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Tariq moved up and sat. A vague sense of abandonment covered her. He stood on his feet, paced to the pitcher and washing cloth he always ordered for her, and picked them up on his way. He lit the oil lamp and came back to bed. The lamp bathed him in a warm light.
She watched as he displayed his overwhelmingly seductive body around, without a hint of modesty. A beautiful specimen! She suspected she’d never get enough of watching him.
He sat back next to her. “Are you sore?” His cognac eyes heedful on her.
“No, I don’t think so.” She followed him with her greedy attention as he moistened the cloth and started cleaning her. Despite the scorching passion they’d shared, his hands worked delicate now, cleaning the blood from her thighs. Their eyes met; a strange expression glinted in his marvellous ones. She didn’t identify it. Hers lowered blushing.
After cleaning himself, he stood up again to dress his kaftan and sirwaal. “I’ll be back.” He said simply and left the tent.
What was he thinking? Tariq asked himself as he walked to the camp fire to fetch food. To deflower an English rose, member of the peerage? Had he gone crazy? Well, he had to admit he had been blindly demented with yearning for her. Her defiance made him furious and aroused at the same time. Thoroughly tyrannised by his voracity for her, he threw his cares away. And this taste he had of her? Made him only want more. And more. And more. It hadn’t been possible to stop. Whatever came next, this wouldn’t be undone.
Too sated, his body still craved her, unwilling to allow wary reason to return.
Regrets? None, whatsoever. Unfortunately. Or fortunately, who knew.
They sat in the middle of the bed with a large copper plate full of couscous, stewed mutton and vegetables. The rich flavour of spices spread in the tent as they ate with their hands.
“Do you have siblings?” He asked between one mouthful and the other.
“Yes. Two brothers and one sister.” She took a sip of tea. “And you?” She’d dressed her brown tunic and pantaloons back again
“My mother was my father’s only wife and
I am her only son, but I have half brothers and sisters by my father’s concubines.”
A polygamist society, she’d read. A man could have several wives and concubines if he had the possibility to support them. In her country, a man had only one wife, but mistresses came countless. Again, if he afforded them.
“You grew up in the desert.” It was more a statement than a question.
“Not exactly.” He ate another mouthful. “Our family is from Tunis.” He finished his tea. “I started accompanying my father when I turned fifteen and school finished.” Hard to believe it’d been more than sixteen years ago. “When he passed away, three years ago, I took over his legacy.” His mother had followed his father not long after his passing.
Her finger traced the embroidered pattern of one of the cushions absently. “I grew up out in our manor in the country, but we took regular trips to London.” She smiled to herself, remembering her rather happy childhood, her brothers and sister raiding the grounds, to their governess chagrin.
Tariq watched the good memories play over her face. And wished they’d been neighbours or something, so they would have been able to go about in mischief for years and years. When they grew up… He made his wishful musings freeze. What then? He suspected his Scottish tutor made him read too many of those silly romantic novels. Not that Sir Walter Scott was silly or anything. His reveries stood totally out of tune though. In his world, a woman must stay home, available to her man and to give him children. Love didn’t take part in this. Desire, affection, yes. Love, in turn, remained a foreign concept in his culture.
They sat on the mattress staring at each other and no words came to either of them. Lucinda found herself unable to tear her eyes from him and his irresistible attractiveness. His straight nose, his abundantly lashed cognac eyes, his darkened stubble. He had to be the most magnificent man on Earth.
Neither was Tariq able to prevent himself from drinking in her beauty. He strolled his eyes to her dishevelled hair, her perfect face, her smooth skin and her full breasts under the tunic. There must be no more dazzling woman to look at, he marvelled.
His kaftan came off as he usually slept without it. He’d been lying dressed in respect for her. Next, he unfolded the blankets and pulled her to lie down with him. In need to sleep holding her, like the other night. His sensuous lips blew the lamp.
But Lucinda found it impossible to keep still. Her hands wandered his muscled body, recognising his powerful shoulders, his thick neck, the smooth skin of his back and his deliciously haired chest. His manly scent drew her closer and their entire bodies touched.
He groaned with her caresses and moved his hips, so that she was able to detect how hard he became. “Lucinda.” He breathed. “You have no mercy on me!” He grazed her neck.
Lucinda just smiled in the dark and drew on. Exploring further, she couldn’t help it.
He sneaked his hand under her tunic. “You give me no choice.” And his mouth dived over hers.
This time everything happened slower and savoury. They touched each other everywhere as if they’d be laying in this tent their entire lives. After a long while, they took each other to the heights of passion.
Tariq opened his eyes just before dawn. His body spent, relaxed. Lucinda’s limbs and his entangled, her hair spilled over the cushions. They’d done very little actual sleeping during the night. Completely unable to stop himself, he sought her again and again. No getting enough of touching her. If time stretched endless, he’d start over and over to no end. But he had to get up and begin the decamping. Delicately, he moved his arms from her, not to disturb her. It tore at him to have to interrupt the most delightful night of his life. He dressed and left regretfully.
CHAPTER EIGHT
The day well advanced, the sun had already passed the mid-sky as Lucinda sat in her camel, which reins Tariq held. Oblivious to the amazing landscape around, her mind replayed the night over and over with the due effects on her body. How was it possible? They’d been satiating each other all night. Regardless, she craved more, never getting her fill of him. Would she ever?
He hadn’t turned his head to her once. Good, because, if he did, he’d read her starvation. It must be all over her, even though her veil covered her face. But not her eyes. And they’d give her away, certainly.
