“You hid that perfectly,” she hiccupped, her face trembling, with a smile of burgeoning belief in his reciprocated emotions.
His sincerity and intensity switched to bedevilment in a flash as his hands and lips started to roam her again. “I’m a neurosurgeon. Covert turmoil is one of my middle names.”
“Another one?” She spluttered on mirth and emotion, finally felt she had the right to reciprocate his caresses, delighting in the silk of his polished, muscled back and swimmer’s shoulders.
But she had to voice her concerns one last time. “This is a major step. Are you sure you considered all the ramifications?”
“The only thing that stopped me from snatching you up the first time you offered yourself was that I thought you were nowhere near aware of the ramifications, had no idea what you’d be letting yourself in for, weren’t ready for a relationship so soon after such a loss and trauma. I, on the other hand, am positive of what I want. What I have to have. You, the baby. Us.”
She cried out and dragged him down to her, surging up to meet his lips, devouring with her own. She was begging when he suddenly rose, swept her up in his arms and strode into her bathroom.
He put her down on the massage table and ran a bubble bath, came back to slide her off it, locking her thighs around his hips, gliding his erection along her core’s molten lips before he leaned forward, pressed it to her belly, undulated against her, filled her gasping mouth with his tongue.
She arched, tried to bring him inside her. He held her down, wouldn’t let her have what she felt she was imploding for.
“You haven’t said yes.”
“I’ve been saying ‘yes…but’ for a while now,” she moaned.
“Didn’t sound like that to me.”
“Is that why you’re punishing me now?”
“I would be punishing you if I gave you what you think you want again tonight. But don’t worry, there are so many other ways I’ll go about erasing that innocence of yours.”
“No, please…I want you again.”
“Let me hear that yes without the but and you can have me. For the rest of our lives.” “Yes.”
And for the rest of the night, she lost count of how many yeses she said.
Twelve
Three months and a half to the day that Cybele opened her eyes in Rodrigo’s world, she was trying not to run down the aisle to him.
She rushed down the path between their guests, his family and friends and colleagues, in one of the plateau gardens overlooking his vineyards on one side and the sea on the other, feeling like she was treading air, forging deeper into heaven.
He’d insisted on scheduling the wedding two weeks after he’d removed her cast, to give time for the physiotherapy to control any lingering discomforts. But he hadn’t insisted on holding the wedding in Barcelona’s biggest cathedral as he’d first planned, succumbing to her desire to hold it on his estate. The land that was now theirs. Their home. And their baby’s home.
That was what completed her happiness. That it wasn’t only she who was being blessed by the best gift the world had to offer, but her baby, too. Only Rodrigo would love as his own the baby of the man he’d loved like a brother.
He stood there looking godlike in his tuxedo, his smile growing more intimate and delighted as she neared him. She only noticed Ramón standing beside him when she stumbled the last steps to grab Rodrigo’s outstretched hand. She absently thought that they could be brothers. Not that Ramón, who was arguably as esthetically blessed as Rodrigo, was anywhere near as hard-hitting. Or perhaps it was she who had terminal one-man-one-woman syndrome.
Ramón winked at her as he kissed her and left them to the minister’s ministrations. He’d come to her quarters an hour ago, where Rodrigo had insisted she remain until their wedding night, and performed the Catalan best man’s duty of giving the bride her bouquet, which he’d picked for her, while reciting a poem he’d written. She’d almost had a heart attack laughing as he turned the poem that was supposed to extol her virtues and that of her groom into a hilariously wicked medical report.
Apart from that, and standing by Rodrigo’s side until she reached him, Ramón’s role had ended. In Catalonia there were no wedding rings for the best man to bear. Rodrigo would transfer the engagement ring from her right hand to her left one.
He was doing that now. She barely remembered the preceding ritual beyond repeating the vows, crying a river as Rodrigo made his own vows to her, lost in his eyes, singed by his love.
She watched their hands entwine as he slipped the ring onto her trembling finger, the ten-carat blue diamond part of the set she was wearing that totaled a breath-depleting fifty carats. He’d said he’d picked them for being a lighter version of her eyes.
Then he kissed her. As if they were now one. Forever.
From then on, everything blurred even more as their guests carried them away to another extensive session of Sardana dances and many other wedding customs and festivities.
At one point she thought she’d had a brief exchange with Mel’s parents. She had the impression that they were doing much better and seemed genuinely happy for her and Rodrigo. Her family was here, too, flown in by Rodrigo. His magic had encompassed them, as well, had infused them with a warmth they’d never exhibited before.
Then the dreamlike wedding was over and he carried her to his quarters. Theirs now. At last.
She’d almost lost her mind with craving these past weeks, as she hadn’t slept curved into his body, or taken him inside of hers.
She was in a serious state by now. She’d die if he took her slowly and gently like he’d done that first night.
She was about to beg him not to when he set her down, pressed her against the door and crashed his lips onto hers.
She cried out her welcome and relief at his fierceness, surrendered to his surging tongue. His hands were all over her as he plundered her mouth, removing the peineta and pins that held her cutwork lace veil in place, shaking her hair out of the imprisonment of her Spanish chignon, undoing the string lacing of her traditional wedding gown’s front.
He pushed it off her shoulders, spilling her breasts into his palms, weighing and kneading them until she felt they would burst if he didn’t devour them. He was looking down at them as if he really would. Then he crushed them beneath his chest, her lips beneath his, rubbing, thrusting, maddening.
“Do you have any idea how much I’ve hungered for you?” he groaned against her lips. “What these past weeks were like?”