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What he’d do right now to have his favorite harem girl, Ranna, waiting in his tent for him. He’d even forgive her for worshipping the ground he walked on as long as she worshipped his dick with the same level of enthusiasm.
Anything to relieve the growing pressure in his groin.
So why did his mind immediately envision a green-eyed, red-haired woman beneath him? He rolled his eyes. He really must be sexually deprived. Either that or he was giving into the fantasy of having a woman treat him like any other man.
That his cock was a pillar of stone and his balls rubbed raw on the saddle from their inflated size didn’t dim his urge to take her one bit.
“And your name?” she asked.
Thank heavens her question took his mind off all thoughts of sex. “Hamid.”
“Hamid,” she repeated softly. “I’ve heard that name before.”
His pulse surged into double beats. He only hoped she didn’t ask for his full name. “It’s common enough.”
“Where I’m from names like John and James are common.”
He smirked. What had he been worried about? She had no clue of his identity. In fact, he got the distinct impression she thought him some desert rat who rarely, if ever, ventured out from his corner of the desert.
Not only had he had a western education, he’d travelled the world many times and was well aware of how common John and James were as names in the western world. He’d even been good friends with more than a few of them over the years.
Camille climbed the final dune, the small valley below with its oasis of blue sparkling water and date palms coming into view. His tent was pitched close to the water, where the shade from the palms helped keep it cool. The camels had their own roped enclosure well away from the tent on the other side of the oasis, where green tufts of grass edged the water.
His men had also set up a basic camp near the camels, where they kept an eye on the animals as well as any possible intruders. The kitchen fly—a tent without walls—was halfway between both the men’s camp and Hamid’s tent to give him the solitude he craved.
“Wow,” Holly breathed. She leaned around him.Click. Click. Click.
“No more photos!” he snapped, surprised when this time she actually obeyed.
But not without protest.
“What a killjoy,” she grumbled.
He resisted snorting. He was known to be the life of the party. The man who drank too much, womanized even more, and gambled to keep things interesting. Anyone in his circle knew killjoy was the opposite of him. He lived for pleasure and those momentary flashes of fun.
He grimaced. Holly would probably despise the real him.
When he stopped Camille next to the tent and commanded her to kneel, Holly moved with the jerky motion so that she didn’t bash her head with his. He grinned. “You’ll make a camel rider yet.”
That she stumbled as she got out of the saddle showed her level of fatigue, and he frowned as he dismounted, then drew her close before leading her into his tent while his men led Camille away for a much needed rest.
He inhaled Holly’s scent of honeysuckle vanilla even as he noted how perfectly her curves fit against the harder lines of his body. If he didn’t know better he’d think she was made for him.
Except he had more important things to worry about other than their compatibility. Her pale skin was terribly sunburned and she walked stiffly, as though her whole body hurt. That she hadn’t made one complaint and didn’t question his ethics both warmed and concerned him.
Did she have no natural fear of what men might do to her or was she always this blindly trusting?
He pulled out his flask and tipped the last of the arrack down his throat. Except the date liquor didn’t have quite the same effect as it usually did. He capped the flask and tossed it onto the pile of cushions and the mat on the floor where he slept, then headed to the filtered water that he kept inside.
“You must be thirsty,” he said.
“Parched.”
Guilt lanced through him. He should have thought more about her needs and less about his own. But he’d been too busy imagining every conceivable sexual position he could take her while her throat had no doubt been ragged and raw with thirst.
He filled a metal cup with the clean water and handed it to her. “Drink it slowly,” he advised.
She put her camera down carefully, then removed the material around her nose and jaw before closing her eyes as she sipped the water. It gave him a chance to look more closely at her bright red skin. Luckily there was plenty of Aloe vera plants growing wild in the sand and rocky parts of the desert. Not to mention the potted plant he kept at all times in the corner of his tent.
