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“There is nothing to tell,” I say.
“Ah, yes, beautiful one, there is always something to be told, something to be shared.”
Perhaps, I think as he stares at me. “Not in this hour,” I state, looking at him over the rim of my cup as I slowly sip, “nor in this life.”
“Does that mean you will not indulge me, my love, so that I may grow close to you?”
“It means that there is nothing that I wish to uncover about Raghaba.”
“Then I shall wait to unearth all there is to know on my own—in time, of course.”
“Of course,” I offer, filling my cup with more wine. I take a slow, deliberate sip. My patience is running thin. “Until such time,” I say, “tell me what is in your thoughts?”
He smiles, seduction dripping from his lips. “You,” he says. “From the first moment my eyes came upon you, I have wanted to feel you beneath me. I have wanted to taste you, and explore you. And now, here I sit, before the woman in my dreams.” He takes a slow, deliberate sip from his drink, pushing his empty bowl to the side. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “Why have you not taken up with a man?”
“Because no one man satisfies me,” I want to say, but decide against it. He will learn soon enough about the ways of Raghaba.
“And why should I be taken by a man?” I ask, scowling.
“To share the joys of love and companionship,” he answers. “You are most desirous, Raghaba.”
“And I am also most satisfied being unattached.”
“But what of home and family?” he asks, taking another large swallow of beer. I watch him guzzle down the remainder of what’s left in the jug, then belch. My face forms a frown. “Do you not wish to bask in the delight they bring?”
I control my breathing. This line of questioning is what will sour my mood and have me excuse him from my company. I realize he is only trying to be polite, but I am not interested in politeness. I am not interested in this type of chatter. The only things that I am engrossed in at this moment are images of him running his hands lightly over my body, his lips gathering around the lobes of my ears, sucking and nibbling; his fingers prying my flesh wide open to reveal my wetness as he slips himself inside of me and stirs my excitement. These are the things that I am concerned with. Not blurred visions of being chained to a man and a house full of children.
I stare at him. Decide not to answer.
There’s a pregnant pause, one that gives birth to annoyance.
“Your eyes are hypnotic,” he says, staring deep into them. I suspect he recognizes my disinterest in entertaining his questions about my views on life, love, and the pursuit of family. I am not looking for a happy-ever-after—just a never-ending orgasm, be it with him or someone else. I regain my focus, and shift my mood back to why I invited him.
I coyly bat my lashes. “Then I warn you to be very careful how you look into them.”
He smiles. “It is your spell I crave to be under.”
I have to admit, although he is moving as slowly as a turtle and I am growing restless, there is something I find quite charming about him which keeps me indulging him. But, my mind is made up—charming or not—if he does not gesture to explore my passion, sooner than later, I will send him out into the night air.
“Again,” I warn. “Be very careful. You may get more than you’re prepared to handle.”
“Why and wherefore am I kept a prisoner from love?”
“Because,” I reply, “it is your mouth that speaks full of love, but it is your heart that is filled with lust. Behind your eyes, there is a longing.” I reach over and place my hand over his. “Tell me your desires so that I may fulfill them.”
“Are you sure you can deliver?” he asks, grinning.
I am feeling relieved. Finally, we are moving toward a night of explicit action, instead of one cluttered with useless discussion.
“My dear, dear, Horus,” I answer, slowly pulling in my bottom lip. “I am a woman who is most adept at delivering all things without delay. And there is nothing…and I do mean nothing that I won’t do to ensure it.”
He laughs. “We shall see,” he says. “Raghaba, goddess of desire, we shall surely see.”
“Then let us not continue this cat-and-mouse chase,” I say, eyeing him seductively. In that moment, there is a silence that comes between us; it briefly visits, then exits. “Don’t tell me the cat has come and eaten at your tongue so quickly.”
“No cat”—he sticks his tongue out and rapidly flaps it up and down—“shall ever take hold of my tongue.”
“Then let’s hope you know how to use it, and use it well,” I challenge.
