing built up inside her, she could only make the fire dance higher and higher—she couldn’t find any relief.
Then again, maybe it wasn’t relief she wanted. Not when everything inside her seemed wrapped tight around that same narrow column of flame and hunger, and only Joaquin could put it out.
Or make it burn on, brighter than before.
And still he thrust in with that ruthless command, then pulled out, filling her totally and then dragging himself back, so that both of them groaned.
She lost herself in the slickness, the taste, the glory of being his again. The heat of him inside her mouth and that hard hand on the side of her face, strong fingers in her hair. This was timeless, this taking. This giving. She could feel her body respond the way it always did, trembling closer and closer to that edge only he knew the contours of—
She heard him mutter one of his favorite curses. His grip tightened.
And it was only then, only when his thrusts grew jerkier, deeper, wilder and more exhilarating, that she unclasped her hands, and moved them to his hips.
So that when he spilled himself inside her mouth, Amalia shattered apart. Even as she drank him down.
Every last drop, then took her time licking him clean.
She remembered this view of him so well. She had seen it so many times. His head thrown back and abandoned, the green of his eyes hidden behind his sooty lashes.
That mouth of his that could bring so much pleasure, flattened out in sensual starkness as he took his own.
She had been the Crown Princess of Ile d’Montagne, taught from a very young age of the power that was to be hers one day and what it meant. And yet she was not certain she had ever felt more powerful in her life than at moments like this, when she had rendered this powerful, masterful man as close to putty in her hands as he would ever be.
And now, she was nobody. Just a woman, kneeling before a man, while every nerve ending in her entire body shouted out its need and longing—because the pleasure she took in sending him spinning over the edge was only a pale echo of what it was like when he dedicated himself to the task of tearing her apart.
She remembered that all too well. Or maybe it was more accurate to say she longed for it.
And still, she felt newly dizzy with her own power here.
As nothing more than a woman who could do this to a man.
Joaquin opened his eyes and she was lost again in all that hard green. More brilliant than ever, just now, like an emerald fire bright enough to dim the Spanish sun. His gaze held hers for a long, fiery moment. Then his lashes, wasted on a man, concealed his gaze as he reached down and handled himself.
Amalia sat back on her heels, glad she’d thought to toss her wrap to the floor. It didn’t disguise the stone beneath her or alter its hardness. It was like Joaquin, really. All that stone covered in softness, like a gift.
And surely there were things they should discuss. She could think of too many, right there off the top of her head, even while her heart clattered about inside her ribs and she was still battling the urge to squirm about anddo somethingwith all the sensation still storming about inside her.
Maybe this time, now that she was...herself, whoever that turned out to be, she could face him with honesty and openness. And somehow wash away the things she’d said to him five years ago so he would let her go.
She didn’t have to put limits on how she enjoyed him now. She didn’t have that ticking clock, counting down to the end of the summer and the resumption of her official duties. She could...simply sink into the marvel of the heat between them and see where it went. Wherever it went.
It felt like a new sort of freedom.
Assuming, of course, that this moment wasn’t all he wanted from her.
Amalia rather thought he would dismiss her and prowl away, leaving her to marinate in how little he thought of her now. She braced herself for his cruelty—knowing full well she deserved it—
It was relief when instead of stepping away, putting distance between them, forcing some kind of conversation or merely offering a sneer as he left her, Joaquin only held out his hand.
Saying nothing, which, somehow, seemed louder to her than if he’d shouted.
And still, there were so many things she should have said then. It wasn’t as if he’d been particularly kind to her today. Surely she should address that.
