Free Montbryce Next Generation 03 - Dance of Love by Anna Markland Page A

He felt an overwhelming urge to stretch and purr like a kitten. He pointed his toes and raised his hands above his head. Every muscle in his body pulled tight then relaxed. He yawned, feeling boneless, lightheaded.
    “Give me your hands,” Farah whispered.
    His eyes flew open. His mind had been a thousand leagues away, free of care for he knew not how long.
    He held out his hands. “Are you burning something? What is that aroma?”
    She swallowed and smiled nervously. “It’s an infuser. I lit the candle in the bottom to warm the fragrant oil in the top. Do you like it?”
    Like it? How to describe the feeling that had stolen over him—a soul deep desire for the woman who held his hands carefully, lovingly. It was different from the hard lust he always felt around her. His need was still great, but he wanted to cherish her, love her.
    He opened his mouth, but she touched a fingertip to his lips. “Hush, don’t talk. Close your eyes.”
    He obeyed.
    “I will try not to hurt you, but there may be some pain,” she whispered. He breathed a contented sigh, resolving to give her the same reassurance the first time his shaft slid into her warm heat.
    Farah’s firm fingers pressed into his forearm, kneading from elbow to wrist. She repeated the procedure with his other arm. She worked though the fabric of his shirt. He wanted to tear it off and have her put her hands on his flesh. His body warmed, his eyelids grew heavy. She curled his right hand into a loose fist, then put her fingertips in the webbing between the swollen knuckles and pressed, over and over and over again. She repeated the massage with his other hand. She pressed her thumb and forefinger into the pads at the base of his thumbs, massaging rhythmically.
    She had cut her beautiful nails, for him. He felt only the firm, yet gentle pressure of her fingertips as she repeated the process again and again.
    “Your nails—” was all he could stutter.
    He heard the chuckle in her reply. “You would be in more pain had I not cut them.”
    Suddenly it was important for him to know. “They were red.”
    “Yes, the Egyptians discovered how to turn nails red with henna and strawberries. I had no fruit, so—”
    His mind wandered. He would plant strawberries alongside his apple orchard.
    She turned his hands over and pressed her thumbs into the flesh of his palms. There must have been pain, but Izzy drifted on a cloud of euphoria where pain did not exist. Once or twice he came partially to his senses, and licked his lips, wondering if he had snored. A current of something he could not name coursed through his hands. He stretched his fingers to their full length for the first time in a long time.
    He opened his eyes to see Farah’s smile, then closed them. The next time he awoke, bright sunlight flooded the chamber, and Farah was gone.
    ~~~
    Farah sensed Izzy would come to the Still Room when he discovered she was not in her chamber, nor in the Great Hall. Should she feel guilty that she had infused aromatic oils in his chamber that she knew were arousing? He would be angry if he knew. She had been too clever for her own good. Her desire to take away his tension had resulted in a different kind of desire flooding her body. Not allowing her hands to roam over his muscular frame had been torment.
    But he had slept—a deep, peaceful sleep. She had carefully loosened the lacings of his tunic and leggings to give him ease, stealing a glance at the dark cloud of hair on his chest. She had never touched a man’s male part before, nor ever wanted to. But yestereve she had itched to lay a tentative hand on the arousal that swelled in his leggings as the powerful oils took hold. She had gazed at him for a long while before returning to her chamber, longing to curl up on the big bed with him and cuddle against his broad back. He was a beautiful man when the scowl left his face.
    His admission of his difficulties with a sword preoccupied her. She had a sword, one much lighter