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“The drawings on the wall in here date back to the first century,” he says, pointing to the etchings on the walls.
I move closer, breath held. “I have heard of these all my life. To see them with my own eyes is…incredible.”
I trace the pictures with my eyes, simple illustrations that mark the daily minutiae of life at the time. The drawings extend from the ground to the top of the wall, and cover a vast section of it. The sheer scale of pictures is unimaginable. “This must have taken historians decades to decode.”
“They are still working on it,” he says with a nod. “The area is rich with history. Three universities have staff dedicated to the archaeological work here.”
“What an incredible insight into Qabidi past.”
Spontaneously I turn to face him, lifting my palm to his chest. “Thank you for bringing me here.” My eyes are wet.
He lifts a hand, running his thumb over my cheek, his face a mask of control. “You wanted to see them.”
“Yes.” A single tear slides from the corner of my eye. Embarrassed, I shake my head. “I’m overwhelmed. This is so much more than I was expecting.”
“They are incredible,” he agrees. “Take your time. There’s plenty to see.”
I nod, not needing to be told twice. I start at one edge of the wall and slowly move my way along it. Some of the sections have been photographed in books, but much of it is brand new to me, scenes I haven’t witnessed before.
Unbeknownst to me, he watches, his eyes following my progress. It’s only when I turn to say something I find Zahir staring at me intently, and whatever statement I’d been poised to make flies from my mind.
All I can do is smile.
It’s a smile that’s pulled from my heart, from the very centre of my being, and all the little pieces that make me who I am. I have the strangest sense that something vital has slid into place inside of me, that seeing these cave paintings is important and necessary, and I can’t explain that. It’s simply an instinct, drawn from deep in my soul.
He stands, but I barely notice. He walks, and the first I realise is when he’s standing toe to toe with me, a frown on his face, a look in his eyes that has me tilting my face to his even before he can speak.
I feel the battle within him and I understand it, but here in this ancient, important part of Qabid’s history, something propels me forward, so that my breasts crush to his chest, my arms wrap around his back. My heart is in my throat, nerves turning my veins to mush.
“Amy.” It’s a sigh, a whisper of acceptance. I lift a finger to his lips, pressing it there, hunger stirring deep in my gut.
“Don’t talk.” I shake my head. “There’s no need anymore.”
His eyes widen and I wonder if he’s going to argue with me, to disagree and inform me this is too complicated again, or remind me that we’re supposed to be enemies.
I wait, and each second is like the beating of a drum, deep into my chest, doubt hard against my side. But then his head is dropping towards mine, so fast it’s as if momentum has taken over and whatever magnetic force had drawn us together that morning is back in effect, pulling him to me and lifting me to him. Our lips clash and I groan, because it’s what I’ve been on tenterhooks waiting for since he kissed me at our wedding. I am filled with the most inexplicable sense of coming home – how can that be?
His hands tangle in my hair: long, confident, strong fingers pushing at the blonde ends, loosening it from the tie so it falls down my back. His fingers stay anchored to the back of my scalp, pushing me against his mouth, holding me so his tongue can lash me and command me. I sway forward, my back too weak to support me fully, my hips seeking him, rolling against him in a silent demand that I have no control over. I pull at his shirt, needing to feel his bare chest beneath my fingertips, remembering how I had reached for him the first morning in the desert, wanting to connect with his bare skin, to know what it feels like beneath my fingertips. I feel him shudder as I push at it, my fingers shaking as they undo the buttons, my nails scratching him as I tear it down his body. I rip my mouth from him in an agonising need for control, my eyes skating over his broad chest, the tattoos there, chasing their marking, so reminiscent of the cave drawings I’ve just been analysing. And as with the cave drawings, I want to understand his chest, too, I want to know what drove him to have each and every mark put in place.
I want him.
There is an ache low in my abdomen, an ache to feel him thrust deep inside of me, and I know if anything happens to suspend that pleasure I won’t cope. My need is all-consuming. My fingers work at his pants urgently as my mouth seeks his again. His kiss is a relief that tears through my body. As I push down his pants he does the same to me, undoing the drawstring of the simple linen culottes I’d pulled on. Without the drawstring, they fall to the ground and I step out of them as his hands cup my bottom, yanking me hard against him, his erection powerful and unmistakable. I groan again, a guttural noise that rips through us and the cave.
He pushes at my shirt, his own needs apparent, overpowering, desperate.
He shoves the shirt up, over my head, tossing it carelessly to the side so it falls into the water. I follow it with my eyes and laugh softly to see it floating there. But a look at Zahir shows he’s not laughing. His face is like thunder, illuminated by desire, the strength of his own visible need for me enough to make any laughter strangle in my throat.
“I want you now, Amy.”
I know this is a turning point, a moment in time, a moment that would allow me to pull back, to distance myself from him, to remember all the reasons I shouldn’t want this and him. I remind myself that he’s the enemy, the man who ruined my father’s life, that we married for convenience and nothing more, but his breath fans my temple and my insides quiver in recognition.
“Amy?” The way he groans my name is all it takes; I nod urgently, forgetting who I am and who he is, submitting to the physical needs running through us both.
“Please,” I mumble, digging my nails into his side.
His eyes widen and then sweep shut on a breath of relief. A moment later, he’s dispensed with my bra, dropping it to the ground at our feet in the same motion as his lips draw one of my nipples into his mouth, circling it with his tongue so I cry out, the sharp pleasure driving through me like the blade of a knife. I twist away on instinct, the feelings almost too intense to handle, but he doesn’t let me. His arms hold me tight, his mouth comes back, sucking on my nipples, one then the other, taking turns, until I’m groaning over and over in pleasure, then he’s pressing his teeth into me, so I almost black out from the rush of sensation. Every part of me is at bursting point.
I need him fiercely.
