With eyes of burled mahogany, Hector stared down at Martín. Hector's shiny black bangs fell damp about his face, his lips parted just so, drinking in the dust. The rough wool from the serape beneath Martín's back was so different from the soft plane of Hector's pale skin. Both drove his senses as he ran his fingers up Hector's sweat-slick chest. He marveled at the differences between them: rough hands on smooth flesh, his fingers so dark against Hector's body.

"Mi Corazón," Hector drew his thumb across Martín's cheek. Trembling, Martín turned into the touch to kiss his palm. "Don't ever leave me."

How could Hector ever think such a thing? Martín laughed, "I cannot leave you." Thick heat sucked the marrow from their bones. The buzz of the cicadas thrummed in time with his heart. He lifted his hips, their pricks sliding against each other, satin flesh rubbing satin flesh. Both men swallowed their moans.

"You could." Hector shifted, rubbing their naked thighs together. Such gentle contact was both heaven and hell. "I wouldn't stop you."

Whispering the words against Hector's burning hand, Martín breathed, "My soul would wither and die if I left you."

Hector Aritza was so handsome, so special, and his. The blood of Spanish kings ran through Hector's veins. Royal blood was in Martín's heritage, too. His grandmother was the daughter of an Apache war chief who'd been taken as captive by Hector's grandfather. Don Sebastian Aritza Guerrero would roll in his grave if he could see his heir on his knees for the son of a mestizo slave: no matter that Martín might carry Don Sebastian's blood as well. Sinful, wrong, and so good: when they were boys it was just playing. But now, now they shared each other as lovers, as men.