The Sheik Retold(58)

The old Arab had finished his prayers and rose leisurely from his knees, salaaming with deference. I faltered a few words in stumbling Arabic in reply to his long, flowery speech. All of the tribesmen recognized me as the sheik's favorite, as the woman he had waged war for and risked his life to retrieve. They all now went out of their way to win a nod of recognition from me.

I looked out across the desert beyond the last palms of the oasis where a haze hung over the sand, shimmering in the heat and blurring the outline of the distant hills. A tiny breeze brought the acrid smell of camels closer, and the creaking whine of the tackling over the well sounded not very far away. I gave a little sigh. It had all become so strangely familiar now.

The beauties and attractions of the desert had multiplied a hundred times. The wild tribesmen, with their primitive ways, had ceased to disgust me, and the free life with its constant exercise and simple routine was becoming indefinitely dear. I seemed to have lived no other life beside this nomad existence. The years that had gone before had faded into a kind of dim remembrance, and the time when I had traveled ceaselessly seemed so very remote.

I had merely existed then, filling my life with sport and social activities, unaware of anything that was lacking in my nature. But now, I was alive at last. The heart that I once doubted existed, burned and throbbed with a consuming passion. It was only here in the desert, and in Ahmed Ben Hassan's arms, that I had come to know life and death, happiness and sorrow. As my gaze swept over his camp, I was suddenly awakened to the full force of nature that was Ahmed Ben Hassan. Everything I saw was connected with and bound up in the man who was lord of it all.

He was a man above men, a man born to lead, born to rule these wild and turbulent people. I was proud of his magnificent physical abilities, in the dominant man ruling by force and fear, who stirred me with the pride of a primeval woman. I loved him with a passion as fierce and wild as the man himself.

***

That night, I once more pled a headache only to discover that Raoul had also made his excuses, leaving Ahmed to dine alone. I doused the lamp early and lay listless in my bed, unable to sleep due to intense preoccupation with every noise that emanated from the next chamber. It was very late, and I had finally begun to drift off when the curtains parted. I froze, hardly daring to breathe, as he crossed the carpet toward the bed.

Feigning sleep, I watched through cracked lids as he shed his thawb and sirwal. A curious look passed over him, and then a fierce expression grew in his eyes as they traveled over me, an unmistakable flare of the old desire. It was not dead though he had denied it in his actions for as long as he could. Now he could deny himself no longer.

The knowledge did not make me happy. My joy was negated by the agony of knowing he came to me without love. His passion was nothing but a mockery to me now, a reminder of what I most desired but could never have.

Quietly, he peeled back the covers and kissed me for the first time in weeks. Though I welcomed his kisses, there was no tenderness in either his lips or his touch, only a raw passion, as his tongue invaded my mouth and his hands squeezed my breasts. I understood at once that he didn't act to excite me, but only himself. Nevertheless, my body awakened and responded to him as it always had. I was almost instantly aroused and aching for gratification. I parted my legs and reached for him, but he stayed my hand and lifted my face to his.

"You and Raoul were alone all day today. One wonders how you managed to entertain him." His tone was innocently insinuating, but his present mood told me his indifference had been nothing but a pretense. I remembered his conversation with Raoul from the night before and suspected that jealousy had spurred him to come to me tonight, but jealousy and pride of possession were not love.

I met his accusing gaze bravely. "The vicomte occupied himself all day with his writing. Need I remind you that I am often in his company, because you force it upon me? You wanted me to play your hostess. I only do as you commanded."

"What I command?" He sneered. "That would be a novelty, would it not? I am astounded at your sudden devotion to duty, ma belle, given how vociferously you protested against it."

His gaze dipped to my mouth and lingered there. He raised his hand and stroked the pad of his thumb over my lips. His soft touch excited me, eliciting tiny ripples in my belly.

"You have bewitched Raoul. My oldest friend has become a besotted fool! Was this part of your desire to please me? Alors! Perhaps I will test this new penchant for obedience."

I licked my lips in nervous anticipation of the kisses I craved, but none were forthcoming. Instead, he thrust me away to disappear into the salle de bain, returning a moment later with a glass bottle I recognized as almond oil. He set it on the table and then drew me from the bed.

"Kneel," he commanded.

"Kneel?" I echoed blankly.

"Yes. On your knees." His hands shot out to my shoulders, pressing me downward until my legs buckled. I wasn't trying to fight him, I just didn't understand what he wanted— at least not until I found myself eye-level with his semi-erect verge. It was a position I had been in only once before, and the remembrance of it sent bile surging into my throat, but I shook the vision away. This was not Ibraheim Omair. This was Ahmed, my sheik, my lover.

He reached for the bottle. "Hold out your hands."

I extended them palms up and watched him pour a small pool of oil into them.

"Stroke me," he commanded.