Caribbean Reign Ch 13 14

That's right, finally a steamy chapter!

I highly recommend that you read the chapters preceding, but if you're low on time, here's a quick recap: Mademoiselle Catherine, our haughty and aristocratic Caribbean heiress, has been mistaken for her lady's maid and enslaved by her family's rival plantation on trumped up charges. The master of the estate, Rafael, soon-to-be viscount has taken a great interest in Catherine, who he knows only as "Ana" and aims to seduce her before his feelings get out of hand.

Happy reading!

Chapter 13: Lovers' Quarrel - Rafael's Perspective

Father is dead, and the silence weighs over his bedroom. Isabel will hardly let me live this down.

I meant to see the old man in his final moments, but I was stuck in my study, sifting through trade contracts. Regular household commotion doesn't penetrate my study's walls, by design. I cannot be harangued for every problem with dinner, staffing, and the grounds. My servants learned long ago not to disturb closed doors.

Now, I am the one approaching slowly, hearing every creak of my footsteps as they settle into the ground. I haven't been this nervous to see my father since I was a little boy. I remember him always saying, "A man should stand tall." On more than a few occasions, I witnessed my father quite bent over atop the female staff. With the passing of my mother, no one else ever managed to capture his frigid heart. However, quite a few struck his fancy.

The corpse in my father's bed demolishes this final vision of playful virility. His papery skin sinks into the white sheet wrapped around his body.

This man is not my father. This man is just a shadow.

Moisture itches at the corner of my eyes like gnats on a hot summer's day. I pull the sheet over his face.

There is little to mourn. My father lived his life as best as he knew how. Even if he didn't pursue his goals as aggressively as I might have liked, he equipped me with every tool in his arsenal.

Strength. Pride. Practicality.

My father's memory will be honored when the House of Navarro takes its rightful place over all San Miguel. I stride down the hallway, invigorated with purpose.

It has been agonizing to see a man I once revered, weak for such a long time. In some terrible way, my father inspires me more with his death than with his dwindling life. In truth, my father departed long ago with the memory of my mother. Now, the two of them shall lie in peace.

I instruct the servants to remove the body. Isabel and Alma can manage the funeral preparations by themselves. I kiss my hand and place it over my heart.

"Señor Velazquez," I say.

He steps smoothly around the corner. The mere suggestion of his shadow fills the air with gratuitous condolences.

"Vizconde, I am so sorry for your loss. Your father's passing truly marks the end of an era."

"Thank you, Sebastián." Sebastián has known my father longer than any of his children.

He continues with a long, drawn-out breath, "And as the new era begins, what will be your next offensive?"

I sigh. Señor Velazquez's mind is so singularly focused on business. I suppose it is a desirable quality in a steward and spymaster, but his words remind me that my father's title finally passes to me. It has been conferred respectfully for quite some time. My father has long ceased operating as governor of San Miguel. Nothing is to change in practice, but the king's signet ring shall soon be upon it. A transition of power is an opportunity to affirm our strength, and if not handled well, an opening for weakness.

I proclaim, "We shall redouble our efforts and extinguish the Guînes stake upon San Miguel in my father's memory. The only pigs allowed to remain will be housed in our pens."

"Well said, Your Excellency."

Señor Velazquez crinkles his lips. "And yet, does it not seem counterintuitive to pursue the French whilst you hold one so close to your heart?"

I grow impatient with these rumors.

How I choose to treat Ana is my prerogative as master of the house. Sebastián fights me on every extravagance afforded. It's not every day that I discover a slave in my possession that nears my skills with the blade. Surely, our overflowing coffers can afford to keep her available to me.

"Do you question my dedication, señor Velazquez? If it is an issue with staffing, I am certain that you can find another penal slave to take up her duties."

"Of course not, Your Excellency. Every Spanish gentleman - including your deceased father," he pauses to make the sign of the cross, "is entitled to a bit of female companionship." He proceeds delicately, "I only fail to see why your chosen companion must be French. I have hand-selected an excellent crop of girls to serve inside the house. Spanish, native, mulatto, and all of them twitching at your command."

He licks his lips, "Instead, that scraggly little thing has you wrapped around her finger."

At this, I must laugh.

"She certainly does not have me wrapped around her finger. Although I keep her in the courtesan's bedroom, I haven't touched her."

