Page 48 of Isabel and the Rogue

Sirius paused again, and Isabel whined in frustration. “I know, sweetheart. Let me help you.” She watched as he held up two fingers and popped them in his mouth, holding her gaze as he ran his wicked tongue over them. When they glistened, Sirius flashed a triumphant grin. “Remember, you said you could be quiet.”

He traced those two fingers up and down her cleft, and Isabel’s breath hitched in her throat when Sirius hooked them in her opening, pressing them firmly but gently inside. Isabel shifted her hips to adjust to the sense of fullness, but abruptly he twisted his fingers about and pressed them to the front wall of her sex at the exact moment his tongue lapped at her nub and Isabel’s body clenched. Every muscle, every cell, every inch of her tensed…and then exploded in an eruption of light and sound. Her body trembled with the force of her release, and the only reason Isabel knew she had not made a sound was the tinge of iron that filled her mouth from having bit her tongue so forcefully.

Isabel was unsure of how long she lay there panting, her mind scrambled and her limbs loose. Was copulation always this earth-shattering? This overwhelming? This—she ran a hand along her temple, pushing back sweaty strands—messy? Chest heaving, Isabel glanced down at Sirius.

With his cheek resting against her thigh and his blond hair askew, he looked exhausted. Isabel reached down to brush errant locks back into place. Her hands lingered near his neck long after she had put him to rights. Sucking in a breath, Isabel looked for his eyes. They were shuttered, and with a clarity born of his ministrations, Isabel knew he was conflicted. Perhaps he felt a bit vulnerable. Lord knew she did, especially because she was still bare to his gaze.

Probing her thoughts for something she could say to put him at ease, Isabel blurted out, “Why do you call me sunshine?”

Sirius lifted his head and sat back on his haunches, a small frown on his lips. “Because everything seems brighter when you’re there.”

“Oh,” Isabel said dumbly, her mouth trembling. He’d uttered the words so simply, as if the reasons were clear. And yet he’d knocked her completely off her axis.

If she was going to survive this affair—for that’s what it had become—with her dignity intact, she needed to set some boundaries.

Straightening her spine, Isabel said, “We should return. Our absence will be noted.”

Sirius dragged his hand through his hair. “Yes. Of course. Although I’m loath to converse and laugh with Westhope and his guests as if the time we spent in this room didn’t occur.”

So was she. Still, Isabel pushed her skirts down and stood, her legs shaky. “I admire Lord Westhope a great deal, but you know the true reason I’m encouraging his attentions.”

“He is quite taken with you,” Sirius murmured, his blue, blue eyes intense on her face. “And I don’t blame him.”

Although her throat was tight, Isabel forced herself to say, “And if my future was in England, he would make a fine husband.”

Sirius’s mouth compressed into a thin line, but he said nothing. No comment about how he would make her a better husband. About how he understood her better than Westhope ever could. How he, Sirius Dawson, had seen her and given her a chance to prove herself in ways so many others had not. Not a single word on how he would love her and endeavor to make her happy as she longed to make him happy.

Her heart fractured, the jagged pieces an outline of his dear face.

“But”—Isabel worked on a swallow, tears like glass scouring her throat—“I don’t fit in here. Ana, and even Gabby, have made friends and connections, and I still feel so out of place.”

“But what of Miss Fairchild?” Sirius shook his head. “What of…”

He snapped his mouth shut and closed his eyes. What had he meant to say? Isabel’s heart lurched with hope in her chest, but her mind screamed at her not to be foolish. Sirius had taught her about passion. Offered her assistance when she needed it the most. But that wasn’t enough.

Isabel twined her hand in her skirts. “England has no future for me.”

“And what do you want for your future?” Sirius asked, his expression guarded.

“I’d always hoped our time in England would be short.” Isabel shrugged, the movement meant to be carefree, though it felt anything but. “And yet the weeks have turned to months and now years, and I’m no closer to returning to Mexico than I was when we first left Veracruz.”

“So you want to return, but what then?”

What then, indeed. Isabel hadn’t allowed herself to think past her mission of aiding the Juárez government’s fight. If she proved herself, what did she want?

Isabel nibbled on the inside of her cheek. “Ideally, I would like to work for Presidente Juárez. I could translate documents, perhaps. Write correspondence.”

His brows drew together. “You’d want to be a clerk?”

“Maybe.”

“But, won’t your parents object?” Sirius shook his head. “I don’t see how they would allow you to work a menial job or any job, for that matter.”

An exhausted sigh slipped past her lips. “They would not be pleased by the prospect. Young Mexican women of my station are raised to run a household, but in an ideal world, I would be able to make decisions for myself and my future. And I want to do something worthwhile. I want to be someone other than Elías Luna’s middle daughter. I don’t want to be the wallflower Luna sister anymore. I want to be something more.”

The muscle twitching in his jaw was the only indication Sirius was moved by her words. “And if you find a way to help the Juárez government, you’ll be able to be someone different?”

She nodded, his form obscured by the tears that filled her eyes. “At least I’ll have done something. Helped in some way. I’ve spent my whole life in the shadows. In the pages of books, dreaming of exciting adventures and daring acts. And here I am now, with the chance to do something tangible to help my people, and I would never forgive myself if I didn’t try.”