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Tariq kept his head unmoving ahead. If he so much as cast the briefest glance at Lucinda, he’d pull her behind the next rock and take her. Hard and fast. The day dragged on as his guts wrenched with impatience for the night. He needed her. At once. Never had a woman catalysed him so irrevocably. He didn’t know why. He hadn’t even wondered. Didn’t care. All he cared about was that the sun set. Next minute.
Towards the end of the afternoon, they reached another village where they’d stop. As soon as they sat foot in its only dusty lane, sided by whitewashed flat houses, every single villager came to watch them pass.
Tariq and his ten men looked at those people quizzically. The populace murmured ‘Princess of the Desert’. He realised this was because of Lucinda and what happened to the band of thieves they’d met yesterday. He marvelled. Mere twenty-four hours dragged like a lifetime. So much had gone on since then.
Lucinda understood what the villagers had been murmuring, but the praise seemed a little too much. She had done nothing grand really, just scratched a few hands and that had been it.
Tariq unloaded his goods in the small caravanserai and overheard the talk among his men and the villagers. Apparently, the band had been plaguing this area for a long time. The villages scattered about this part of the route became extremely weary of them. Men from the band told the tale of a woman who shot like a djin, and it spread like wildfire.
No problem about that, he thought. But the outrageously steep offers to buy her began to get him in foul mood. She belonged with him, only him. Nobody else’s! And these people possessed little riches. How would they afford the amounts they flaunted? Senseless. His already impatient mood did not take it very much. He raked his hand through his hair. Not enough that he was febrile with desire for her. Now these other men wanted her too. Hell and damnation. He made an inhuman effort to focus on his work and get it done.
In the lodgings the villagers offered, Lucinda enjoyed the bath Tariq had requested for her. This tub more appropriate for clothes washing, smaller than the ones she used at home. The room appeared like the other lodges she’d been to: rug on the floor, latticed window, mattress on the rug and cushions. The fading twilight outside and the lamp inside cast a fiery light on the whitewashed walls.
The door opened with an impatient click. She lifted her eyes. Tariq. Her heart skipped a beat and started pounding like war drums. Obsidian hair ruffled, stubble shadowed his handsome face and his tall frame dominated the room. Those cognac eyes on her hour-glass figure. If she did not already sit, her knees would have given.
“You’ve become quite popular.” The hoarseness of the comment betrayed him. He looked at her. The tub was too small, and the water covered her only up to her ribs, leaving her dusky breasts bare. The water flapping over and under them so intensely erotic he turned instantly hard as a rock. She stared at him bathed in the lamp light, her lips parted, her delicious hips visible through the water.
Their gazes met and lightning struck the room. Her eyes darkened. “Over little more than nothing, I’m afraid.” The answer breathy and low, seductive. Her body responded under his scrutiny, made her turn to jelly and she melted further. Chestnut hair floated about her shoulders, grazing her sensitised skin.
He strode to her like a panther, his kaftan waving, and knelt beside the tub. “The men in the village want you.” His murmur edgy and vexed. Lowering his head, his mouth sought her breast, hungry as he filled the other hand with the other full mound.
Lucinda moaned with the intense sensation, her head fell back and her wet hand grabbed his sleek hair. Her core burned like lava, the whole world tunnelled on him touching her.
Her breast sucked deep in his mouth while his thumb and forefinger tortured her even more. He lifted his head and his eyes found hers in a haze. “But you’re mine!” Abruptly, he took her from the tub and lay her on the rug, water dripping all around, her wet hair spilling everywhere.
He came over her, breath irregular. “Only mine!” And his mouth captured hers in a thirsty-like-the-desert kiss. He made her open for him until the kiss became total consumption and engulfed them in a desperate paradise. He turned his head to gain more access to her, and she opened even more for him as he embraced her under her watery back.
The sensations in her body seared deeper. She was completely involved, immersed in the way he made her feel. It was like a cloud of warm steam had enveloped her body, soul and mind in irreversible surrender. All she had in her, she gifted to him.
The feel of his clothed strong body against her wet one enticing. She embraced him, arms and legs, wanton and eager. She took off his kaftan in hasty movements, her hands demanding contact with his smooth skin.
Tariq became so hard he believed he might explode at any moment. His arms braced him as he looked into her pepper-mint eyes. “Lucinda, I need you!” His breath short and quick. “I can’t wait!”
She required no more encouraging. In total blur, she lowered his sirwaal, mesmerised as his straining, hot manhood popped out. Next second, he took her in one delicious long stroke. Her head fell back, moaning in utter delectation when his fingers found the swollen desire in her middle.
The sound of her, the pleasure that overtook him robbed him of any control. He thrust deep, and then he thrust deeper, extracting sighs and more urgent sighs from her.
He didn’t have a clue as to what all this meant. His voracity for her so intense, his mind so clouded, his heart so wrenched, he acted by instinct, letting go of any care. What mattered was having her in his arms, the rest be damned. This crave he had for
her surpassed any carnal desire, it sank to more profound levels and rendered him at her mercy.
She wrapped her legs around his waist, her arms firm about his neck, holding him tight as if she would drown. He continued lunging as their short breaths mingled. His repeated strokes drove her to the edge. “Tariq, more!” She held him tighter. “More!” She panted in his ear.
“Lucinda…I…” He breathed heavily. And then she plunged in a delirium of ecstasy, carrying him with her, as they submersed in a sea of pleasure. Tariq planted himself in her further, face contorted, and lost everything he had to her. “Lucinda.” He grunted, when there was nothing left.
He fell on her while their bodies entwined in a mess of release and exhaustion.
A long time later, Tariq sat in the small tub of already lukewarm water and Lucinda took the washcloth to bathe him. She crouched behind him, out of the tub. His long legs crossed and his torso out of the water.
She slid the washcloth from his strong neck and his muscled shoulder. He propped his head against her breasts and sighed with delight.
“People heard about the skirmish, I gather.” The washcloth washed one of his taut arms.
“Yes. You’ve become famous.” The drawl spoke of delectation.
“Over so little?” The cloth travelled down the other arm. Water splashed over him.
“Never had a woman taken such actions.” His wet obsidian hair tickled her skin.