Aloud, the statement loses some of its humor. It sounds pitiful, even. To be putting Ana up in such tempting accommodations and reaping none of the accorded benefits.

Sebastián's funeral-black sleeves cross with sympathy. "This is precisely my point. Take her as a pleasure slave, sure. Put her to use, absolutely. But you cannot let the blood of your enemy dine at your table, armed with your own weapons and perched in your finest chambers. Have you forgotten what happened to your father's brother?"

How could I forget?

The infamy of Valentine de Guînes has been forged in the Navarro memory. The shrewd seductress took advantage of our peace offering of marriage, only to stab my uncle in the back. Quite literally. Of course, it is also prudent to remember that such stories are so wrapped up in their mythos that the truth is often obscured. For obvious reasons, neither of them could be counted on to corroborate their side of the story.

"I am not my father's brother." My uncle's claim passed to my father without pomp or circumstance. For all intents and purposes, Julio Navarro was long forgotten.

Señor Velazquez raises his chin. "Then do not let his mistakes become yours. If you are too soft on the girl, people will sniff out your weakness. Can you imagine if any of our trading partners learned they could bring the new viscount to his knees with a pretty face?"

"Tread lightly, Sebastián."

I will not tolerate disrespect.

Sensing that his words have reached their limits, he retreats with a wide bow.

"As you wish, Excellency. Enjoy your afternoon."

I contemplate skipping my sparring session for the day. Ana is a pleasant distraction from my duties but not a necessity. However, as Sebastián has inadvertently reminded me, decompression is an important piece of the office.

Hereditary peerages do not come with days of rest.

Besides, I wish to ensure that Ana has been taken care of. Her needs could easily fall to the wayside in the wake of such unfortunate events.

***

I find her polishing weapons at the workbench. The curtains are half-drawn, the light dim. She has pinned her apron into a scalloped pattern, mimicking the trim of a lady's dress. The pale fabric gathers at her hips. Were she not in the armory, Alma would have her disciplined for engaging in frippery.

Without lifting her eyes, Ana says, "I am sorry for your loss, master."

I struggle to find any sarcasm in her address. Her cheeks are lovely when not tightened into a pout. "I thought you would be glad that there are fewer of us now."

"I could hardly celebrate anything that brings you closer to power."

Her eyes sparkle as the teasing tone returns. I resent the shadow of the curtains for obscuring her form.

"Put that down and come here."

She places the weapon down and comes toward me nervously. A thin trail of oil traces from the tip of her fingers down to her elbow. Marks of rust interrupt the smoothness of the skin flowing from her sleeves. Ana is exquisite in the browned light. Such a jewel deserves a more elegant casing. Then again, there was never a prettier sight than her displaying obedience.

I take her face in hand. She doesn't resist. Those lips are my property as much as anything else in the room. Her breath betrays her desire; she is in no position to claim otherwise.

The kiss is soft.

She does not pull away.

As the sensation tangles on our lips, I inhale her scent. No expensive perfume, no stomach-retching hair powders. She is there in totality.

The more I taste, the hungrier I become. My tongue slides into her mouth.

I reach for my buttons, but she leans backward, trapped by my arms. Upon opening my eyes, I see that the gentle bliss has disappeared from her face. A prudish expression has taken its place.

"This is inappropriate," Ana insists, pulling in the wrong direction. She cannot deny the mutual pleasure of our kiss.

I pull her in tighter. "This is exactly what you are here for."

Sebastián is right. Why should I hold off on bedding her? We both so obviously crave each other's touch.

I lower my neck to find her soft lips once more. They only tolerate my advances for a few moments before they begin sniping at me.

"I thought I was here to spar," she says. This time, she successfully untangles from my grasp. She places a hand on my chest and then, sets off toward the corner of the room to collect herself.

I don't want her to collect herself. I want her vulnerable and passionate. I've seen the desire in her eyes; there is no time for argument. I approach slowly as not to startle her.

"Compared to the scullery and the fields, your stay with us has been paradise. Why are you so eager to flee, little bird?"

Any sense of subservience vanishes from her body.

She turns around stiffly. "Of course, master, thank you for allowing me this gilded cage."

