her hand to his hard thighs. The hair on his legs tickled her palms. She moved up and down, learning his textures, his body, and in the process, arousing herself even more.
Without warning, he bent over and reached for her right foot. He examined the pattern made by the henna, tracing lines and circles with the tip of his finger. When he tickled her, she squirmed and laughed. She tried to pull away, but he wouldn’t release her. She was caught.
“Tell me,” he commanded, moving onto the bed and settling between her ankles. “Tell me you want me.”
She mutely shook her head, then closed her eyes when he pushed up her gown and kissed the inside of her thighs. Her legs moved of their own accord, falling open, knees pulling back. There were no panties to impede him, no reticence on her part. She wanted him to touch her and kiss her there. She wanted to experience the passion and then the release.
He moved under her chemise and parted the secret folds of her flesh. She couldn’t see what he was doing, but she felt the first warm caress of his lips and tongue on that most sensitive spot. He teased her, touching her lightly, circling, moving away and then returning.
It was more intense than it had been before, probably because she knew what to expect. She knew the glory at the end of the road and she tensed, rushing toward her paradise.
Involuntarily her hips moved in time with his tiny strokes. Her breathing increased, and her body heated. The coldness was long gone, as was her anger and her pain. All that remained was the wanting, the needing, the man. Khalil. Her husband.
He moved faster, bringing her closer to her release, then slowing, driving her mad. He pressed a finger into her, pushing up and teasing her from the inside. Then he slid that single finger in and out, imitating the love act to follow.
Pressure increased. Need increased. She wanted, desperately, to find her peace. Her heels dug into the mattress, her hips raised. She moaned his name. He moved faster and faster, lighter, better, closer and closer and closer.
In one quick movement, he sat back on his heels and pulled her into a sitting position. She stared at him unable to believe that he’d stopped what he was doing. Didn’t he realize that she was going to die?
The wanting continued to grow inside of her. It became a hungry beast that consumed her. Desperately she reached for him, wanting more. Wanting it all.
But he ignored her questing hands that would have urged him back into place. Instead he tugged until her chemise was free of her hips, then he drew it over her head and tossed it away. His gaze fell to her breasts, and pleasure lit his eyes.
“So lovely,” he told her as he leaned forward and took a nipple in his mouth.
It was as if there were a direct line from her breast to the very center of her being. With each tug of his lips, she felt an answering response between her legs. Even as his hands roamed up and down her back, even as he suckled her, she found herself spiraling closer and closer. She needed him, desperately.
“Khalil, please.”
He raised his head. Dark hair tumbled onto his forehead. Untamed desire tightened the lines of his face, leaving her no doubt that his ancestors were wild savages who had ruled fearlessly. Did she really think she could stand up to him and win?
One of his hands slipped between their bodies. He rubbed her swollen point of pleasure until she whimpered, but stopped before she could climax.
“Tell me.”
He was the devil, and the price was her soul. Why hadn’t she seen what he wanted? “I can’t.”
“But you do want me.”
Their gazes locked. She could feel both their hearts beating. His arousal pressed against her belly. He pressed her onto her back and cupped her breasts. Finger and thumb teased her nipples. His hardness rode against her hot center, tormenting her by bringing her higher, but not allowing her to release.
She raised her hands and brought his head down to hers, then she kissed him. With her lips and her tongue she told him that she wanted him, but she refused to give in verbally. Between her legs, he rubbed hard, faster, making her ache and want, but she would not speak.
“Your will is not stronger than mine,” he growled against her mouth.
“Yes, it is.”
“No!”
He raised up and guided himself inside. As he filled her, stretching her, making her cry out with pleasure, he reached down and touched that one, tiny spot.
The combination was too much. She felt herself collecting, rising, building, the tension growing until it exploded into light and glory.
Khalil felt the first rippling response of her body. Her muscles convulsed, contracting and releasing in a perfect rhythm. He cursed, he resisted, and it was all a waste of time. He’d played the game too well. In his effort to force her to submit, he’d allowed himself to get too aroused. Now, in the vortex of her release, he felt himself being caught and flung into the same tornado. Even as he tried to withdraw and gain control, it was already too late. Clutching her, he passed the point of no return and cried out her name.
The pleasure grew. He pumped harder, going deeper. Incredibly her contractions began again. She wrapped her arms around him, clinging, urging him on. Again and again she convulsed, until he had no choice but to explode his seed inside of her. They shuddered together, two people lost in a storm.
When at last his breathing returned to normal, he raised himself up on his arms and stared at her. She lay with her eyes closed, her lips tightly pressed together. Tears flowed down her temples and into her hair.
“Dora?”
“Go away. You won.”
“We both won,” he said, although technically she had been the real victor. He hadn’t been able to make her say that she wanted him.
She pushed at his shoulder. He shifted off her, suddenly feeling as awkward as a teenager. What was wrong?
When Dora was free of him, she sat up. “Is there a bathroom?”
He pointed to several hanging rugs on the far side of the tent. “In there. We have running water, but not very much, so be cautious.”
She nodded, but didn’t speak. As she climbed out of bed, she reached for her gown and covered herself. Khalil watched her slow progress across the floor. She moved as if she were in pain. Had he hurt her? He shook his head. That wasn’t possible. At the end, she’d been clinging to him, wanting him as much as he wanted her. Women. They were all temperamental creatures.
By the time she returned to the bed, he’d slipped under the covers and had arranged the pillows. He saw that she’d washed away all traces of her tears. She got in next to him, but instead of cuddling close, she curled up with her back to him.
“You’re being a child,” he told her.
“Leave me alone. You got what you wanted. The rest of it shouldn’t matter.”
He stared at her for another minute, then flopped down on his back. Fine. If she wanted to be that way, he didn’t care. She was right. He’d gotten what he wanted. He’d made love with her. The rest of it was nonsense.
Except he found himself aching to hold her. As the night wore on, his side of the bed seemed to grow until he felt he was in a separate country. Once, when he knew she was truly sleeping, he’d moved close and put his arm around her. But even in sleep she shrugged him off, so he retreated to his own side.
Something cold and dark took residence in his chest. He hated the feeling that he’d acted rashly and had made a mistake that couldn’t be corrected. Involuntarily he raised a hand to his face and touched the thin scar on his cheek. History was not repeating itself, he thought grimly. He would make sure things were different. Of course they were different. The situations had nothing in common.
And yet, far into the night, he wondered.