Pirouettes of dust rain down in the window's light. "You ought to know, I came here, enslaved, with another girl. Lucia was her name. Shall I recommend her for my position when you grow tired of me?"

"And what a great position that is," I retort. "I feed you, clothe you, and train you, all while I've yet to experience you between my legs." I tighten my fists to prevent them from wrapping around her neck. This woman could be given the African continent, and she still wouldn't be satisfied.

"I suppose that you're the type of man who must command women to his bed," she says shortly.

"You would need to be commanded?"

She inhales. "I would need to be dragged, kicking and screaming."

Yes, kicking and screaming just as she had when I kissed her.

"Perhaps I shall have it done."

If Ana requires an excuse to feel better about her submission, that can be arranged. I sincerely doubt that will be necessary. A pink flush appears in her cheeks like a breathless accomplice. I run my nail across her collarbone, tracing the strong bone to the divot above her heart. Her breasts lay so nicely across the stays, like two sloping hills on a warm summer's eve. My finger slips beneath the fabric.

A sharp pain rakes across my face.

She struck me.

Surely without thinking but nevertheless. Oily residue trickles down my cheek as evidence of the crime. Her guilty hands tremble. Ana may have concerns about her modesty, but even she knows that a slave is not to lay hands on her master. There is no world where such an act would be accompanied by anything other than beating the slave within an inch of her life.

Señor Velazquez is right. I've given Ana too many liberties. She's become unmanageable.

I grab her by the shoulders and toss her skirts over her head. Layers of linen yield the same supple ass I recalled from the last time I punished her. The brand has healed to a distinguished red stamp. I will relish wrapping my palm around the crest and listening to her longing shrieks.

Unfortunately, as I raise my hand to strike her, Isabel's words get the better of me.

Slave or not, she is a person under our care.

Ana's body is limp with fear, none of the trembling excitement of a nude spanking. I throw her to the ground before I can do something I'll regret.

"Get out of my sight," I growl.

Ana picks up her skirts and scrambles for the door. She's off to my sister, no doubt, to tell her what a horrible monster I am.

I can deal with that later.

For now, I need to find someone other than Ana, someone I can toss around without such guilt.

***

Marisa arrives for duty. Her cheeks are pinched, and the dirt has been scrubbed furiously from her legs. She leans against the doorway with her breasts pushed together. This is how his women should be. Honored to be in my service. Appropriately awed by my presence.

I recline and gesture for her to come closer.

She moves swiftly and reaches for the edges of her dress. Unlike Ana, the rest of the girls attire themselves in uniform grey frocks, giving the house a sense of cohesion.

I bat her hand away. There's no reason to remove it.

Marisa is an exquisite native girl. Raven hair rolls down her shoulders - so different than Ana's chestnut locks. The servant's diet leaves no room for error on her flesh.

She is thin and lanky. Her wrist bones protrude from her sleeves. She places her hands on my knees and shimmies toward me.

She grazes my lip with her front teeth and chews softly. I ignore the smell of vinegar and bury myself in her neck.

"It has been such a long time, master," she mumbles between kisses.

In a better mood, I might lie to her about how she has been desired in her absence. The bulge of my trousers incentivizes me to cut off further pleasantries. I guide her hand to the buttons. She seizes upon her new task with vigor. Frenzied fingers fly over the fabric before discarding it on the floor.

Without further instruction, her eager tongue appears. It skates up and down the shaft, lapping up any stray droplets of excitement.

"Good girl."

Her cheeks light at the encouragement. I allow my eyes to close, drifting into the relaxing bliss of the sensation. No complications or recalcitrant forces, just simple pleasure.

Peace. The occasional snag of a tooth.

When my eyes open, Marisa is staring at me - almost without blinking, tongue moving aimlessly. I am overcome with the desire to flip her over. With a firm tug on her jaw, I bring her back up to eye level and toss her onto the bed. She stretches out, trying to make her body appealing. She coquettishly spreads her legs and tilts her hips upward. I grab her ankles and flip her onto her back.

I have no time for seduction.

When satisfactorily positioned, I lay my palms across her shoulders and dive into her, embracing the warmth of her opening. Beneath me, she tries to arch her back in pleasure but is flattened by the weight of my chest. Still, I feel her cavern gripping me through the squeals.

Our momentum pauses while I stuff my fingers in her mouth. Truthfully, the maid's falsetto tones get on my nerves. Once she is securely muffled, I continue, rocking our bodies together toward completion.

The rhythm accelerates. Through our belabored breathing, I feel release in the distance. I wrap my fingers around her left breast. The friction of the sheet grazes my knuckles. I give her another firm squeeze. She replies with a muffled cry.

Outside the window, stars are settling over the horizon. I remove my fingers from her mouth, dragging the saliva along her cheekbones. I only require one last push.

I place my lips at the edge of her ear. "Who do you obey?"

"You, master," she squeals. Her fading voice reveals her weakness to my relentless strokes.

"And whose cock do you love?"

"Yours," she replies dreamily.

Not good enough.

I flash my hand across her backside and elicit another squeal.

"Yours, master," she corrects herself.

I relax. It is tiring to demand proper address, but they are so keen to forget the order of things. Any woman of my household would be lucky to find a place in my bed.

I slam into her a couple more times. By the looks of her glazed-over eyes, Martina has ascended. The tension in her body surrenders itself to me. Her rear is bony and unbranded. This girl has been with us for a long time. There's no danger of her running away.

Finally, it is over.

A river rushes out of her once I disentangle myself. To avoid complications, Alma only sends me girls right after their courses. Marisa rolls toward the lower half of the bed. Her dark locks rest tangled against her skin. She makes no efforts to hide her desire, brushing her breasts against my thigh as she draws nearer.

Every last drop is sucked ravenously into her willing throat. I should be thrilled by the outcome. It's how things used to be. How things should be. A gorgeous house girl, my pearls decorating her neck, clinging to my every word.

But I don't want this one close to me. Not her head resting on my thighs, not her voice in my ear. The girl has completed her duty. That is all I require of her.

"Thank you, Marisa," I say. With any luck, she'll pick up on the hint and dismiss herself.

"Of course, señor - but my name is Maria."

"Yes, of course."

I roll onto my back. She leaves the room, head bowed. The curtains flutter with her disappointment, no doubt hoping I would ask her to stay the night.

I catch myself putting on a pair of trousers, angling for the orderly walls of my study. Physically, I am spent. Beyond that, I am uneasy. I crave the floorboards under my feet, the clear-headedness of a battle strategy.

No, I ought to rest. What is wrong with me?

As much I would like to, I cannot blame my recent bedmate. Her limber body hadn't missed a step in our encounter. Alma knows me well. Her girl obeyed with delight - exactly what I used to want.

I stare at the ceiling before fading into a half slumber. On a few occasions, Ana's eyes slip into the periphery. Her chestnut hair dances around the room before evaporating. I blink the mirage away. I can't help but wonder if I would be done with all of this nonsense, had I simply taken her kicking and screaming.

***

The room emanates soft yellow light. A woman stands at the window, staring off into the distance. Slight of stature. Tousled hair. Torn dress.

Ana.

Reason takes only a moment to supplant confusion.

I approach slowly, and she turns to me with a smile. Her sleeves dangle off her shoulders She takes my hand and places it on her chest. I feel her heartbeat through her skin, a silky fabric of its own. She reaches for my chin and offers a tender kiss. The moment is as sweet as it is familiar.

She pulls away just as before.

But this time, when I open my eyes, Ana is not angry. Her dimples shimmer. Her nose remains unwrinkled. She beckons me to follow and dives through the window. Splintered glass hangs in the air in the shape of her form. I follow through the same opening as if in a trance.

Instead of crashing to our deaths, we float down to the fields. Ana kneels in front of me and kisses my hand. I feel my member swelling even beyond the amber-soaked dreamscape.

Just as I believe her to be getting to work, she sprouts wings, darting between stalks of sugarcane. The skirts of my mother's gown trail behind her in a puff of smoke. I chase her, my feet sinking into the soft ground. She giggles with a self-assured smile.

We end up on the cliff where the estate cuts into the ocean.

Finally, Ana pauses. Her eyes grow wide. Her toes settle on dry land and remain long enough for me to wrap my arms around her. Her warm scent fills my nostrils. She places my fingers on the stays of her gown. Eagerly, I spring her from the laces. The fabric melts off in a powdery breeze.

"Rafael, I need you," she whispers. "Just as you need me." She releases herself from my grip and dives off the cliff.